Then some bastard behind me stood on the bridge and played TAPS (The last post, in UK).

And I lost it.

Two months later, flying into LaGuardia, we flew over Ground Zero. It was just a smouldering pile of twisted wreckage. Still smoking after two months.

I lost it again.

Today I found this picture.

And all the pain of that day came flooding back. I am one of the lucky ones. I knew no-one who died, and no-one close to me knew anyone who died either.

But I guess that doesn't matter really does it? The pain is still there...