Good day, old chap.
Everything I think I know about England, I learned from books. From Dickens, and Hodgson-Burnett, and Jeeves, and Peter Wimsey, Georgette Heyer, of course, and a bit from Rosamunde Pilcher, as well, but mostly from Agatha Christie.
When I close my eyes and think of England, I imagine a place of stately country homes. Ladies dressing for dinner, in elegant gowns, holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.
Stiff upper lip, bloody this and quite that.
A place where a colonel in full dress uniform might find a dead body in the drawing room and remark to the corpse, "bloody hell, old chap, bad form going off before the drinks course, you know." And then calmly ring up Scotland Yard and become quite irritated at the prospect that his guests - very important officials with Whitehall - might be terribly, terribly inconvenienced by the prospect of a police investigation. It just isn't done, for people like him.
Does this England exist? Did it ever