A Personal Reflection on 7 July 2005
A morning that began like any other
Most of us associate 7 July with the darkest memories of London’s recent history.
Back in 2005, I was due to deliver a talk on Betfair trading in central London. After a slick interchange from mainline rail to the Underground, I glanced up at the station clock: 08:50. I had just enough time to reach the venue and set up — or so I thought.
I managed to get there sligther later than normal, but it seemed a lot of delegates were having some trouble.
Oblivious to unfolding tragedy
Delegates drifted in and conversation turned to the day’s agenda. None of us realised that four bombs had exploded on the transport network.
Early rumours spoke of an electrical fault, so — British stiff-upper-lip in full force — we carried on. For some it was already personal: a couple of delegates had been ushered off smoke-filled carriages and walked along the tracks, shaken but unharmed.
The call that cut through the silence
While most people silenced their phones, I accidentally left mine on. The constant buzzing felt intrusive until I finally answered.
My wife’s simple question, “Are you OK?” stripped away any pretence of normality.
Moments later the network collapsed, cutting off further contact. With the internet jammed and no reliable news, we were left in a surreal bubble of uncertainty.
Something was wrong, but we didn’t know what?
Choosing to stay together
Seeking guidance, I found a police officer gave a quick debrief and advised us to remain indoors until the scale of the attack was clear.
I offered the group a choice: abandon the session or stay put, reassessing as events unfolded.
In true Carry On fashion, we voted to continue, determined to salvage some purpose from the day.
Looking back, that decision still amazes me — but we didn’t have much choice in reality. Everything was a bit choatic outside and there was a reluctance to head straight into that without much idea of what was going on.
So we made the best of it. Though we didn’t finish early to give us plenty of time to get home.
A city stilled
We wrapped up early and set off on foot as there was no public transport.
Central London was eerily empty, traffic lights blinking to no one, as heavy rain began to fall. An abandoned café gave brief shelter before the mobile network sprang to life.
Phones rang in unison; the torrent of voicemails was very comforting. Voicemails and texts from friends, relatives from near and far seeking reassurance that everybody was ok.
Eventually I reached the train station. On the train home from Waterloo, the day’s true horror finally hit me via rolling-news footage. I realised just how lucky I had been — my route, my timing, the simple fact of still being able to answer a call.
Looking back with gratitude
Twenty years on, I still refuse to switch my phone off. It is not about missed opportunities; it is about connection. One unanswered call can be the difference between reassurance and hours of torment for the people we love.
Modern technology means a gentle buzz from a VIP can get through a do not disturb notice on your phone if needed. It’s very reassuring.
An invitation to kindness
If 7 July taught me anything, it is the fragility of normal life and the power of small acts. A text, a friendly word, a moment of patience — each costs nothing yet can warm another person’s day.
It’s difficult to describe the emotion I felt listening to and reading all those messages when the phone network came back to life. Sharing it will all those people huddle in that abandoned cafe made it just that more poignant.
It was difficult to balance that with the knowledge of those that hadn’t been as fortunate.
Hatred feeds on division; empathy disarms it. So today, spare a thought for those forever changed by terror, and for anyone whose daily life is shadowed by fear or intolerance.
Why this lesson endures
Human connection is priceless. Keep the phone on. Keep the lines open. You never know when that simple choice might bring comfort, save a journey, or even save a life.