20th March, 1993

20 Mar

There are some days you remember where you were when some awful event happens.  I remember the day President Kennedy was assassinated.  It was a Friday and I was sitting in our living room looking forward to watching the latest episode of ‘Emergency Ward 10’.    I can’t remember now if the show was interrupted or if it hadn’t even started (I just know I never got to see it) but I do remember watching Mike Scott, presenter of ‘Scene at 6.30’, grim-faced, announcing the awful news.  Apparently the rest of the country didn’t hear until half an hour later.

On 19th March, 1993 I was feeling a bit down.  I was still grieving the loss of my sister to cancer a few months previously and we, the family, were still suffering at the hands of antisocial kids in our area.  After a few years of this it really wears you down.  People would ask why we didn’t move but it was not possible.  We lived on a council estate and had decided to buy our house.  Big mistake.  People don’t want to buy houses in greens or closes (except for mugs like us)  because they’re such a magnet to gangs of kids from surrounding streets, kids who feel empowered to do anything they please. Who in their right minds would pay for that sort of trouble?

Anyway, my other half suggested that he take me on a little spending spree the following day.  Now to say this was unusual is an understatement and I was probably a fool not to grab the chance.  But, strangely, I wasn’t in a shopping-spree mood.   Instead I suggested we drive over to Wales and spend the day there.  There’s nothing more soothing than to be surrounded by the hills and mountains of Snowdonia.  To breathe in the sweet, clear air and just generally drink in the beauty of the place.

The day was sunny though a little chilly and I felt invigorated.  No shopping spree could beat that feeling.  On the way back we had just passed through Ruthin and I turned on the radio for the six o’clock news.  We listened in shock as we heard that there had been an IRA bombing in Warrington that morning.   Then we realised that we had both possibly had a very lucky escape.  Warrington was where hubby suggested we go for the shopping trip.

Today at 12.27, the exact time of the bombing, there will be a minute of silence in Warrington as the victims of that awful event are remembered.  Three year old Jonathan Ball died instantly.  Twelve year old Tim Parry was horrifically wounded and died five days later.  I shall remember them also and my lucky decision not to go to Warrington that day.

The perpetrators of this outrage have never been brought to justice.

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