Whenever we eat out - whether it's tea and scones in a cafe, a snack lunch or an evening meal - my husband always likes to chat to the people who serve our food.

We tease him about it, tell him he does it just to get that extra large helping of pudding or cake (it works too, sometimes). But really it's just his natural friendliness.

So, in London two weekends ago, he was doing it again, talking to the waitresses or waiters at our table. Most of them seemed to come from Eastern Europe or South America. So he'd ask them whether they liked London and why. And without exception, they all said they loved its cosmopolitan nature, the fact that so many people from all over the world live there and make their mark upon it.

After the recent bombings you maybe notice it more than usual: the women in black robes, the many shades of skin colour, the contrasting music of different languages. There were lots of young men of Middle Eastern appearance, some with beards, a few even carrying backpacks. But no-one seemed to be taking any particular notice of them.

We'd expected to find the city full of tension, an anxious, suspicious place, though we weren't going to let that stop us going to London to see our children and grandchildren.

Which is not to say we didn't feel the tiniest twinge of apprehension as we got out of the train at King's Cross. And was it really just because of our heavy luggage that we joined the taxi rank instead of taking the tube to our son's flat?

But any anxiety quickly vanished. Everything seemed so completely normal. If the streets were a bit less busy than usual, then that's what you expect in August, when so many Londoners are away on holiday.

It was only on our return to King's Cross at the end of our stay that we found something abnormal.

A crowd had gathered to one side of the station, a jostling throng of people, mostly men, their faces harrowed, their bodies tense. Now and then they broke into cries of anguish, despair or elation that echoed to the roof.

More and more people joined the throng. Then an urgent announcement came over the PA system, not this time about arriving or departing trains, nor was it the usual routine security announcement. This time the voice pleaded: "Will customers on platform eight please move away from the platform edge."

They were dangerously close and so tense, so anxiously watching that they could easily have fallen onto the line. The next thing I knew, my husband was joining them, peering over the massed heads to gaze at the unfolding drama on the television screens inside the bar.

And what were they watching? Reports of a security alert somewhere else in London? Details of carnage or lucky escapes?

No, the last nail-biting stages of the Old Trafford Test match. At least, I'm told it was nail-biting. "Excitement" and "cricket" seem contradictory terms to me. But thoughts of bombs and terrorism were miles away from King's Cross station that afternoon.

And our journey home? We were over an hour late, due to a signal failure and 'livestock on the line'. It was all reassuringly normal. Let's hope it stays that way.

Though it would be nice, just once, to be able to be certain that our train would be on time.

Published: 25/08/2005