Nightmare

When my daughter was 17 she went to an Ollie Murs concert.  It wasn't the first concert she had been to.  It wasn't even the first time she had traveled to London or had gone without an adult, as she was a fearless adventurer, despite carrying a bundle of personal anxieties. Even from the age of two, she would stand by the door in a hat and shoes and scream, "Out!" By the age of seven she was insisting that she really was big enough to walk to the post box on her own and by eleven she was going to the nearest big town on the bus and having to be rescued because she thought a 35 and 35X were the same. She had even been to Dublin with a friend, walking till they had blisters and sitting in their hotel room eating crisps of an evening. As parents, we worried about every new thing she tried. The Long Suffering Husband always questioned whether we were right to let her go but she always come back and we congratulated ourselves on our superb parenting skills.

   It was a bright, clear December day as the girls gathered in our hallway, giggling and checking their tickets.  One of those perfect days with washed out skies and crisp air full of possibilities. While they were watching the concert it snowed; a soft, fat, silent dumping of snow that took everyone by surprise.  She texted as they came out to say how pretty it was.  Then reality struck, as they realised that it had brought the whole of London to a standstill.  There were no buses, no trains, no tubes.  Policemen were everywhere, advising people to stay where they were.  The LSH and I sat in bed with our laptops and phones, talking to the girls, the other parents, googling for any information we could find.  It felt like chaos. It was out of our control and we didn't like it.  The one saving grace was that our daughter likes to talk and we were getting regular messages, like the true journalist she was to become, keeping us updated on everything that was happening and how everyone was reacting to this bizarre situation.  Then it stopped.

"I knew we shouldn't have let her go," said the LSH.
"Don't be silly, it's only a bit of snow.  It'll be fine," I said.
"We should have known."  The worry frown separated his eyebrows in a way nature had failed to do. "It is December, after all. It snows in December."
I laughed at him.
"What if something has happened to her? She always texts you." He was beginning to hyperventilate.
The phone rang.
One of the other parents passed the message on that our daughter's phone had run out of charge and she wanted us not to worry. The girls hadn't decided what to do yet but it would be fine and this woman's husband would pick them up from the station when they got there. She suggested we get some sleep.

"See," I said, "It'll be fine."
"Yes, I'm sure it will but London is a big place. What if they start walking and get really cold? I don't suppose they've got proper shoes or a good coat.  I'm always telling her to take proper shoes, aren't I?  I'm always saying, 'take a spare pair, you never know when you might need them."  And what if they get a taxi?  You hear all sorts of things about unlicensed cabs in London. And there are some really strange people about.  What if someone says they are going to help them and they're a bit, you know?"
I didn't know but I could guess.
He continued to list all the possible things that could go wrong.
I told him that they weren't alone and there were hundreds of other people in the same situation and he really shouldn't worry.
He sighed, turned over and was snoring within two minutes.
I lay, wide eyed, thinking about all the things he had said could go wrong.

The next morning we learned that they had slept on the floor of a coffee lounge in the O2 and should be home later that day.  We built an igloo.

I remember this because before I went to bed last night I watched the news about the bombing at a concert in Manchester.  It was awful.  I empathised with the parents wondering if they should have let their child go but as it wasn't my child I was able to sleep.

It was a sleep filled with dreams.  I dreamed of looking for my daughter in the snow.  I dreamed about shouting her name into the deadening silence of white.  I ran around with other parents all calling their child's name.  Occasionally, a Costa coffee cup would explode next to me or sometimes a bit further away.  It's amazing how my sub-conscience thinks Ariana Grande is a specialist coffee.

It was a nightmare.  One that I was glad I could wake up from. My heart breaks for the parents whose nightmare will continue.