Now we are 10

No, I can't remember what I was doing. Nothing special. In the early afternoon, J.'s mother phoned from England, urging us to turn on the television: unbelievable events were taking place in New York. Within a couple of minutes of switching on, the second aircraft went in. Like the rest of the world, we were gripped by the horror, the outrageous enormity pulled into sharp, human-sized focus by those pathetic, desperate souls throwing themselves from windows. Then the collapse, the Pentagon and all it stood for violated, the mystery of the fourth plane.

Then the phone never stopped ringing. J.'s niece was in New York, a couple of miles away. Bizarrely, she had heard nothing about it. My friend A., also with a daughter in New York, phoned; outraged, but expressing a certain stupefied admiration for an organisation capable of dealing such a monstrous blow. The rest of the family phoned, more out of solidarity than seeking news. Each call took us away unwillingly away from the television: might we miss other explosions?

Then the fist-shaking anger, the natural thirst for revenge of so many Americans saying they were going to enlist to fight this evil. (I wonder how many did?) Then the mistrust of the entire Islamic world, and the need for the United States to strike a mighty blow in return. It would have taken a far stronger man than Bush to say no, be patient, wars against enemies like this aren't won by vast armed mobilisations: on the contrary, we must use invisible, low-profile, subtle and secret counter-insurgency weapons. As indeed they were to take out bin Laden.

Then the idiot invasion of Iraq, which seemed to me to be no more than a dismal strategy to satisfy US public opinion that something, anything, was being done to efface the shame of 9/11. Then the treacherous Blair fabricating feeble excuses for trotting alongside, making a bad situation much worse and wasting so many lives, essentially lives to be lined up with those who perished at Ground Zero. And countless millions of ill-afforded national wealth squandered on a pointless exercise.

Then Afghanistan, a ludicrous and shameful escapade, an unwinnable campaign with flawed objectives and no prizes. A futile hearts and minds campaign undertaken by ordinary soldiers speaking no Farsi or Pushtu: how could they hope to communicate with Afghans? Then the honours rightly accorded to the fallen, victims of a more vicious enemy than the Taliban, political ineptitude and military blunder. Then everyone knowing perfectly well that the reasons officially touted for military involvement in Afghanistan are false, and that the mourner leading those sad cortèges at Wootton Bassett is lifting his top hat, and those flag-bearers are lowering their colours, in salute to a sacrifice for a sham.

Please excuse me for writing something less frivolous than usual. The photo above I took in Spain earlier this week. It's of dawn, not sunset. Maybe better things lie ahead.