Night the joy, innocence and sweetness was ripped away
FOR a teenage girl there is nothing more wonderful than going to a pop concert with your friends.
The build-up is intense. Can your dad actually get you the tickets? What will you wear? Whose house will you get dressed up in?
Comfy trainers or those wicked shoes your mum disapproves of? Will you be made to have supper first? You’re far too excited to eat.
If you’re a mother watching this dear, daft performance, it takes you back to your own teen years.
There’s something so sweet and innocent about a gaggle of overexcited teenage girls, enthusing madly over some pop star.
And at the concert itself there’s that joyful sense of love for everyone else who feels what you do.
A lot of people over 25 who woke up yesterday to the terrible news from Manchester will never have even heard of Ariana Grande.
The US singer who was a child TV star of Nickelodeon is only 23, just a bit older than her fans. Teens and pre-teens adore her.
For my daughter, the Canadian singer Avril Lavigne was her Ariana Grande.
Like so many of the parents of those children in Manchester I’ve taken her and carloads of friends to concerts: sometimes going in too, sometimes waiting outside.
Going to a concert at that age is a grown-up thing to do but it’s safe, because you know you’ll be picked up later and taken home.
Imagine what it is like for those whose children have not come home, for those who waited outside the Arena, not knowing.
The plea by Charlotte Campbell, mother of missing 15-year-old Olivia, was broadcast on the BBC.
That poor woman. It’s conventional to say you can’t imagine what it feels like. But we all can.
You know that accelerating, uncontrollable panic when your child has been missing for even a minute. Then multiply it by 100.
There have been stories from Manchester you can hardly bear to see in print but also tales of such generosity and kindness that they persuade you that, when it comes to it, love is stronger than hate.
There were stories of people bustling around arranging transport, organising cups of strong sweet tea, comforting those who were shocked, injured or dying.
One witness, a homeless man, spoke of a lady in her 60s dying in his arms. Why was she at the concert? With a grandchild perhaps?
There are so many stories to tell, so many people all flung together on this one catastrophic night.
And your heart breaks not only for those who died or those who lost their precious children.
You also weep for those with “life-changing injuries” – young bodies damaged beyond repair.
Mr Parker, the homeless man, said: “I saw a little girl, she had no legs. I wrapped her in one of the merchandise T-shirts and I said, ‘Where is your mum and daddy?’ She said, ‘My dad is at work, my mum is up there’.”
He thought the child’s mother had died from her injuries.
For some, thank God, there were happy endings.
Nick Haywood, 46, was waiting outside the venue to pick up his daughter Caitlin and her friend, both 16, when he heard the explosion and saw people running.
He said: “Seeing her on the stairs was a huge relief. It was like she was almost born again, the best moment of my life all over again.”
Twenty years from now those girls should have been remembering that concert fondly and laughing at their teenage selves.
But all that joy, innocence and sweetness has been ripped away.