CRAIGAVON, Northern Ireland - It turns out the sound of a handheld battering ram breaking down a door is a percussive "whump whump" sound like a small cannon being fired over and over. We watch a police unit in Craigavon, Northern Ireland ram through the front door of a house just meters away from the scene where one of their own officers was gunned down in the line of duty.

A woman walks past a wall on Tuesday sprayed with “C IRA still at war” in Craigavon, Northern Ireland.

This is my first time to witness a raid on a house.

We arrived this morning in Craigavon to cover the aftermath of the shooting. The crime scene was cordoned off and police teams were combing the overlooking hillside with dogs sniffing the ground for clues.  Media were already clustered around the mouth of the street where Officer Stephen Carroll was shot in the head. Local politicians were coming and going talking to the press in TV-ready bites: offering condolences, resolving to take action, vowing not to allow the violence to derail the peace process.  

Across the small park, local residents were warily watching this scene with their baby strollers and pet dogs. They muttered amongst themselves. Whenever one of the media tried to approach them they moved quickly away.  

Craigavon is a town of about 80,000 people. It's a fairly even split between Catholic and Protestant residents. During the Troubles, Craigavon experienced the violence and strife of many torn communities in Northern Ireland. But since the peace agreement, it has slowly returned to a relative calm. Catholic and Protestant communities in the town are still quite separate and not exactly friends. But they do live side by side now with reasonable civility.

But this particular estate in Craigavon is known to be sympathetic to the IRA. There have been a series of recent incidents. An unexploded incendiary device went unreported a few days earlier, for example.  Last year, riots broke out and residents hurled petrol bombs and set buses on fire.

Walking among the houses, you can see the remains of graffiti sprawled across exterior walls. "Don't join Sinn Fein. Sell Out" reads one.  A faded "C IRA" is also visible on a bus stop, perhaps a reference to Continuity IRA, the splinter militant group that has claimed responsibility for the attack on Officer Carroll.

I try to approach several residents. But no one wants anything to do with me. Most just laugh and walk away. One woman with her baby snarls "you'll never get a word out of anyone here."  I'm not sure if it's my broad American accent or, in the case of one particularly belligerent woman who did not want to be filmed, the mistaken impression that I'm a BBC reporter. Or maybe it's just a general - and understandable - suspicion of the media. A few curious boys in school uniform ask where we're from. I tell them but they shrug their shoulders. No one seems to have heard of CNN.

Over the course of the day, we see a few house raids. Ironically, we are tipped off by one local resident who had refused to even look at me before. The raid begins with breaking the door down and then a forensics team in pristine white jumpsuits comb through the house with lights and plastic bags.  They are always flanked by police in bullet-proof vests cradling their rifles.

Amid the house raids, there are arrests. A 17-year old teenager and a 37-year old man. Both taken into custody a stone's throw away from the crime scene.

But what I find so strange is the reaction of the residents. They come out of their homes to view the proceedings as if it were the most normal thing. At one home - crawling with enough white jumpsuits to look like a scene from a sci-fi film - the neighbors bring out their coffee mugs and languidly smoke cigarettes as they watch the police move wordlessly in and out of the house next door.

Then a woman walks calmly up to the house and plops down two shopping bags in the yard. She has a quick word with police before being let in. Since none of the neighbors will speak to us, I think she may be one of the residents of the house, but I'm not sure. She seems almost resigned to the police presence in what I assume is her home.

I ask our driver, a Belfast local: "Doesn't this seem surreal to you? The normalcy of this scene, I mean. No one seems at all surprised."

But his answer does surprise me.

"Yes, it is a little surreal." He says mildly, "Not so long ago, they would have rioted if the police kicked their doors in like that. They're taking it very well."

And it's true. Clearly, no one here is happy with the police in their neighborhood breaking down doors. But no one is violently protesting it, either. Not yet. Even though IRA sympathies are strong in this neighborhood, splinter militant groups like Continuity IRA or Real IRA do not have widespread support in Northern Ireland.

The fact that Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA, is condemning the killings and urging people from the community to come forward to police with any information is a real mark of how far the peace process has come. Such unity from across Northern Ireland's severely fractured political spectrum would have been unheard of a few years ago. Especially if it involved the death of a police officer.

And that may be the question many residents in Craigavon are asking themselves – though they won't discuss it with me: Whatever their personal political views, does anyone here really want a return to the Troubles again?

HATFIELD HEATH, England - The arched entrance of Down Hall in Hatfield Heath is as far as we get to Jade Goody's wedding. Security in yellow jackets has made it clear we won't get any closer. So, we park the car and jump into the media scrum. There's a crowd of about 50 people huddled around the gate, mostly media brandishing microphones and video cameras, tripods and zoom lenses. One of the neighboring houses has pinned up a makeshift billboard with a big arrow pointing "Media Circus."

The couple's publicist Max Clifford, center, tells waiting media that the couple have married.

Among the crowd are a few Jade Goody fans and some curious locals. One family decided to take their three chocolate Labradors out for a walk and watch the media watching Jade Goody's guests arrive. Claire Taylor is there with her mother and 3-year old daughter. She's been a fan since Jade Goody first starred on reality TV show "Big Brother."

"She's such a big character. And she's made such an impact on people whether it's been on the telly or being a mum. I think we all understand where she's coming from. I'm a mum. So, I know how important her boys are to her and the whole situation she's going through."

Doctors have told Goody she has terminal cancer with just weeks to live. Rather than retreating into privacy, Goody has embraced the spotlight even as her body shows the ravages of cancer. She has lost her hair from chemotherapy and is rapidly losing weight. Cameras have followed her from hospital to wedding planning.

The spectacle of a reality TV star living out her final weeks in front of the cameras might strike some as bizarre. But it seems perfectly acceptable to many Britons. The tabloids are filled with news of her "secret vows" to her young sons before her death.

Goody has publicly stated that she intends to make the most of the media attention to earn money for her young sons. She sold the exclusive media rights to her wedding for an estimated $1.5 million. Her publicist says the money will be used to secure her children's future.

Goody fan Taylor approves: "She is a single mum with two children and she wants better for her children. I'm a mum and I want better for my kids than what we had. Good luck to her. If she can make as much money as she possibly can then good luck to her."

BRATISLAVA, Slovakia — Arriving in Bratislava on a cold winter’s morning, it’s hard to tell that the country is in a state of emergency about its gas supplies.

The soviet-era apartment blocks still get heating from large, communal boilers. People walk the streets unconcerned. No-one seems to be stockpiling electric heaters or wood-fired stoves.

“It doesn’t really affect me,” said one school teacher. “My school still gets heat. The kids are fine. If they start cutting the heat to my classes, then I’ll start to worry.”

The only sign of crisis is the shuttered factories. Slovakia is suspending hundreds of factories to make sure homes are heated instead. Car production centers like Peugeot and Kia stand idle.

With its gas reserves quickly depleting, Slovakia is negotiating a delicate balancing act. Rationing what’s left of their gas reserves on the one hand, desperately trying to secure alternative supplies on the other.

As a last resort, Slovakia has its own nuclear power. The reactors at the soviet-era Jaslovske Bohunice plant were shut down as one of the conditions for Slovakia’s entry into the European Union. But government officials have threatened to turn them back on, if an immediate solution isn’t found.

Amazingly, almost everyone we talk to about the problem seems quite nonchalant. And, in a way, they’ve been dealing with this problem for years. Russia vs. Ukraine is becoming an annual grudge match every winter.

Former soviet-states like Slovakia, still remember the days when Russia was a domineering presence in every aspect of life. So, Russian demands aren’t exactly news to Slovaks.

Some here complain that Ukraine bears just as much responsibility this time around. “They’re thinking only of themselves” sniffed one woman waiting for a bus on a frozen village street.

And there is also some frustration with the EU. Slovakia is one of the newest nations to join. In fact, the country just switched in January to exclusive use of the euro currency. Many we spoke to are happy to be in the EU, but they also wonder aloud what kind of leverage the EU really has when it comes to Russia.

On the snowy streets of Bratislava, it seems many are simply resigned to the fact that when Russia bickers with its neighbors, smaller countries like Slovakia will suffer the consequences.

I have to say, I thought it would be a lot harder to find a modern-day practicing witch in London.

But all it took was a google search, a phone call and a 5 minute walk from the office to find Christina Oakley Harrington. She is a practicing Wiccan – a believer in pagan rituals and modern witchcraft.

Her bookstore, Treadwell's, is a warm and homey place tucked into a small street in London's Covent Carden. There are little vials and packets of herbs, multi-colored candles and the odd 19th century mixing bowl and engraved Celtic sword. And lots and lots of books. Spellbooks, Grimoires, tomes on Jewish Mysticism, the Occult, Alchemy, you name it.

My cameraman thumbs through a book of voodoo and finds a step-by-step guide to silencing that annoying guy on the bus who thinks the whole world wants to hear his phone conversation. Pins in a wax doll's ears will do it, apparently.

It turns out Christina is a really nice witch. She happily agrees to an interview and tolerates my faltering questions about what a Wiccan does exactly.

Answer: Folkloric nature worship and the occasional mixing of herbs and casting of spells – for good causes only, of course. And she doesn't seem the least bit offended when I ask if she can twitch her nose like Samantha on Bewitched.

Since she's also an academic expert in medieval witchcraft, we talk about a new petition submitted to the British Ministry of Justice demanding a pardon for the hundreds killed for practicing witchcraft between the 16th and 18th centuries. An estimated 40,000 witches were executed across Europe.

What makes the petition puzzling is that it's being submitted by Angel's Fancy Dress Shop in downtown London. Angel's claims to be the largest costumer in the world and has an Oscar statuette for extra credit. It sells about 9,000 witch costumes a year.

But this Halloween, Angel,s has decided to rehabilitate the image of the witch at www.pardonthewitches.com.

They are urging customers to sign the petition and demand a royal pardon for accused witches.

Outside the Angel's Fancy Dress shop there are about 100 people queuing to get inside and buy costumes. Which I find astonishing in itself. But nobody seems to have an idea about medieval witches. Nobody cares, either. They just want to get a funny, frightening, sexy outfit to go out and party with this Friday Halloween night.

Fair enough.

We called the Ministry of Justice. But they didn't seem impressed. "We don't comment on individual cases," was the stiff reply from the press office.

"Frankly, I don't think a petition brought to the government by a fancy dress shop on Halloween stands any chance of being accepted," says Harrington.

Hmm. Publicity stunt, maybe? Not even a little magical spell casting is likely to get this petition approved.

The up side is I have now made the acquaintance of a really lovely witch and learned a little about pagan religions. And I've got a handy Voodoo guide for dealing with the next editor who assigns me a story like this on Halloween.

LONDON, England - Eighteen months ago, Daniel James was paralyzed from the chest down in a rugby training accident.  After living for more than a year with his disability, James made repeated appeals to his family to end his life.  Last month, his family consented to bring him to a clinic for assisted suicide in Switzerland.  He died on September 12.

Daniel James, who played rugby for England under-16s, was paralyzed during match practice last year.

Committing suicide is not against British law.  But assisting a suicide is punishable by up to 14 years in prison.  When James' parents returned to England they were investigated by British police. There has been no decision about whether to prosecute yet.

Understandably, the James family does not wish to speak to the press.  They reached a painful and heartbreaking decision only to endure a police investigation.  Media attention is probably the last thing they want.  

So, in order to cover this story, we decided to interview several other people who could help us understand how and why Daniel James took his own life. 

First, we spoke to Debbie Purdy.  She is suffering from multiple sclerosis, cared for by her musician husband Omar Puente.  She is fighting in British court for the right to commit suicide with the help of her husband.

We drove several hours to reach Debbie and Omar at their home in northern England.  On the trip we talked about how we would approach the interview.  How could we discuss death and suicide as sensitively as possible?

I think we were apprehensive, at first, unsure of what to expect.  But as soon as Debbie opened the door we realized we should not have worried.

Debbie has a million watt smile and Omar has a booming laugh to match it.  They are a contagiously happy couple. 

Debbie explained that she did not want to die now.  But, in the event that her disease becomes so unbearable and intolerable, she does want to make plans for an assisted suicide with the help of her husband.  And she doesn't want him to go to jail for helping her. 

"I started using an electric wheelchair in February this year. Ten years ago, I was walking with a stick," she says.  "My independence won't be there for very long and I'm not prepared for him to face jail like the James family is doing at the moment."

Throughout the interview, Debbie holds Omar's hand. He helps her when her hands shake and she is unable to hold a glass of water.  She stumbles repeatedly over the word "deteriorating condition" and he listens to her patiently. 

Interestingly, Omar makes a point of saying there are some good things about her worsening condition.  Now that she needs to use an electric wheelchair to propel herself, Omar can walk next to her and hold her hand.  Also, he says, she doesn't have to crane her neck anymore to look behind and talk to her husband as he pushes her wheelchair.   It's the little things, he laughs.  And death is not something they dwell on.

"It's not a thing that you talk about every day", he says.  "At the beginning there was confusion.  But we talked and the bottom line is this is Debbie's decision.  It's Debbie.  Debbie is here in this wheelchair.  It's Debbie's decision and I'm with her."

We also interviewed Matt Hampson, a 23-year old former rugby player.  He suffered the same catastrophic injury that Daniel James did in rugby training: a dislocated spine that paralyzed him from the neck down. 

But unlike Daniel James, Matt has not only accepted his disability, he has embraced his new life.

"You know your life is different now. It's not over, it's different. And it's not any worse.  Some ways it's better," he explains.  

Matt needs 24-hour care.  He breathes through a ventilator and moves about using a wheelchair steered with his chin. 

Yet, Matt has a packed schedule of activities.  He writes a rugby commentary, interviewing over the phone.  He runs a rugby website dedicated - not just to the sport - but to his Special Effects charity for children with similar injuries.  And that's when he's not building his new house, writing his autobiography or coaching the local Rugby team.   

It's not easy.  Matt says he has plenty of gloomy days but they don't last. 

"I'm quite lucky because I'm not the sharpest tool in the box," he jokes, "Basically, I don't think about things too much.  I don't read into things.  I just try, I just try to look at life in a simplistic view and go out and do my own thing and not think about what people think and just get on with it really."

He tried to share that message with Daniel James before he died.  Matt refuses to pass judgment on the James family's decision. 

"At the end of the day, it was his decision."  Matt says, "Who am I to judge what he did?"

 We left both interviews feeling strangely uplifted.  The interviews were frank and funny even as we talked about pain and suffering.   In fact, what strikes me most about the interviews is not just how extraordinary Debbie, Omar and Matt are but how they manage to talk about their difficult lives with such grace and ease.  It felt like having a friendly chat over a cup of tea.  A reminder that sometimes just talking about the possibility of death is a good way to appreciate life.

Watch my report

GENEVA, Switzerland - There was a hushed silence in the media hall as reporters stared up at the screen projecting live images of the control room at CERN.

The experiment will look at how the universe formed by analyzing particle collisions.

Lyn Evans, CERN's director urged us to concentrate our attention on one particular flickering gray computer screen.

He began the countdown. Five.. four... three... two... one.. zero. And then... nothing.

Well, at least nothing my eyes could see. But the scientists in the control room erupted into cheers and applause. Lots of congratulations all around.

So, clearly something had happened. I looked around.

"Uh, sorry, did I miss something?" I asked someone next to me.

He shrugged. "Me too. I didn't see it."

A kindly man behind me said: "If you blinked, you probably missed it. It's that little pulse of light there." He pointed up at the instant replay now on the screen.

"Oh," I said, feeling quite foolish and a little underwhelmed. "That's it?"

"That's it." He smiled back.

What did I expect? Zooming lasers? Firework-like collisions?

I mean, these are sub-atomic particles we're talking about. I should be happy to see anything at all!

Still, it left me with a problem: How to explain the significance, the historic significance, of this massive, $10 billion machine when I can't even see a flash of light to prove it's working?

I'll just have to take the word of scientists.