It is 22 November 1963. I am 12. I am in our West London bathroom, preparing a bath.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Oh, my God!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d my mother exclaims from the sitting room where she is watching the early evening TV news.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the matter?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I call.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Kennedy\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s been shot.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
It is 22 November 2013. I am 62. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m in a kitchen in Cheltenham in Gloucestershire, stirring kedgeree in a saucepan. Radio 5 Live is broadcasting the lunchtime news. Dr. Robert Grossman is recounting how at first he considered the call to the emergency room to be a hoax. He is describing the fracture, through which he can see the exposed brain under the President\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s skull. Jacqueline is standing by; her dress spattered with brains and blood.<\/p>\n
The little girl looks forward to her descendant not recognising who and what she sees; unaware of so much that is known by her older self.<\/p>\n
Yet, somehow, mysteriously, both are occupying the same time and space, and are linked by knowledge.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It is 22 November 1963. I am 12. I am in our West London bathroom, preparing a bath. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Oh, my God!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d my mother exclaims from the sitting room where she is watching the early evening TV news. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153What\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the matter?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d … Continue reading