Clissold Park

Its weird and eerie to see the park closed. Empty completely, no jogging, no dog walking, no football games. Police officers are guarding the gates, plastic tape cordoning the crime scene and areas of specific interest. They're sending frogmen into the lake to look for the attack weapon. There's a tent over a particular part of the path where the woman was presumably stabbed. A small group of specialised officers are overseeing the dredging of the drains along the path. A lone man jogs along the pavement outside the park.

The yellow Can You Help signs are asking for witnesses for an attempted murder. The words are chilling. Every once in a while a crime frightens me - partly due to its proximity to home, the area I work in and the familiarity of the scene but also in this case due to its seemingly motiveless nature - you can't protect yourself from this in any way.

I hadn't realised the man who stabbed and murdered the artist jogging in Victoria Park hadn't been caught.

Although Victoria Park and Clissold Park are less than two miles apart it feels much further - the areas are distinctly different, not joined by any direct transport links. Its a trip to Victoria Park from my house and it feels like over there, east, distant. Clissold Park is walking distance.

Its a dark dreary London day - grey and damp. As the bus drives past the railings on the park we pass a place where bunches of flowers have been tied to the railings - some time ago judging by the dead blooms - the symbol, usually, of a traffic accident fatality. Sadness wilting.

As the bus moves on from the park I see the evidence of other crimes - a large plate glass shop window has been smashed to get something out of the display of an antiques shop, the Istanbul barbers' window has a gunshot hole in it. Inside the barbers a man reads the Hurriyet while he waits and the caged parrot looks at himself in the hanging mirror - the parrot used to have a mate and he used to have a beautiful long red tail plumage. I wonder if the RSPCA know about this poor bird.

We live in a dangerous world. On days like today its more like the dark films of New York than I care to remember. We are regularly the victims of terrorist threats and victims of crimes (although I personally, thankfully, to date never have been - my house, yes, my office, yes, but me, no). I often see people shoplifting, stealing from other's bags, fighting, being threatening. I have warned many women of the danger their bags are in, shouted at pick pockets and worried later about any consquences. I don't know if this is because I have my eyes open or its happening more regularly. I'm wary but try not to be afraid.

And finally I think about the woman who was stabbed. Recovering in hospital. But how long will it take her to recover? How many cuts will have to heal, muscles rebuild? What is the impact of such a penetrating crime?

Its nothing like it but it reminds me of the interviews with Monica Seles when she was returning to the tennis circuit after the crazed Stephi Graff fan stabbed her in the back - fear, not wanting to put yourself out there, lacking motivation and desire.

I suspect the mental scars remain forever, along with heightened fear.

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