In the March edition of New English Review, Theodore Dalrymple recounts his bad luck with trains in the Milton Keynes area of England, the death of an acquaintance in a train derailment, and the still extant pluckiness of the average Brit.

I have twice been on the London underground when someone jumped in front of the train, once when I was travelling on it, and once when I was waiting for it. In these circumstances, humanity divides into two. One half is prurient and tries to get a closer view of what happened, forgetting for a time whatever was the reason for their journey. The other half starts immediately to grumble and complain.