I’d intended to post a drawing today alongside a whimsical story of my teenage years in my hometown of Manchester, but the cruel attack on the people of that city last night renders any emotion other than profound grief irrelevant.
So far, 22 people have died and scores have been injured when a suicide bomber decided to attack the thousands of mainly teenaged girls and their parents attending a concert in the city. Only two of the victims have been named as I write, one an eight year old girl. Once again, the children are the victims when ideologies clash.
The Caliphate are rejoicing; ordinary, decent Muslims will be caught up in the backlash; the forces of hate and prejudice will cynically use this for their own ends. Meanwhile, families in Manchester and elsewhere are grieving and an as yet unspecified number of kids have had their teenage years stubbed out in the flash of an explosion at a Monday night pop concert.