This time it is different.

I don’t break a little inside every time I hear the planes flying over. In fact, and even more so this morning after seeing the celebrations on the streets of London, I send blessings with the planes, to encourage the Iranians to revolt and to organise themselves into a new leadership and a new era.

But still, there’s the reality. Just after 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, when I was ready to go on my bike ride so I’d be back in time to go with my family to watch the circus in the next village, the siren went off. First of all, no matter how much you have been following the news and know in your heart that a war is possible, and most probably, imminent, nothing prepares you for that god awful sound that permeates your phone as though the phone itself is petrified. And an added complication: I was on the toilet.

Perhaps you have never experienced this, and I pray you never will, but there are certain activities in a war zone that contribute to extra stress. Being on the toilet and being in the shower. I have indeed run into a public shelter in a towel and little else. My husband thought it was funny. I was not so amused.

And so, I hurriedly finish and we run into the nearest public shelter, which unfortunately is in the neighbours’ garden, and because it was not in use for so many years, they have developed the idea it really belongs to them. In the last war, our son was told he was not able to use the wi-fi there, because they pay for it. A fair enough statement, if it hadn’t been in response to us bringing our dog over each time, the mother being absolutely terrified of dogs, and therefore every single time screaming at us to leave her outside. I........

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