God, etc

Yesterday, Michelle and I took Seren along to a Christening for one of our friends' babies. Gillian and Matthew were the first of our National Childbirth Trust friends to have their baby, and so Grace's Christening in many ways signals the start of a series of such events over the next few months; if we followed the order that the babies were born in then Seren's would be the second to last of five.

Chez Smith we've debated for a little while as to whether we'd want to hold a Christening or civil naming ceremony for Seren - something for family predominantly to participate in, a chance to bring people together to celebrate the birth of our little treasure with us. Originally the debate was around whether we wanted to do anything at all, but more recently it shifted toward which we would go for - a religious or non-religious ceremony.

Both Michelle and I were Christened, but neither of us - bar Michelle spending some time at Sunday school - are practicing Christians, we don't go and have never been to church, and neither are our respective parents actively religious. My father suspects he may be Jewish (it's a long story), and has actively researched the faith, but certainly isn't active in his worship. Well, as far as I know anyway. I guess it would explain why he's so hard to get hold of on a Saturday. But the idea of holding a traditional church Christening did hold some appeal perhaps for the formality and grandeur, and while we hadn't done anything about it, we seemed to be erring toward this over the civil ceremony.

A sequence of three things served to make us very quickly change our minds. The first was when Michelle mentioned to her parents that we were considering a Christening, which met with some strong opposition from her dad - who is almost an atheist. I say 'almost an atheist' because of course he had both Michelle and her sister Christened, making me slightly unsure over which bit of a Christening is appropriate to someone who doesn’t believe in either God or Christ. The second was when Michelle opened the door last week to two Jehovah's Witnesses who attempted to chew her ear off about God, etc; quite wisely, she used the excuse that Seren needed feeding and shut the door on them. (This is more successful than my last run-in with them many years ago when a combination of being hungover, being in the midst of, ahem, some 'amorous activity' upstairs with a coincidentally very religious girl and hot weather meant that I opened the door to the callers - thinking that it was the postman delivering an overdue parcel of records - in a state of embarrassing undress and for some reason decided that this would be the perfect time to engage in some challenging banter before slamming the door on them; fifteen minutes later I managed to remove one of the guys' feet from holding the door open, had taken a leaflet and didn't really feel that amorous anymore).

The third event to change our minds was, ironically, the Christening itself. We've come to know Gillian and Matthew quite well since the NCT meetings kicked off earlier this year, and knew that they were active in their local church. What we didn't know was that they were Catholic, and it really only became apparent to me about half an hour into the service, although I should have realised because all the obvious signs were there. I don't have a problem with their faith, far from it, but the Catholic service perhaps crystallised in our minds the decision to pursue a civil ceremony, simply because it is slightly more ‘full on’ than Church of England ceremonies.

Notwithstanding the heavy undertones of sin 'n salvation in the service, the main reason that we have changed our minds is that we feel we would be complete hypocrites to hold a Church service. We felt totally out of place at Grace's Christening by not holding strong religious beliefs, almost fraudulent by taking part. On the other hand neither did we want to fit in and repeat the lines in the prayer book when prompted, didn't want to take part when we didn't agree with what we were saying.

It's not that we don't have elements of religious belief - having witnessed the mystery and miracle of childbirth it's hard to believe in natural evolution wholeheartedly - it's more that we're not interested in actively practising, and are Christians not through our own choice but our parents'. We feel it would frankly be hypocritical for us to insist on this for our daughter when we don't believe in it fully ourselves. We didn't get married in church for pretty much the same reason.

I'm pretty comfortable with where I am in terms of religion at the moment. I find it hard to believe that there couldn't be a higher power responsible for kick-starting creation because things are too perfect, but I also see the link that extends back from mankind through apes and onto fish. Perhaps this looks like I am sitting on the fence and not taking a committed view, but this is where I've settled and I'm pretty comfortable there, thank you very much. One of my favourite Nick Cave songs sums up the contradiction quite well - 'I don't believe in the existence of angels / But looking at you I wonder if that's true.' It’s not through doubt that I arrive at this point of view, just where I feel most comfortable.

It wasn't always so. My former girlfriend was a fairly devout Christian. She once said to me that she was disappointed that I couldn't find the capacity to believe completely, saying that she was upset that we wouldn't be together in Heaven, since unless I believed I wouldn't be admitted. Talk about emotional blackmail! Given that we didn't exactly end on the best terms, it's probably now of considerable relief to her that I won't be bumping into her in Heaven. But at the time it did rather shock me into edging closer toward some sort of defined belief structure. I bought a bible and started reading it reasonably avidly, started routinely praying etc, but I stopped short of committing to going to church. She held very firm views about certain things such as sex before marriage, but she still got drunk, wanted to take drugs and went to church just once in all the time I knew her (and she was hung over then); despite being for all intents and purposes a fair-weather Christian she was certainly quick to tell me I wasn't following a path of righteousness and telling me I'd go to hell for it. That holier-than-thou attitude I can well do without.

Despite being a non-believer, while together we were my ex dragged me along to one of her Christian buddies' weddings in Kingston-upon-Thames. Surrounded by very passionate religious types, mostly of around my own age group, was really uncomfortable. While the bride and groom were almost duty-bound to be pleasant toward me, someone must have spread the word that I wasn't Christian and therefore I was at best a target for conversion and at worst completely ostracised. Given that my girlfriend was a bridesmaid I spent much of the day on my own, drinking; I lost track of who was giving me disapproving looks as my stupor deepened. A previous trip to visit the happy couple - possibly for their joint stag / hen party - required my ex and I to stay in separate houses because sharing a bed was frowned-upon. (This despite the fact that the bride and groom regularly slept together). My ex went along to church with them somewhere near Chessington on the Sunday morning, whereas I refused (which met with some degree of disapproval). I was an outsider (aren't Christians supposed to be quite forgiving and accepting?), a non-believing square peg in a Christian round hole.

So, all told, I'm pretty happy that we've gone down the route of a civil ceremony. It’ll be a relaxed day with only the most important people to us attending, some good food and a chance to celebrate Seren’s arrival properly. I'd certainly prefer that to living like my ex's friends in some sort of secular religious cult down in Waco, Surrey.

Remote possibilities

On the T-Mobile website they proudly claim that their coverage reaches 99% of the UK population. I think I know where the 1% of the country that can't get reception is – it is seat 17 in coach A of the 16.10 Virgin Voyager train from Leeds to Coventry, a journey which takes just over two hours and passes through large towns and cities such as Sheffield, Derby and Birmingham.

The signal from T-Mobile is appalling on this stretch of the country, rendering effective use of my Blackberry damn near impossible. Blessing or curse? You decide.

Much more so than any other device since the mobile phone, the Blackberry has revolutionised how we work, providing the user with the ability to check, send and receive emails without needing a comparatively cumbersome laptop and 3G card. However it's not colloquially known among users as the Crackberry for nothing – these things are addictive like nothing else. I found myself getting really angry on the train today when I couldn't send any messages because the little bars in the right hand corner kept disappearing, first counting down bar by bar to be replaced, like a dying man's final breaths, with a feeble 'SOS', and then a cross implying said man had faded away. None of the messages were urgent, and yet the fact that I couldn't send these damn messages was getting me really stressed.

I've fallen for the charms of the Blackberry like most users. I've found myself getting woken up in the middle of the night to change our daughter's nappy and thinking on the way back to bed 'Might as well check to see if there are any new messages', or taking a look at the weekend – just in case. I once came back from a social event with some other guys from work and decided to check my emails before bed; in my inbox was a message from a stroppy client which I needed to raise with two other colleagues, so I forwarded it on. A minute later both replied. It was half past midnight. That's just not right.

Like most users, I swore I'd be able to resist the temptations of the Blackberry, but within a few days of taking delivery of my shiny blue handheld I was hooked. I have to check my emails every thirty seconds or so, and by compulsion more than anything feel a need to respond to the emails that come in within seconds of them landing. On the one hand this is a more efficient way of working, but it also makes it more pressured, particularly if you're communicating with another Blackberry user also compelled to respond as quickly. The result is the kind of clipped, rapid-fire exchange of gibberish employed involuntarily by chemically-altered individuals. A client of mine mentioned that he'd put in a request for a Blackberry; I counselled him, like some wizened old washed-up veteran addict, not to fall into the trap of checking it too frequently or outside of working hours. He said he'd be disciplined, but he'll realise how futile such resistance will prove to be. We all start with the best intentions, we all say we won't fall for its charms, and we all succumb to the temptations of that keypad and LCD screen, all try and type as quickly and frantically as possible. In a few years thousands of people will develop knackered thumbs and they'll have to respond with a Blackberry derivative for the thumbless masses which allows you to communicate telepathically.

And when that battery goes flat, you'll experience an intense withdrawal and a cold sweat as you suddenly find yourself disconnected from the world. You can't go cold turkey with this, man. You gotta withdraw slowly. There aren't clinics for this. Yet.

The Blackberry can also be used as a conventional mobile phone although you do feel pretty bloody stupid putting what looks like a pocket calculator to your ear, and God knows what the radiation would do to your brain over time. And thus, because of its limitations as a permanent phone, I leave the house not just with my Blackberry, but also a conventional mobile too. Addictive qualities aside, the Blackberry does fix some of my pet hates about mobiles. For example, while I couldn't send the emails above straight away, at least they sat there patiently waiting for the signal to tick up again and then sent themselves automatically. Why they can't do that with good old SMS messages is quite beyond me, and unless they've fixed it with newer phones than my trusty Nokia then there's no outbox where messages sit until the signal's strong enough to allow the SMS to go. Instead you watch the screen tell you for several seconds that it's trying to send the message, it then fails and then YOU have to hit send again and potentially go through the same rigmarole again - which would have been quite painful on that train, I can tell you.

I read an article in The Times Saturday Magazine recently regarding mobile phones, and the way that they have become so complicated to use.

I was reminded of this when trying to make a call this morning. I rang a work colleague back in the office and was greeted by his voicemail which advised me he was out of the office and gave me the number of his PA. I frantically scrabbled around in my pockets to find a piece of paper and pen to get her number in order to phone her instead.

With fingers crossed that the number I had written down quite unintelligibly was indeed her number, I plugged the numbers into my Nokia and hit connect. Thankfully she was there, we spoke, and finally I took the phone away from my ear and looked fleetingly at the screen before pressing disconnect. There, in simple black text was her name. It seemed this had happened once before and I had already added her number into my phone's memory.

I'm sure I detected a hint of smug satisfaction as her name disappeared off the screen with the pressing of the disconnect button, as if my phone were saying to me 'Hah! I knew you were dialling her number, but instead of reminding you halfway through so that you didn't have to finish pressing the numbers in, I let you type in the whole number...and then let you know that you'd already stored that number, thus wasting you precious time!'

Phones have become more complicated with the advent of 3G facilities, cameras and the like, and I daresay I know how 1% of my comparatively basic phone actually works, but in some respects the basic nuts and bolts of a phone – you dial a number, you speak, you hang up – haven't changed at all. I was always pretty technologically switched-on as a teenager but these days I feel as technically limited as my parents (who haven't worked out how to watch DVDs on their DVD player yet). Who knows what technology will be like when our daughter is old enough, but I can guarantee she'll be showing me how it works.

I don't suppose that your Nokias, Motorolas and Sony Ericssons of this world really think that there is much left to do with the actual phone process itself, instead focussing more on style and the number of features they can cram onto a phone template that needs to be smaller than the previous model. They have succeeded in pimping the phonebox into a high-tech entertainment system when at the day it's just a phone. TV on a phone must look pretty small, while why would you store 100 MP3s when you could get a basic iPod for the same price?

Yet, despite such advances, something as simple as predicting which number you want to dial based on the first few numbers you've typed - given that phones have been able to offer predictive text for yonks - hasn't been added. Or maybe it has and I just need to trawl through fifteen menus and thirty submenus just to switch it on.

So, frustrations aside, you can give me a hit of that sweet Blackberry any day. One more go can't hurt, can it? I'll tackle that addiction another day.

Too darn hot

According to yesterday's newspapers, this week temperatures are expected to be higher than in the Canary Islands and Ibiza. For someone who really struggles in the hot weather, this is rather dismaying news. In fact, it wasn't actually that hot when I read the paper, but this forecast was enough to bring me out in a sweat. Today's headlines state that temperatures could reach 38 degrees, while the late edition Evening Standard reported that tube trains were reaching temperatures of a staggering 47 degrees.

Travelling in the heat is one of my least favourite things. Not only is it really uncomfortable to sit in a non-air conditioned train surrounded by people sweating profusely as the sun beats down relentlessly on the metal outer skins of the carriages with the heat magnified through the windows, but the expected attire for office working just exacerbates the heat. I have wisely started leaving my suit jacket at home, ditched the tie and roll my shirt sleeves up, but it's still not enough. I witnessed some European businessmen on the train last night fully suited and booted, who didn't appear fazed by the heat at all and who didn't even take off their jackets or loosen their ties.

The other week I was invited to an awards ceremony at the Royal Albert Hall, which is of course a prestigious and visually awe-inspiring example of Victorian architecture, and a highly impressive venue in which to entertain clients. The only snag was that the dress code, as always with these stuffy events, called for dinner suits. I caught the train from my hotel on Tottenham Court Road and must have looked like an absolute buffoon with a bow tie and jacket on. All around me were tourists wearing next to nothing while I was completely conspicuous in evening attire. Add to this comic image the glaze of sweat on my brow and you’ll appreciate I’m sure how uncomfortable and embarrassed I felt. Needless to say I shelled out for a cab on the way back. Our company had sponsored the awards and therefore we were entitled to - as in we’d paid for - a drinks reception on the Gallery level. In theory, this was a very good way to impress clients, only the Gallery is of course practically in the roof of the Royal Albert Hall and air conditioning wasn’t even invented when they built the place; and from your science days you will remember that heat rises. Thus we would have probably been cooler partaking of drinks inside hell's own Aga oven.

Part of me wishes that I could have been born of Italian or Spanish stock, mainly because I would then be able to walk around in the hottest weather wearing dark suits and yet staying and looking cool, rather than melting like Wallace and Gromit in an Aardman Animation warehouse fire. I was doomed from the start - my genes are English, French and Danish, which basically means I struggle in the heat but cruelly also find the cold weather unbearable too. There are probably two months per year where I feel completely at ease with the temperature. Mid-July in a heatwave is not one of these.

I love bright, clear days for their sense of optimism and positivity like most people, but when I leave the house at 6.30 AM and it's already too hot, part of me wants to buy a summer house in Iceland, or maybe just head to Iceland (the store) and lie in one of their chest freezers until we get a thunderstorm and cooler weather returns.

I become an absolute nightmare to be with when the temperature soars, as my wife will testify. When I came in from work last night Michelle wasn't having the best of times since our ten-week old daughter - who also doesn't like the heat, that's my girl! - had been screaming for 45 minutes relentlessly. She tried to hug me and I pushed her away because I was so clammy. I just can't help getting moody in the heat; it just makes me so miserable. I can't get comfortable, I can't sleep, I don't want to eat and I don't want to do anything. It's undoubtedly the same for everyone, but I think my fiery temperament - courtesy of having ginger hair, another gift from Denmark - is stoked by high temperatures. I've always been this way in the hot weather, although I think I was blissfully unaffected when I was really small where it was fun to go out and play in the sun. I recall one family holiday where we took a daytrip to Monaco. I completely ruined the experience for everyone, refusing to come out of the shade and not letting my parents take my picture. I skulked around the streets of Monaco with a face like a smacked arse, and generally made it awkward for my parents and sister.

Then there's the other things about the hot weather - sun tan lotion, which I hate with a passion (especially if combined with sand from a beach), wasps, ants, ineffective deodorants, sunburn, plants dying from lack of water, not being able to sleep at night and not being able to stay awake in the day and so on. But travelling by train is still the worst thing. Not only is it unpleasant, particularly if you end up sat next to a fat man (I don't wish to offend anyone, therefore if you are uncomfortable with me using this description, please feel free to read this as 'fat woman') who both cannot stop sweating and also needs to lean against me because he is too large for one train seat, but it is also bloody frustrating for one very clear reason: melting train tracks.

On top of all the other excuses that rail companies trot out to explain poor services – the old chestnuts like ‘leaves on the line’, ‘wrong type of snow’ and all those other classics – it scarcely seems possible that train tracks could soften, melt and buckle in the heat, but it happens whenever the temperature ticks over 30 degrees; temperatures which aren't out of the ordinary for the UK during summer anymore. At great effort, disruption and expense, Network Rail relaid the entire track on the West Coast Mainline (which I have the displeasure of using every day). One would have perhaps assumed that ‘modernising’ would have included laying tracks capable of withstanding intense temperatures, just like the ones they must have in other parts of the world; but no, within weeks of completing one section of track and enduring coaches for parts of the journey, trains were subject to delay and speed restriction because of the heat. Marvellous! Does this make you think that the investment into relaying the tracks on the West Coast Mainline was perhaps done on the cheap? Only the other week I was at a lunch in Bristol where I mentioned that the train tracks might melt in the heat; my fellow diners laughed at me like I was mad (they drive everywhere, hence could be regarded as train novices). That very day my journey back from Bristol to home was marred by several speed restrictions from Bristol to Paddington, a complete collapse of the tube network because of softened rails, and then further speed restrictions on the West Coast Mainline.

Iceland is looking more and more tempting every day.

Recycled soapbox

In my final year at University, I rented a room in a house owned by a couple, one of whom worked as a manager at a care home and one who worked as a park ranger. Jan, the ranger, was also an artist specialising in 'folk art', and while I lived with them had her work exhibited at the local library. The house was stuffed to bursting point with Jan's various creations, most of which either by accident or design, reminded me of Native American imagery. Dave, on the other hand was a complete contradiction to Jan - a Lou Reed fan, very political, and often to be heard rubbishing Jan's attempts at producing art from natural sources.

That year was a great one, and that house was exactly what I needed in order to completely focus my energies on successfully passing my degree. Living with non-students meant that I could sidestep the distractions of being in close proximity to other students, and they were the sort of people who just let me be - I didn't intrude on their life and they didn't intrude on mine. For an individual hardly renowned for their gregariousness, it was perfect.

Jan and Dave were, despite being complete opposites, highly principled individuals. They would only ever eat organic meat - a choice that at the time was nowhere near as common or achievable as it is now - they used Ecover washing up liquid and they were ruthless with turning off appliances rather than leaving them on standby. Compared to the lackadaisical attitude that breeds like mould in student accommodation, that household was a paragon of virtue, a shining beacon of conservation and consideration for our planet. One of the most strongly-held principles Jan and Dave held was over recycling, and it is chiefly from them that I have become so committed to this.

Our collective wastefulness appals me. It appals me to the point that instead of fruitlessly moaning to anyone who would listen, I actually wrote to my MP. That sounds very grand, like I sat down in my study, opened the lefthand drawer, pulled out a sheaf of Smith-crested notepaper, unlocked the leather box where my fountain pen resides, and methodically put pen to paper; in actual fact I emailed him, but saying I emailed my MP doesn't quite sound so impressive.

I recall my German lessons at school wherein Herr Wydall, the most enthusiastic of all my teachers, educated us about Germany's firm approach to recycling, leaving me terribly impressed by their usage of different-coloured Mülltonne for the different types of waste, with black – the smallest bin – specifically designated for non-recylable waste. Germany have really stolen the march from the rest of Europe in terms of their hardline approach to recycling, and it still amazes me fifteen years on from this that we are not following their lead. Recycling schemes vary from council to council, and there is no mechanism to penalise those who elect not to recycle at all. In Germany, failure to recycle would probably see you handcuffed and forced to pick up litter in public places with your teeth.

How's this for irony – Milton Keynes, where I live, apparently has a very good recycling scheme. We have pink bags for recyclable waste, which sadly is not as comprehensive as it could be (you can't recycle all the different types of plastics that can now be recycled, for example), but it's much better than other places. We also get a blue box for glass jars and bottles. Sorting your rubbish takes no time at all, but there is nothing to stop you simply dumping everything into the black sacks and watch everything get needlessly poured into the landfill site. Yes, there are posters and leaflets occasionally encouraging Milton Keynes residents to recycle more, but a look out of my front window on refuse collection day reveals that middle-class Milton Keynes society is as apathethic as anywhere else when it comes to making the effort to recycle. The irony is that if you put something in your pink sack that can't be recycled, your rubbish will not be collected and you will receive a fine. But the lazy bastard who chucks everything into the black bag doesn't get penalised, thus we potentially punish those who make the effort and politely encourage those who don't to continue their environmentally-damaging actions. How very British.

A couple of years ago we spent some time at Brussels airport on the way back from Prague. In the departure lounge at Brussels airport there are different-coloured bins for cans, bottles, paper etc. Each is clearly labelled in many languages, including English, so even if you don't know which colour corresponds to which type of waste, reading the labels will certainly make it clear. I was dismayed at the way my fellow British travellers ignored the labels and threw rubbish into any of the receptacles. It's sheer bloody ignorance that only reinforces how we are perceived by our neighbours. I can only imagine how poor the English supporters travelling to Germany for this year's World Cup were at dividing and separating their waste.

I work for a large FTSE company with a very clearly defined and promoted environmental policy. At corporate sites there are large posters and signs encouraging colleagues to recycle their cans, plastic cups, paper and newspapers. I work in a subsidiary of the parent, which somehow seems to have been able to follow a policy of ignoring everything the parent has done to promote basic environmentally-friendly behaviours. I asked for a bin like those in other corporate sites in which to place used plastic cups; I was told it was too expensive, yet we were quite comfortable to sponsor an awards ceremony where we didn't even get nominated. To my dismay, I found out only a few days ago that the bins in the office for recycling paper just get mixed in with the non-recyclable waste, again because this is too expensive.

When my MP emailed me back, he did the usual MP thing of saying thanks for bringing it to his attention, that recycling was at the very heart of his beliefs yada yada yada. He said that the council were going to get more ruthless, but we're two years on from that and nothing's changed round our way. He also said that they were going to do more work with schools to influence parents via their kids. Intuitively this makes a great deal of sense to me. When there was a big campaign to switch to aerosols without CFCs back in the late 1980s, we spent ages talking about this in class and we in turn made our parents more aware of it. However, given the things that are getting dropped from school curriculums, it is hard to see how they will inject social responsibility into the lessons effectively.

I have considered becoming more active and vocal about this whole issue, considered joining Greenpeace; I considered writing to large companies such as McDonalds's or the large hotel chains to find out what their recycling policies are. I find it hard to believe that there are no policies at such companies where thousands of tonnes of potentially recyclable material is simply thrown away into landfills by companies each year. If I think about it too much it dismays me, and I can't help but think about what kind of world is going to be left for our daughter when she is approaching thirty. The government announces great initiatives to clean up companies and save resources, but they have yet to do anything about individual apathy, and like so many of their boneheaded policies have actually allowed us to make a choice over whether we participate in saving our planet or not. The latest TV adverts, voiced by Eddie Izzard and others, show how quickly a newspaper put out for recycling could be back on your breakfast table as another newspaper, the various things that can be created from a used tin can etc; on my way in to work I saw a refuse collection lorry that proudly carried the message on its side that recycling one bottle will conserve the equivalent energy of powering a computer for 25 minutes. That's just science, the kind of interesting but pointless information that makes people do diddly squat. Where's the message of duty and responsibility? The figures on how overcrowded our landfills are? If this is the government's PR campaign for individual responsibility then it has once again been dumbed down into irrelevance.

Tesco are not by any measure my favourite company. However, their packaging is consistently informative about what it is made of and how it can be recycled. For a company with such an arguably important role in terms of direct interaction with the consumer, this is the kind of smart move which might just see it sidestep the kind of criticisms levied at other large organisations such as McDonald’s. However, what becomes evident after seeing Tesco packaging that says ‘Recyclable where facilities exist’, is just how few of these facilities actually exist. Take their bread packaging, manufactured by Amcor. In order to recycle this plastic derivative, you have to collect together several tonnes of this very light material, bundle it all up and send it direct to Amcor. In Australia. Boots, that bastion of British high street charm, advises on its plastic bags that these can be recycled, and to throw these in with your usual plastics. I can't speak for every local scheme, but our supposedly advanced scheme in Milton Keynes will fine you if you chuck a carrier bag or two in with the tin cans.

I considered a local campaign of imploring with my neighbours to recycle more, and in some cases to just recycle full stop. I suspect it will be fruitless. Jan and Dave, seasoned recyclers for many years, were just doing their bit, and I think that's all you can do. As long as we continue to put out more waste in the pink sacks than black, compost all our kitchen waste and use proper nappies instead of disposables then I know we’ll have made a difference. More importantly, if I can instil in our daughter a spirit of wanting to do what she can to help the environment then I will have succeeded. But if I think about it too much I’ll still come round to the view that if everyone ‘did their bit’, this world would be a whole lot healthier than it is now.

Panic on the streets of London : how July 7 changed my world

Like many of the two million people who work in London, the tragic events of July 7 2005 had a massive bearing on my life. I’m one of the lucky ones only tangentially (but still deeply) affected by the Al Qaeda bombings that left 52 innocent people – and four guilty ones – dead and scores of others injured. On this first anniversary of that day, both the ‘official’ media – TV, newspapers, radio – and the ‘unofficial’ media – blogs such as this – are once again filled with reflections and accounts of that day. I don’t intend to add my story of that day to that mass public library, and instead want to focus on the impact that July 7 had upon me.

By July 7 2005, I was in my fourth year of working in London’s Square Mile. Working in London was something that I'd always hankered after, and like so many others – despite the international terrorist landscape that was developed after September 11 and the Madrid train bombings – innocently believed that I would never in a million years be affected personally by an event of the magnitude of something like July 7. This wasn’t from some aloof, cocky arrogance, but because no-one really wants to give any great credence to the notion that they would be involved in this kind of thing. I've read that, just like September 11 2001 did for America, July 7 2005 took away some of London’s innocence, despite those earlier years of enduring IRA bombings; and it’s certainly true that I lost some of my innocence too. After September 11, which was two weeks into me working in London, I'd reassured my wife that I would be vigilant; that I wouldn’t take risks. The tube bombings of July 7 took away that naïveté. Mere vigilance while travelling into and around London would not be enough in the face of such determination to wreak havoc. My life was sufficiently turned upside-down on July 7 without being in one of the three trains or on the number 30 bus to have made me intensely wary while working in the City, and it’s really only on the days that I work from home that I feel completely at ease. I know this kind of ‘white noise’ stress constantly sounding in the back of my mind is not at all healthy, and certainly unsustainable in the long-term. It’s no coincidence that I now have more grey hairs than I would otherwise have had as I approach thirty.

In four years, I'd become quietly confident about getting around London; in one day that confidence was wrecked. My journey from Milton Keynes to the City involved taking the Underground from Euston Square to Liverpool Street. All of a sudden this journey, which I'd taken countless numbers of times, and which was as far as I could see my only means of reaching the office, was suddenly for me completely out of the question. The thought of getting back on a tube again filled me with a gut-churning fear that I could see no way of overcoming. The bombing of the bus took that option away from me as well. Everyone in our office worked from home on Friday July 8, which gave me a comfortable distance away from the following Monday when I would next have to contemplate using the Underground again. As Monday got closer my fears became more pronounced. My wife was a rock of support, even though I knew she too was as worried as I was.

I decided to change my route into work to go from Luton directly into the City, which would avoid the need to use the tube completely. I reasoned that life is all about accepting the risk that you are most comfortable taking. For me I was more comfortable getting in the car early in the morning and driving down the M1 to Luton, despite the fact that the probability of getting hurt in a car accident far outweighs the risk of being hurt in an Underground bombing; this was just something I had to do to feel comfortable with going back to work, but it wasn’t by any means easy. When I first changed over my season ticket I felt a wave of immense relief wash over me. My fear was of being trapped in a tunnel, of being in a place I couldn’t escape from. I'd forgotten that the route from Luton to City Thameslink involved passing through a long tunnel between Kentish Town and Kings Cross Thameslink. Entering that tunnel on that Monday was frankly terrifying, and looking around the carriage that morning I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. I saw a girl bury her head in her hands all the way between those stations; I felt like screaming and felt my pulse race uncontrollably until I left the train at City Thameslink. In the aftermath of July 7 the Government, the Mayor and the media praised the commitment of people to pick up the pieces and get on with their lives; I wonder how many people there were just like me who had no choice but to soldier on but who were inwardly scared to death.

Altering my route was a good way of getting more comfortable with getting on with working in London, but it wasn’t financially sustainable, and so when my season ticket was up for renewal in August I switched back to travelling from Milton Keynes to Euston. I’d been forced to use the tube once between July 7 and renewing my ticket, but I still wasn’t comfortable with getting back on the Underground, and so I decided to walk into the City from Euston station each morning. It takes about 45 minutes, is exhausting and in the hot weather pretty unbearable. The walk takes me past BMA House, outside which the packed bus was destroyed last year, and the entrance to Russell Square Underground station. I still do it one year on, and have only caught the tube from Euston Square to Liverpool Street in the mornings when it’s been raining too heavily or if I've got to bring luggage with me for an overnight stay in London. The most ridiculous thing of all is that I’m almost completely comfortable with catching the tube in the evenings on my way home from work, just because the bombings of July 7 happened in the morning peak, and because they say Al Qaeda prefer to stage an attack at the start of a day. Not only that, but if I have to catch a tube really early in the morning, I also feel completely at ease. Perhaps that innocence and naïveté hasn’t disappeared completely.

July 7 had two other major impacts on my life. The first was that it intensified my love and pride for London. My wife and I had stayed in London for Live 8 the weekend before July 7, and we had both started to really get interested in our capital city. It was perhaps because we stayed in Canary Wharf, which has about the most exciting landscape of anywhere in London. I’d been through a bit of a negative period at work and was starting to doubt whether I should carry on working in London or seek employment closer to home; that trip to London, along with one in May, made me realise that I’d miss London too much. July 7 dented that love for London; I resented those four bombers for taking my London away from me, but London’s charms were soon to tempt me once more; since then my love for the capital has doubled and become much more pronounced.

The more surprising effect on me was with regard to my love of music. On July 7 I spent an hour trapped underground between Kings Cross and Farringdon, blissfully unaware of what was happening elsewhere so close to me, listening to Possessed by the Balanescu Quartet on my iPod. The guilt of innocently enjoying music while people nearby on other trains were dying created a guilt in me that prevented me from wanting to listen to music. For years music has been my major passion; to have it suddenly taken away from me was painful but I just couldn’t face it. It took several months before I was completely comfortable with listening to music while travelling again. Since then my appetite has come back, but I haven’t pursued this passion with anywhere near as much enthusiasm as I did previously.

Tragic though July 7 was, I honestly believe that if it wasn’t for that day we wouldn’t have conceived our baby. We had been trying for a baby for a couple of months with no sign of success. The events of July 7 made the bond between my wife and I much stronger, drew us much closer together. Just two weeks later by our calculations Seren was conceived, reaffirming my faith that truly great things can rise out of the most painful of events.