Even when there aren’t any explosions going on, when you’re scanning a distant compound with your sniper rifle, trying to decide which soldier would be the best one to kill first, before every enemy in a two-mile radius deduces your exact position like a vodka-drinking sextant, everything from a certain distance disappears into this weird glowing haze, like the Russians are occupying the surface of Mercury — which is beyond even the most liberal interpretation of lebensraum.

“Ooch, mama; ooch, mama; ooch, mama; I promise not to do this anymore!” “I know you won't, believe me; you won't!” “Ooch, mama; ooch, mama; ooch, mama; you are killing me!”

The provision of sanding-gear on brake vans operating over such lines should be compulsory (this old Highland brake was not so fitted); ….

As narrow and close as a coffin, and dark as H E double L.