Last night, I woke up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of my phone ringing. It was my drunk brother who was locked out of the house. I went downstairs, opened the door, sent him to his bedroom with a paracetomol and cup of tea and that was me, Mother Teresa, wide awake at four in the morning. Cheers bro. I sat myself at the kitchen table, got my phone out from my dressing gown pocket and scrolled down my facebook feed. The first thing I saw was that one of my friends had declared themselves safe during another attack in London. Jesus Christ, not again. A massive gush of guilt entered my chest for just moments ago being angry at my intoxicated brother for waking me up at a ridiculous time. At least he returned home safe. At least I got to see his face again and hear his voice (even if it was slightly slurred from too much Jäger).