Friday we celebrated a wedding. Kate and William got married and four of us dutifully rose at 5am to claim a spot in Hyde Park. Even if you're not a fan of the monarchy, or weddings, the mass hysteria was hard not to get caught up in. By 8am we were drinking Pimms from paper cups and by the time the ceremony started the bubbles were flowing. There were 'a-ha' moments. The realisation that life is never going to be this amazing again.
Saturday came news of a death.
Peter Moss came into the cafe everyday. A skinny cappuccino, a good book and a laugh with the waitress. He would show me photos of his volunteer stints in Africa and I would constantly kick myself for not asking how his life was so effortlessly cool.
He was in a cafe in Marrakesh when the bomb went off.
It's moments like these when you realise the world is a scary place and that New Zealand is a long, long way away. I want to go home, was my first thought.
A few weeks ago Peter told me he would rather die on a mountain at 50, than in a nursing home at 80.
The irony was not lost on me and his candle burned in the cafe for a week after.
