You don’t actually know enough about me to insult me properly. — Ben Aaronovitch

“I want assurances,” said Zach.

“You can have my word,” I said.

“No disrespect, Peter,” he said, “but I don’t want a promise from the monkey, I want it from the organ grinder.”

“It’s one of those paradox thingies,” I said. “What happens when the unstoppable cook meets the unfillable stomach?”

Was it better to die in the illusion of sunshine and warmth or face death in a cold darkness of reality? Was it better to die in happy ignorance or terrified knowledge? The answer, if you’re a Londoner, is that it’s better not to die at all.