liz

Liz is still missing, and I think it's pretty safe to assume she's dead. Others have been chiding me for saying so, but you've got to be realistic, and even her family have given up hope of finding her alive. Still, some cling to a desperate hope that she'll turn up in some random hospital as the wacky amnesiac or something. Whatever gets you through, I suppose.

The worst is the waiting. We're in this awful emotional limbo. There was the initial shock and fear when we learned she was on the train, and hadn't been heard from since the bombs went off. The first 48 hours were full of anxious dread and hope. My stomach was knotted, my muscles were tense, I was full of adrenaline. Slowly this subsided, to be replaced by a dull, empty sadness, one which burst to the surface in random spurts. On the walk to work one day, in the office when someone asked how things were going. There were several sleepless nights. Only now have I returned to a normal schedule.

Yet even though I've accepted what I believe to be the inevitable result, and feel as if I've hardened myself to it, my heart clenched when I saw her name erroneously included on a confirmed dead list on one of the wire stories. I was surprised by my reaction, and dread what will happen when this is actually the case.

The longer we wait, the more macabre thoughts play in my mind. If it's taking this long to identify her body, does that mean hers was one of the worst damaged? Does that mean she suffered a horrid, excruciating death? I made the mistake of reading an eyewitness account by one of the first emergency workers on the scene, who described in graphic detail the state of some of the bodies he saw down there, some of which were still alive, and screaming. And now I imagine Liz as one of them and it's more than I can bear.

I dare not share these thoughts with my friends, many of whom are grieving in their own way. See, Liz was part of our very wide circle of friends. She was part of the 'London crew', and we'd all go out as part of a big group whenever someone came to visit. So I didn't know her incredibly well on a one-on-one basis, and I won't pretend to be even remotely close to the worst affected by this. So many more are suffering so much worse than I am, which makes my heart break even more, thinking of their pain. If this is affecting me so acutely, imagine what they are feeling! And there are a lot of them out there.

If one thing has become crystal clear over the past week, it's that Liz had a lot of friends. Which is comforting, but also incredibly sad. We've all been posting to an online message board, and there are hundreds of memories listed now. They're funny and sweet and heartbreaking. I have to monitor how often I visit, and when, because it often sends me into tears.

I've learned a few new things about my friend as well, which is great, but also makes me feel guilty for not getting to know her better. Surely I should have known about her Paxman moment, or the deliciousness of her cakes! What kind of friend was I? Not a very good one, apparently. In fact, it's been ages since I last saw her, and that was when she came up here to visit, 'on tour' with Ken's band. It was only in the past few weeks that we got reacquainted, in fact, and online at that. At least I have that, I suppose.

I've been debating whether I should go to the funeral, or memorial service, or whatever. I'd like to, if only to be there for the rest of the gang. But I also feel a bit like a fake, an imposter friend along for the communal grieving ride or something. I feel like people will look at me and snicker, 'Who does she think she is; she hardly knew her!' But I'm probably being ridiculous. Surely, the bigger the turn-out, the better. To see just how many people were touched by her life, even in some small way... it must be comforting to those who loved her most, non? And that's what it's all about really. Funerals are for the living more than for the dead, I think, and I'd really like to be there for those she's left behind. I want to give Rob a massive hug, and Ken and Marianna and Mark and Rachel and everyone else in the extended London family.

She was sweet and kind. She seemed so quiet and unassuming, but had a secret michievous grin and cutting wit. Apparently, she was also incredibly smart and talented, and a great cook, qualities I wish I had explored more.

The whole tragic situation has brought several of us closer together, and made me appreciate Richard and my friends much more. Even casual acquaintances have taken on greater significance, and I find we are all making a greater effort to reach out to everyone these days. Which can only be a good thing, right? Right.