I put words together every day.. yet there are none that can convey my sorrow
EVERY week I write about the fun things in life, the bizarre stuff, the calamities and moments that make me smile, laugh, rant, or roll my eyes.
In the 13 years I’ve been sharing my stories and opinions, I’ve always had two purposes in mind.
For readers, I try to make this page a 10-minute, amusing escape from the stresses, strains and pressures of everyday life.
And on a personal level, these tales have chronicled my children’s lives, giving them something to look back on when I’ve checked myself into the home for Decrepit RomCom Writers.
I started writing this column when my sons were two and three. Now they’re 15 and 16, both way over 6ft tall and verging on adulthood.
But every night I still go into their rooms when they’re asleep, touch their faces and whisper how much I love them.
Over the years, many things have been recorded here. Their first lost tooth, their first day at school, their first ride on a bike, and, yes, my oldest son’s first time at a stadium pop concert.
It was back in 2009, we laughed our socks off, danced our trainers off and adored every minute of the Hampden stop on Take That’s Circus tour.
Then he came home with me. He came home.
That’s why, this week, it didn’t feel right to ponder trivialities, because on Monday night, 22 people didn’t make it back from Ariana Grande’s concert at Manchester Arena.
Parents, children, sisters, brothers, relatives and friends lost someone who was everything to them. Beds lay empty that night. And broken hearts woke the next morning with pieces lost forever.
I’m so very sorry for each and every person who lost their life, for their loved ones and for the injured and the stunned survivors who saw things that will stay with them until the end of time.
Every day, I put words together, yet there are none that can adequately express the sorrow for the lives that have been taken away or touched by the senseless horrors. And I’m also angry, seething with fury at the existence of the murderous b ****** s behind this atrocious act of cowardice.
Every terrorist act that kills and maims defies any shred of comprehension. On Monday night, that arena was full of children. How can we even begin to fathom the heinous mentality of those who target the very people that humanity is supposed to protect and nurture?
What do we tell our sons and daughters about this? How do we prepare them for a world in which they can go for a carefree night out and be faced with pure evil?
I’ve brought my sons up to be ferociously independent. I tell them there’s a big adventure waiting for them out there. I encourage them to be fearless, to explore, to take chances and risks. I tell them never to let anyone or anything stop them doing something they want to do, or from fulfilling their dreams.
Yet, today, I want to keep them home, to protect them, to hug them and know that they are safe and happy.
However, the reality is that we can’t shelter them from every danger. We have to let them live their lives.
All we can do is tell them about the good.
About the people of every religion who rushed to help, the generosity of the taxi drivers who offered free lifts home, the courage of the emergency service personnel who ran towards danger, the bravery of ordinary people who sheltered the wounded, who sat with strangers until aid reached them, the kindness of donors who lined up to give blood, and, most of all, the spirit of the people of Manchester who will pull together and support the victims and their families over the coming days, months and years.
I have to keep believing that good will always outweigh evil.
Next week, I’ll go back to writing about the amusing and infuriating little things in everyday family life, grateful for every story, every irritation, every new memory to be recounted and cherished.
But for now and for a long time to come, I’ll think of all those poor souls who went to a concert and never came home.
I have to keep believing that good will always outweigh evil SHARI