Friday, June 21, 2002

As soon as the final whistle blew, I dashed out of the house. As did everyone else [not out of my house, you understand]. The road down to the tube station was very busy, but deadly silent. Late for work, people walked very briskly, but with their heads hung in sorrow. As I waited for the train, the platform got fuller and fuller, and when it eventually arrived, there was a bit of a scuffle. As I struggled to keep my place, I felt like Rio Ferdinand battling to keep possession. I considered taking a dive and appealing to the driver for a foul, but after spiking someone in the shin, I eventually got on. Now, tube carriages are always silent, but this was an eerie, mournful silence. Nobody was reading - they were just staring at the floor, shaking their heads. The nation's hopes have been crushed. Again. The office is strangely quiet, too. A Swedish colleague was warned as she walked in: "Just don't say a word, OK?"

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