7th July 2005 started like any normal day.
I arrived at work early, as I usually did. I had travelled for a couple of hours from Essex, across the London Underground network to Kennington in South London.
Around 8.45am, I walked into the canteen and heard mention of some kind of power surge which had stopped parts of the Underground. I was interested, but not greatly concerned. My 19 year old daughter was also working in south London, and would be travelling through central London about then. She was used to the Underground. She’d be fine.
Then the story started to change. It wasn’t a power surge. It was an explosion. I rushed to New Scotland Yard to support the senior management team to whom I was Staff Officer. My major incident role.
I was in on the first briefings. Multiple explosions. Someone mentioned five stations affected. Sky News had mentioned Liverpool Street. My daughter would have been travelling through Liverpool Street. Now I was concerned. (It later turned out that there were three stations directly impacted. Liverpool Street was not one of them).
Next briefing. Terrorism. Suicide bombers. Three stations. A bus explosion in Tavistock Square. Many casualties. The entire public transport system of London was completely suspended. The public were told to stay where they were. This was not a normal day.
That morning, I held my breath. Everybody in London did. We all dreaded the news that someone we loved was amongst the casualties. My daughter wasn’t. She arrived at her office late. She was distressed, but she was ok. She was one of the lucky ones. And so was I. For thousands of others, a devastating nightmare had started. For too many, it would be a life sentence.
52 dead. 700 injured, many with life changing wounds. Every one of them loved – cherished – by family and friends. Thousands more emotionally scarred by being involved in some way. Passengers. First responders. London Underground staff. Most just did what they had to do, then walked away.
Today, I’ve heard some extraordinary stories. There was a desperately moving moment when the names of those who lost their lives were read out by survivors and relatives in St Paul’s Cathedral, voices breaking with emotion.
Today, twenty years on, we remembered. Today I rediscovered my immense, overwhelming sadness for those for whom the nightmare started on 7th July 2025. A day which had started as such a normal day.
Today, I remembered that we were amongst the lucky ones. The lucky ones have no right to forget how lucky they are.