The Olympic opening ceremony will become one of the few truly "where were you..." moments in British life for years to come. This echo is n't going to fade.

The way to view that whole spectacle, that voyage that Danny Boyle took us on, is that everyone saw how to make the omelet britannique: every known cliche, and those still waiting patiently to be discovered, of our mad, bad, bonkers, eccentric archipelago thrown into a pan, tossed around at a very high heat, splashed with schmaltz, garnished with kitsch, served in a jus of wild self confidence to an incredulous world. I was up most of the night trying to digest it all. 

It was insane event. Everyone has a story, a view, an opinion. I held my head in my hands for the first few minutes. Mortification in extremis. It was saccarhine, the Arcadian dream of the past, sheepdogs, bonny maidens, greensward. It could have been produced by John Major.

Yet I stayed, watching it unfold, agog with horror to begin with, then thawing, encouraged by the way it advertised and celebrated that other Britain: dissident, subversive, liberal, tolerant, passionate, all embracing, multi-cultural (now that's a phrase that needs plucking out of the dustbin the righting commentators keep putting it in). 

This is the Britain I want the world to see: our pride in the NHS, the Clash, The Sex Pistols, that we have the chops to ask the director of Liberty and that noble woman, Doreen Lawrence to help carry the Olympic flag, that we can comfortably create breath taking moments like these, and still have enough in the tank to have the Queen meet and greet James Bond. 

I turned the TV off in the early hours of Saturday, a pride citizen of Planet London. 

Bitter sweet sceptic no more. I'm humbled by it all. The world on my doorstep. 

This is the most poignant description I've ever come across of how wracking the denial of motherhood. It's from Toni Morrison's latest novel, Home. I read it for the first time in the Berkeley Square pret a manger earlier this evening and paused, then re- read again and again. This is what writing, fine, sensitive writing is all about; the chance to see life in all it's quixotic glory and lonely tragedy. "I can't have children...I did n't feel anything at first when Miss Ethel told me, but now I think about it all the time. It's like there's a baby girl down here waiting to be born. She's somewhere close by in the air, in this house, and she picked me to be born to. And now she has to find some other mother" I don't know if it's trite, or indeed if that is the word to use here, but I can't stop thinking of women I know in their forties and early fifties, who live with a similar ghost.

I've noticed there's a streak of cowardice in me over the years, perhaps cowardice is too extreme a description, but certainly, I have a strong disinclination to get involved in stressful situations with unknown consequences. Yesterday was another example. Twenty or so minutes after leaving St Pancras, the silence of the carriage was ripped apart by a howl of pain. A male's roar of grief. All of us popped up like jack in a boxes and somewhere at the top of the carriage was some broken man, sobbing, and I think possibly being attended to.

It sent that uncomfortable queasy thrill across my body. The feeling I always experience during those awful moments of stress, of over-revving adrenalin. Sweaty tension.

The audible echo of that great gulp of pain ebbed away, but lived a while longer for me. It did for others, I saw a few people shift seats or even leave th carriage all together.

Then, there was another racking howl, some twenty minutes later. A single shout that seemed to break the universe. A deep grief of unknown origin. Followed by a man's long, low sobs. Again, I thought I heard another voice, softer,solicitous, trying to comfort this shattered human.

What broke it and could I have shifted out of my seat the way the young girl did several rows ahead of me to look for one of the crew. I just sat there.

I'm back to the point in my blogging life that I always hate; I'm empty of ideas. All I can celebrate is that today marks ninety days since I last ate a bar of chocolate. A minor miracle.