The Libya war: in pictures

The government is expected to announce that the war has cost £250m. Here are images of the conflict

Above, David Cameron arrives at a press conference on 21 June. He insisted that Britain would continue its Libya operations for "as long as is necessary". Today, the government is expected to announce that the mission has cost £250m.


People gather next to buildings damaged by Nato airstrikes in Tripoli. Nato admitted causing civilian deaths, and blamed this on a "weapons system failure". At least nine people were killed, including two children.


Here, French helicopters land off the coast of Libya following airstrikes. Today's announcement contradicts George Osborne's claim that the war would cost tens, not hundreds, of millions.


A French aircraft carrier off the Libyan coast is pictured from a helicopter. In news reminiscent of the Iraq War, the Financial Times revealed that only 12 UK officials are working on plans for Gaddafi's departure and reconstruction.


Above, Libyans loyal to Gaddafi dance at Tripoli's Mitiga International airport to celebrate 41 years after the United States left Libya on 11 June 1970.


A child poses with a rifle at the same event. These pictures were taken on a guided government tour.


Here, rebel fighters flash the victory sign as they drive towards the frontline from their stronghold of Benghazi.


During Friday noon prayers in Revolution Square, Benghazi, Libyans pray over six bodies recovered from a mass grave. These were allegedly the bodies of people killed by Gaddafi's regime some 20 years ago.


Above, Libyan rebels fire a machine gun at positions held by forces loyal to Gaddafi during fighting in the western mountain region of Qalaa. The opposition has warned that it will run out of funds in less than a week without aid.


This picture shows another building destroyed by Nato warplanes, this t.ime in the Bab Al-Aziziya district of Tripoli where Gaddafi has his base

Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood