A small boy careered into his parent’s bedroom and said: “Diana’s dead.” I said nothing and attempted to sleep on. My wife struggled into her dressing gown, disappeared, and a few seconds later was back, shaking me frantically with the news, fresh from Paris, of the crash.
The next day, Monday, 1st September, I had to get to north Belfast for nine o’clock; the traffic in the city was horrendous, so I took the back route via west Belfast. In Beechmount, the paint-smeared, fort-like police station flew the Union flag at half mast, but otherwise it was tricolours in every…
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