The 27th December in our house is called Peace Day after two years ago when exhausted by Christmas and the social rigours of Boxing Day we had a day entirely house bound. Peace Day is defined by laziness: pyjamas are de rigour; returns to the bedroom and duvets are entirely expected and playing games, eating lots of chocolate are the order of the day.
A wonderful day until around 3pm when a derisory flick of the radio switch told us of an act which completely undermines Peace Day and the movement for peace the world over: the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. Now I have no insight into the allegations of corruption or anything else, but I have always held her in the highest esteem and felt a special kinship with Benazir. She went to my university, she is a woman in a man's world and, to me at least, behaved with complete dignity and charm which makes the violence of her end all the more shocking.
The scenes from Pakistan are awful, especially for a people which, when encountered in daily life in London, are so peace loving and charming. Tonight I think of a country rocked by violence and torn apart by extremism and I think of a family shredded by violence and by all that we hate about this man made world of ours.