Your team Juventus loses 4-1 in the Champions League final in Cardiff against Real Madrid. An awful match really, you think – you hate Ronaldo – as you walk down London Bridge at 9:45 on a Saturday night. It’s so pretty that you stop for a photo. After eight years in this city, you still want to take pictures on London Bridge. It is 21:54 when you take the picture.

You get to Boro Bistro, a cute place with tables outdoors just underneath the bridge, in Borough Market. It’s a warm night, even though it’s just rained a bit. You sit down and complain with your friends, who are pro-Juventus too of course, but come on, you all agree, they truly played badly. Let’s order whisky. You need something strong to drink after this utter failure. It’s 22:01.

Then, choosing between a Jameson or a Lagavulin, you hear a bang. There is a canopy, like a tent, above your head, and a bike and a body bounces off it, the bike splitting in two, pieces of it scattering everywhere. A car has hit the bridge, and you sort of see what happens but mainly you can’t. You grab your coat and your bag. People around you start moving quickly, you see someone coming towards the bar area, his white shirt half red with blood, holding his neck with his hands. Did someone slash his throat? Then someone appears with a knife, chasing after him, chasing after whoever. You learn afterwards that this was about 22:08.

Then the insanity, people jumping on and off tables and chairs, yelling, screaming, get down in the restaurant basement, close the doors, it’s so hot in here, no data service, and what the fuck happened anyway? A woman cries and cannot stop – you look at her and realise you are so very calm, you cannot believe how calm you are. You just hope they don’t use the “terror” word yet, because you don’t have any signal and your family would be worried sick. There is loud music coming from outside. Was that a gunshot?

After an hour or so in the basement, some people make jokes about stealing some wine; others have lucid eyes; others cry. No one knows why we are being kept here: was that a car crash? And what about the stabbing? Are the two things connected? You just hope they don’t call it terrorism, you hope it is not terrorism. But really you know it is anyway, this new type of terrorism we have here, who are you fooling? You are just worried that if someone says the word, people will panic even more, and in here it is so hot and closed, panic wouldn’t be good at all. The criminologist in you remembers that terrorism is theatre. No one can handle that theatre right now.

They let you all out, police leading the way. The bar looks apocalyptic, the glass doors completely shattered, tables upside down, plates and glasses on the floor. Watch your step, if you can. You go outside. You see three corpses, covered with blankets. You see people in tears, some injured, while you are asked to move along, to abandon the scene as soon as possible. You are angry at whoever perpetrated this act, for whatever inconceivable reason, and whoever else might still be engaging in extremist acts. And, as a criminologist, you are also mad at Theresa May and her policies when she was home secretary – a prevention strategy that seemed to demonise Muslim communities while increasing surveillance money and cutting police funding. Your mind goes to the election, and how this could spin dangerously out of control.

Then you walk among the other zombie-like people. You check your phone, you answer concerned messages. You are safe, of course, thanks, you say – you don’t know what happened. You just want to go home. Not in two hours. Now. You just want your bed.

But you stop for a whisky with your friends first. You cannot even talk. You all look at phones, updating Twitter to follow the news. The pub you end up at feels surreal – Lady Gaga is playing and there’s a hen party with crazy people dancing and having fun. You float out of your body.

You take the train home, alone. You cry. Finally. You realise … if the Juventus match had gone on to extra time you would have been on the bridge at the exact moment of the attack, 22:08. If they had given you a more exposed table at the bistro, you wouldn’t have been under the white canopy and things would have fallen directly on you – the body that flew off the canopy could have hit you. Or you could have been more exposed to one of the attackers. You learn that there were three of them, and that seven people died.

You feel lucky. And angry.

You spend the night in a state that feels like a half-awake coma – staring at the ceiling for about two hours when you get home. People call you, text, there are some truly wonderful messages. You feel lucky again.

But when you wake up you are still angry too. You have such a special relationship with Borough Market, with this difficult city in general. You think again that you are lucky, that people in the area have died, or been injured or probably saw much worse than you did. Lucky you. Really.

You are almost 32, and you have experienced a terror attack. You knew what to do: hide, run, tell, right? You cannot believe you are 32 and you know that when you hear a bang and commotion on London Bridge past 10pm on a Saturday night you are instantly prepared for a terror attack.

You mark yourself safe on Facebook, of course, as if you were really safe, whatever the hell safe means anyway. Sure, you won’t be cowed. You will resume your life. You cannot give in to fear, as if it mattered really, whether you are scared or not. You cannot unsee what you saw.