I've noticed there's a streak of cowardice in me over the years, perhaps cowardice is too extreme a description, but certainly, I have a strong disinclination to get involved in stressful situations with unknown consequences. Yesterday was another example. Twenty or so minutes after leaving St Pancras, the silence of the carriage was ripped apart by a howl of pain. A male's roar of grief. All of us popped up like jack in a boxes and somewhere at the top of the carriage was some broken man, sobbing, and I think possibly being attended to.

It sent that uncomfortable queasy thrill across my body. The feeling I always experience during those awful moments of stress, of over-revving adrenalin. Sweaty tension.

The audible echo of that great gulp of pain ebbed away, but lived a while longer for me. It did for others, I saw a few people shift seats or even leave th carriage all together.

Then, there was another racking howl, some twenty minutes later. A single shout that seemed to break the universe. A deep grief of unknown origin. Followed by a man's long, low sobs. Again, I thought I heard another voice, softer,solicitous, trying to comfort this shattered human.

What broke it and could I have shifted out of my seat the way the young girl did several rows ahead of me to look for one of the crew. I just sat there.