I never run for a bus. Matter of pride.

Slightly nervous this morning, laden with the fresh news of a ‘pigua’ in Tel Aviv, I made a run for the bus. It was just that I could clearly see the security guy on board, through the window, with his neat khaki safari jacket. ‘This is the bus for me this morning,’ I thought and kicked up my heels. They don’t have security guys on all the buses.

Just before leaving home, I had whispered to Bish that maybe Eldest shouldn’t get the bus to her art class this morning. Maybe she should walk. We thought about it for about a tenth of a second and both agreed that there was no reason to mention anything to her.

You see we’re not particularly scared or worried. I’m more concerned about accidents or perverts, if anything, with regard to Eldest roaming around on her own.

But for a few minutes after you start to realize that there are more ambulances than usual racing past the busy street corner on which you live, you get a little tiny bit jittery. Only for a minute and then life goes on. Two minutes into my spinning lesson I had forgotten all about the Pigua, and only discovered about the lovely young woman that had been murdered and the numbers of the injured, when I got to my office later on.