It was a typical Monday morning, this Monday morning. Vondelpark’s new album in my ears and a slightly warmer wind in my face than in the past few weeks. A fine ride to work, noticed that the end of the road leading to the office garage was blocked off a few meters after our building. I figured a politician might be traveling through the area.
I reached my desk, finding two of my colleagues standing by the windows, looking down on the street. I hang my jacket on the coat hanger next to them and look down. “A cyclist just got killed there” one of my colleagues tells me while pointing to the intersection below. A white tent had been raised on the road. “How do you know the person is dead” I asked. “They just covered her body with a white blanket”. Next to the tent her completely smashed red bike lay alone on the ground.
Later I read the Evening Standard. That she was crushed under a lorry carrying construction debris from a nearby construction site. I felt nauseous as I looked down at the small white tent covering a dead person a few floors down.
A few hours later the news comes out that Margaret Thatcher has died. The day after I saw The Iron Lady for the first time. I didn’t particularly like it, mostly since I found the focus on her old age a bit insensitive and tedious. I would have preferred a bit more focus on her political career and its impact. Oh well.
It was a Monday which suddenly didn’t feel so typical any longer.