Just after 10pm on Saturday night, I was in an Uber minicab with my wife, heading south over London Bridge. We’d been out for a tapas dinner and were on our way home. It had been a lovely evening.
Suddenly I noticed something odd on the pavement on our side of the road. It looked like a woman had collapsed. There were a few people around her and they had draped their coats over her. It was troubling, but at least she was being looked after.
Then a shock. On the right-hand side of the bridge, a few yards on, we saw a man, also prostrate on the ground, with passers-by desperately trying to administer first aid. And our taxi driver shouted that yet another person lay injured ahead. It was now blindingly obvious: this was the aftermath of a terrorist attack. The sound of sirens grew louder.
Traffic on our side had stopped dead but some cars continued coming from the south, the Borough Market side of the river.
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