Beirut v2

I work in central London and leaving work last night I could feel the sense of dread in the air.

The traffic seemed to be moving slowly as though it was aware that rocks and petrol bombs could have been thrown at any moment. People walked past me in the streets without smiling or greeting me.

I walked past my local Waitrose and the shutters were down on all the windows with signs on them saying "open as usual", but there was nothing usual about a Waitrose with its shutters down at 5:30pm on a weekday afternoon. I wasn't able to look through the windows at the display cases to see what specials were to be had on the day. I walked on by, knowing that the economy was failing as my money would not be spent in Waitrose that afternoon.

I walked past a local pub. It usually teemed with life at this time of the day and it wasn't unusual to see as many as twenty people outside, enjoying their drinks while they smoked. But a quick count told me that the riots were destroying this pub landlord's income as there were only sixteen people outside. I walked on.

I reached my local underground station to find out that the local Costa Coffee was closed. I would have to complete my thirty minute tube ride parched. How many more parched pregnant women and children would there be? The tube itself was chaotic. Commuters who obviously sensed the terrorists gathering outside were bundling themselves into trains that were already full. We were fleeing the city like rats on a sinking ship. I couldn't even get a seat for three stops.

A woman sat opposite me reading the Evening Standard which had the headline "London's Shame". She seemed to be ignoring the lead story and preferred to read the fashion items. She was obviously trying force some normality back into her life, but sensing that life would never be the same again.

Further along the carriage I heard a baby cry. A baby! Why would these rioters make a baby cry? What's wrong with them? What has a baby ever done to them?

I reached my station and started walking home. Outside of the station a man ran past me. He was wearing a sweatband around his forehead, no doubt stolen from a hard working proudly British resident, who had put his life-savings into headbands. The saddest part was that the police weren't even chasing him. He had the streets to himself. Where would he loot next? I walked on.

A couple walked past me with their poodle, obviously too scared to leave their home without the protection of a canine. I walked on.

I reached my home and I locked myself in. I checked that all my windows were locked and I counted my tinned goods. I was safe for one more night.