A train passed a red signal, and now bodies are being pulled from twisted metal. The British government, predictably, has ordered a 'safety review'. How wonderfully bureaucratic.
How utterly Roman. The empire builds its roads and rails, then watches them rot from complacency. The Victorians would weep.
They understood that a railway is a nation's nervous system. A signal failure is not a technical glitch. It is a symptom of decay.
The driver, the signaller, the regulator—they all swim in a sea of cost-cutting and managerial jargon. We worship efficiency until it kills us. Then we commission a report.
The report will blame human error. The report will demand better training. The report will gather dust.
Meanwhile, the trains run late, the tracks buckle, and the signals blink red. But the real signal was passed long ago. It was the moment we decided that safety was a line item, not a sacrament.
Britain, you have a choice. You can repair the rails or you can keep polishing the brass on a sinking ship. The choice is yours.
The train is coming. And the signal is red.
