Every year beginning a week before the day, I go to sleep praying two things - no bad dreams and that 11th September dawns grey and cold. Some years the day is grey and cold no matter where I am. But every year since that horrible day I have the same dream every night in the week leading up to the day. Every. Single. Year.

For the day to be a brightly beautiful autumn day as it was that day twenty years ago seems a hideous affront to the memory of the day-the dead and the first responders who ran TO the danger, not away. 

This year it is the twentieth anniversary. I've spent the morning switching away when that ghastly, odious cowardly traitor Biden comes on screen. I'm sorry, I wish I could feel more respect for any sitting POTUS. But when it comes to Biden I cannot summon anything more than total contempt. 

 

I fully expect simultaneous attacks thanks to him, he has flung open the door to repeat and continued assaults on the West and seeing that doddering evil semi-ambulatory abomination daring to commemorate 11th September 2001 in any way is an absolute outrage.

 

Here in NE Scotland it is a bit on the chilly side and there is no bright blue sky and shining sun, it is grey with the occasional flicker of pale autumnal sun. 

 

All this past week I've had the usual same dream - that pair of young men trapped on the 102nd floor, one pacing and crying out 'But I don't want to die!' and the other looking straight at me saying over and again 'Please, can you call my wife...'.

 

Please, can you call my wife?