I Fear. Fearfully at times, I receive the news. War in the Crimea. Violence. Violence. A young soldier hacked to death by British Muslims, and their cursing of us all, from the dock. When she was very little, I imagined what I might have to do to save my daughter, if the balloon went up. I felt like this anyway, because my feelings about her absolute dependence on me, and her vulnerability, made me feel like I was trying to stroke the skin on scalding milk. I felt like this even before September 11th, 2001. She was six months old then. Then there was that July in London. She was at nursery, and I had travelled on the underground that morning. Those kind of events make you feel like your imagination has spilled out somehow, leaving a bloody mess. I imagined strapping her to my back and walking, walking, away.
