When I was a boy I fancied myself like an old warrior retired to a farm, when the villagers were suddenly attacked. They came to me (in my imagination) and begged me to rescue them from the pillaging. I would say, ‘being pillaged is what you have always done. I am an old warrior. Leave me to my tomatoes.’

Then, of course, the pillagers would cross a line – harm a child; threaten the husband of the woman who would have loved me hadn’t I been a warrior (I was young). I would put aside my old warrior gardening tools and take up my sword again.

All the old warriors have gone.

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