I remember this day so clearly nine years ago. I had finished work early and driven to Tesco.
I parked, got out my shopping list, grabbed a trolley, shopped and came out of the store again. The sky was a vivid blue, cumulus clouds towered above. I remember lifting the tailgate of my hatchback and looking up at the blueness and thinking: That's odd, the planes are turning around. It didn't seem significant, just something slightly out of the ordinary. I thought of Lockerbie, briefly, and then turned back to the task in hand.
I finished unpacking my shopping, returned my trolley, got into the driving seat of my car and switched on the radio. I buckled my seatbelt carefully over my five-months pregnant tummy.
The newsreader was reporting something about a plane crashing into the World Trade Centre. Gosh, I thought, how terrible.
I drove home, switched on the TV and tuned in to the BBC and then CNN. The World Trade Centre was on fire. I telephoned Mum, eyes on the screen.
"Have you any idea what's going on?" I asked her, "An aeroplane has crashed into the World Trade Centre."
"No," she replied, just as the second plane swooped towards the second tower, made an adjustment on its approach and sank fatally in like a knife.
"You need to switch on your telly," I said, "something awful is happening."
We didn't know then how awful but I remember sitting with a cup of tea watching all the news channels alternately. I remember I was watching one of the US news channels, the burning towers visible over the reporter's shoulder, when the first tower crumpled and fell.
I wondered, then, what sort of a world I was bringing a child into.