I told you to put that machete down, put it away, hide it from yourself. I knew nothing good would come out of this . . . this mess. Well, it wasn’t so much of a mess until you started waving that machete around. Then it was first my left arm and then my right. The blood flow was deeply offensive and somewhat shocking. I say somewhat because I must have switched into movie mode so everything seemed to be happening to some other poor bastard. So, anyway, I stood there like some advert for blood transfusions or the brilliance of blood as a fertiliser, my legs beginning to feel distinctly wobbly. And I said to you, my voice sounding even to me rather indistinct, could we talk about this? Then I sort of realised that the question was a bit on the late side of things, that things were already sliding dangerously out of control. But you seemed to be enthusiastically hacking at the next poor bastard standing helplessly in line for your ministering care with the machete.
