IN Glasgow at the weekend, I watched a couple walk down the busy pavement with a very young girl, aged perhaps three.
She wore multi-coloured wellies, a cute yellow anorak and hair in bunches of curls.
She was loving every second of life, as kids that age do.
She pointed, she laughed, she stretched out her arms for dad to pick her up.
She was so tiny and vulnerable, and so full of promise.
Scores of families in Nice, enjoying exactly the same sort of moments of ordinary togetherness, had their lives smashed last week.
On the promenade, little kids ran along beside their parents, feeling just as safe as the girl in Glasgow – as they should.
Yet their trust – and their lives – were violated in the most horrible way imaginable.
All terror attacks are equally cruel. There is no scale of suffering which makes one worse than another.
Innocent victims deserve empathy whoever they are, wherever they live and however they die.
What is it then about Nice that I find I cannot get out of my head?
Read the rest of my column here.