British phlegm

Tunku Varadarajan was pleased to hear that his friends in London maintained their British unflappability in the face of yesterday's attacks.

My friend Q.'s response to my note yesterday was a very British jewel: "Yes, tin helmet firmly affixed on bean, sandbags at the door, sticky tape on the windows, but the kettle is on and we'll soon have steaming mugs of sweet tea to hand. Don't panic!"

Q. was chiding me for my note--and I took that as proof of absolute well-being. In his words we find a self-deprecating pride, a gentle mocking of the "Mrs. Miniver" approach that got Britons through the Blitz--and, by golly, was going to see them through this brush with Islamist lunatics.

P., an old sage who has lived in London all his life (except for a brief stint in ghastly Glasgow with his regiment after the war), had this to say about his morning trip into the office: "I'm OK, but am a bit shattered, old boy. It's a hairy thing, walking to work at my age. At Bond Street [tube station] someone went around shouting 'Everybody out. Emergency reported.' Thousands stagger out. Bus queues horrendous. I get in line. Swear. Looked around for a taxi. I must be joking. So hoofed it. Still puffing. How to get home, Zeus knows!"

You gotta love those reactions.