IT BEGAN just like any other day. Barely an hour later it was ended - like none anyone here in Scotland, or across Britain, had ever feared to witness.
A fresh snow dusted the generous gardens of the large houses surrounding Dunblane Primary School. Parents parked close to the narrow lane leading to the school, bidding fond farewell to their children as they found their pals and classmates.
The raw breeze from the snow topped hills did nothing to quiet the early morning chatter. After morning assembly the excitement in class P1 was palpable, as the 29 five and six year olds were liberated in the school gym.
One moment there was laughter and joy. The next confusion, fear, death - Dunblane, a place few of us had ever heard of, the scene of unprecedented carnage.
At about 9.38 a.m. the police were warned that an armed man had entered the school hall. In just three minutes he had killed 16 of the children and their teacher, Gwenne Mayor, before turning a gun on himself.
As word of the atrocity spread through Dunblane and farther afield, and terrified parents returned fearing the worst, one girl described what happened: "First everything was normal. Then there were eight gun shots. There was noise and the police came and I was frightened."
Fear disfigured the faces of the parents as they queued outside the school, waiting to learn if their children were living or dead. In small groups they were led in to hear the news, while others wept and offered silent prayers.
Vhairi Gardner (25) described her horror and dread through the long, anxious minutes, waiting to discover if her daughter, Emma, was safe:
"It was absolute chaos up there. Some people were hysterical and no one really knew what was going on. I was told to go there and I "had to give my name to the police and then wait quite a while, as they went looking to see if Emma was alive.
"It's just shocking to think what has happened but I'm just glad my daughter came out alive."
Gordon McIntyre had hurried back from work to find that his six year old daughter Jennifer was safe.
"The teachers were doing their best not to upset the children. And I think many of them were just too young to take it in."
Other parents re emerged clutching their children to them, tears of relief streaming as they battled to avoid waiting journalists and escape the unfolding horror.
Tragically, for others there was no escape. Driven away in ambulances, they had to come to terms with their loss and attempt to compose themselves before the horrifying business of identifying the victims.
The emergency services ferried the injured to the Stirling Royal Infirmary. Among the doctors and nurses on duty there tending the sick were more parents of children at Dunblane Primary.
As the world's press descended on Dunblane, parents led their children away, and the earlier frenzy gave way to the organised calm of what the police officially designated "a major incident."
Word of the atrocity swept far and wide. To the Prime Minister, Mr Major, in Egypt. To Queen Elizabeth, and to Westminster, where politics were forgotten as parties united in grief.
The Scottish Secretary and local MP, Mr Michael Forsythe, and his Labour shadow, Mr George Robertson, flew home to be with their people.
At an emotional press conference Mr Forsythe struggled for words appropriate to the horror of it all. Dunblane, he said, was "the last place in the world one would expect such a tragedy to occur.
Beside him, Mr Robertson fought back his tears. His children had attended the school.
He and his family live in the quiet, prosperous, settled, market town. Almost inevitably he would discover in the course of the day that he knew some of the bereaved.
Despairing at "an act of unspeakable brutality and evil," Mr Robertson reflected the national dilemma: "It's just so terrible that those of us who deal with words can find no words for it."
Local priests and ministers echoed the sentiment, reflecting the feeling of powerlessness and hopelessness which gripped the town. The Rev Maxwell Craig described "a community in tears.
And he said: "We don't know what to say. We simply stand, sit, weep beside those who grieve. I think it's really too early for words."
By late afternoon a terrible silence had descended around the cordoned off entrances to the school. Policemen solemnly directed and diverted approaching vehicles, opening the cordon at one point to admit another hearse.
Cameramen moved swiftly to catch footage of youngsters as they occasionally came into view. But they too were silent. Locals who had to go out moved quickly.
The rest came to terms with their sorrow behind closed doors, the vans and satellite dishes on the hill an ugly reminder that the descending night would be like no other they had known.
The Provost of Stirling faced the cameras and reported a flood of messages and offers of support from Belfast and across the country. But she did not have an answer for the questioner: "I don't know how people cope in this situation. They just do."
Back in London, Mr Paddy Ashdown said there would in due course be time for questions about what it all means about the implications for security and safety in schools, about the actions which might reasonably be taken to guard against atrocities such as this. In due course.
Last night there was only time for grieving and for tears.