The only thing that really frightens Londoners are words like ‘Tube strike’

While the media slavers over every bloody moment, rehashing and draining the last drop of gore from every single incident, ordinary people march on, writes Suzanne Harrington. 

Going to the hospital for a kidney scan — I know, me and my sexy talk — there are security guards at the main door. Smiley, chubby, middle aged — you wouldn’t fancy their chances if they had to chase anything, never mind overpower a marauding horde — they ask to check my bag. Sorry about this, says the tubbiest one, smiles exchanged. Lipstick, phone, book, dog leads. Thanks, darlin’. On I go to my ultrasound.

On the way into a fringe arts event, the same thing. Security guards younger, fitter, with better tattoos. Again, the bag contents squeezed and fondled, even at something as low-profile as an outdoor festival-type thing in a fenced off bit of grass in a seaside town that is not London, not Manchester. And at the theatre that evening – more checking, more smiles. The town is crawling with men with earpieces and stab vests. Naturally it’s all very good humoured and apologetic – there is a tacit ‘sorry about this, love, we don’t believe for one second you have a homemade device concealed under your takeaway falafel salad, but we have to look anyway.’