I knelt by my bed as I heard the news.

They said eighteen dead at the Ariana Grande concert; now it’s 22. Including an eight year-old. A 16-year-old. Others still missing.

Another terror attack in Britain. A terror attack on our youngest girls, excited, thrilled, filled up by life after watching Ariana Grande perform.

A police officer hugs a young girl outside the Manchester Arena, where a devastating terror attack took place last night

Armed police at a block of flats in Manchester today, as the city reels from last night's attack

'I knelt by my bed as I heard the news. They said eighteen dead at the Ariana Grande concert; now it’s 22. Including an eight year-old. A 16-year-old. Others still missing'

Cut down by ball-bearings from a home-made bomb as they piled out into the street with their mums, their friends, their futures ahead of them.

The worst kind of death. The most savage of attacks.

I wanted to vomit. Crouching at the end of my bed, I wanted to be physically sick, knowing what this would mean for today.

It would mean the eunuch politicians peddling their narrative that we will carry on as normal, that we stand united. Trying to find some hope to hang on to.

Victims eight-year-old Saffie Roussos and 18-year-old Georgina Callander, who is pictured with the concert's star, Ariana Granda

'Another terror attack in Britain. A terror attack on our youngest girls, excited, thrilled, filled up by life after watching Ariana Grande perform'

It would mean Andy Burnham, the new mayor of Greater Manchester, right there to tell us it would be business as usual in Manchester.

I want to scream at him. Business as usual? BUSINESS AS USUAL?

Tell that to the mother of 16-year-old Georgina Callander. Someone slaughtered her most special thing, the tiny baby she carried, birthed, equipped with all the things she could protect her from the world with, smiling at her loveliness as she became a young woman.

And you say it is business as usual? The dead never get to carry on as normal.

This is not usual, Andy. This is not 'part and parcel' of city life, Sadiq.

This country is not usual. It is absurd. Disgusting. Forlorn. Broken.

And we will have a full day of this, this standard response to terror. A narrative so drilled into the minds of the terrified that they cling on to it for fear of drowning in the horror. Like a bit of flotsam in the sea long after the boat has sunk, and all you feel is numb.

'Cut down by ball-bearings from a home-made bomb as they piled out into the street with their mums, their friends, their futures ahead of them'

'We stand united. We are not broken. We are strong.'

'We stand united. We are not broken. We are strong.'

Repeated like a mantra.

The new Lord's Prayer of a terrorised generation.

Saying it over and over, faster and faster as the sharks circle and it becomes clear that hope is fading fast. That this could be the end. If not this time, then the next one. Or the one after that.

'I wanted to vomit. Crouching at the end of my bed, I wanted to be physically sick, knowing what this would mean for today'

Next time could be my daughter, my child.

After the Westminster terror attack on March 26 I said we were cowed. That we were like ants, carrying on as normal, waiting for the next footstep to fall.

And today I see this to be true. Ants, squashed by a car, hewn in half by a truck, bounced off the bonnet of a 4x4, punctured by ballbearings and shrapnel from a hardware store.

And the only thing we ants can do is act busy. Whip ourselves up into a frenzy of activity. Move this way and that. Scurry about carrying things. Film ourselves walking to work. Make posters about 'having a cup of tea', get cross about what is said on twitter.

'After the Westminster terror attack on 26 March I said we were cowed. That we were like ants, carrying on as normal, waiting for the next footstep to fall'

We celebrate the first responders, as we should. The bravery of the people there to save us. And anyone else who joined the battle to save our souls. The kindness of the taxi drivers. The staff of the arena. The people of Manchester who opened their doors to offer whatever they had.

These people are angels amongst us. Holding, helping, healing.

A homeless gentleman hugged a woman as she died in his arms, there so she did not die alone.

But no, Andy Burnham, they are not yours to use. Not extras in your charade of defiance.

'We celebrate the first responders, as we should. The bravery of the people there to save us. And anyone else who joined the battle to save our souls. The kindness of the taxi drivers. The staff of the arena'

Do not use these acts of kindness to support your false narrative that this is us standing up to terror.

The people helping are reacting instinctively. Battling against blood and death.

They are not standing up to terror. They are not showing we are strong. They are trying to scoop up the handfuls of flesh that is weak and stop it bleeding.

They are being decent humans. They should be applauded. Rewarded. Not manipulated by impotent politicians into standing as a perverse symbol of how terror will never beat us.

'Do not use these acts of kindness to support your false narrative that this is us standing up to terror'

Because it is beating us. It is grinding us down. We are worn down by it all.

Some think my divisive talk should be outlawed, should be illegal, because 'it's what the terrorists want'.

People have rung my bosses on the radio demanding I am sacked for my tweets because my divisiveness is what ISIS wants.

These people have bought the narrative, hook, line and sinker.

They are channeling their impotence and anger at me.

'The people helping are reacting instinctively. Battling against blood and death. They are not standing up to terror. They are not showing we are strong. They are trying to scoop up the handfuls of flesh that is weak and stop it bleeding'

In truth, the terrorists couldn't give a stuff what I tweet or write or say. They couldn't care less if we stand divided or pretend to be united.

If anything, united in one place, we are an easier target.

The terrorists want us dead. They want the infidel to be slaughtered. And they spread their message most effectively by targeting our children, our little girls.

Try and deny you don't feel a change in the mood of our country. Try and deny you don't feel we are a little bit less.

Tell me you don't feel like you've taken a battering, made it to the twelfth then someone punched you square in the stomach, drawing the air from you in one long ooof.

'The terrorists want us dead. They want the infidel to be slaughtered. And they spread their message most effectively by targeting our children, our little girls'

Do you find yourself looking around for comfort in the small things — the Chelsea flowers, pictures of cute cats, a phone call to your mum, an extra big hug for your daughter, another text to your son to check he is safe? I have rung my husband twice today just to listen to him speak.

I heard a lady on the radio wanting to share, to hold on to something, to grab onto the piece of flotsam that keeps us all afloat. She said her 16-year-old daughter stopped her to ask where she was working today. Wanting to know if she would be safe.

You see, it's not the acts of walking over a bridge, or getting on a train, or going to work on the underground that are the truths of how we feel.

It’s the fear in the margins, the double-checking, the anxious wait for someone to be home. The moment between hearing there is a bomb, and knowing your child is safe in another city, another place.

'This country is sick. It is calling out for a doctor. We need to know what will cure us. What action do we take? What do we do? How can we stop the hurt? I look back to the missing persons and see little Saffie Roussos, smiling aged eight, now confirmed dead. And I wonder if we are too sick to be saved'

When the only option is to carry on as normal, what the hell else are we going to do?

Carrying on as normal is not defiance. Or strength. It is the default.

When someone dies in our family, we carry on as before because the alternative is to lie down under our duvet and hope the world goes away.

And sometimes we even try that for a bit, too.

But in the end, reluctantly, we default and carry on as normal. This does not make us strong. Or united. It makes us desperate to feel better.

This country is sick. It is calling out for a doctor. We need to know what will cure us. What action do we take? What do we do? How can we stop the hurt?

I look back to the missing persons and see little Saffie Roussos, smiling aged eight, now confirmed dead.

And I wonder if we are too sick to be saved.