I’d seen chaps killed before, of course: Tuppy Horton was the first; accidentally garroted by his own braces, whilst playing ‘Cowboys and Indians’ back in 1922. There had been raw terror in poor old Tuppy’s bulging, bloodshot eyes as he dangled by his neck from that apple tree, while the rest of us just stood and gawped. Then there was Stiffy Plantagenet; who was knocked down on the tennis court at his home, by a motor car driven (in reverse) by his inebriated Aunt Agatha – I seem to remember that Plantagenet was absent from school for quite some time before it was announced by the Headmaster that old Stiffy had finally shuffled-off his bucket, kicked his clogs, and popped his mortal coil.

I have just remembered another one, too: Benjamin Alistair Drayton, who drowned in Tatlock Pond (whilst I warmed my palms on his sister Millicent’s bare breasts in a nearby thicket). I didn’t actually see him drown, of course (having, as I did, my hands rather full at the time), but I watched Mr Mulgrew and Constable Pinchworthy fish Drayton’s lifeless, floppy corpse from the stagnant water afterwards.

This was the first time that I’d seen a chap killed so horribly though; a shell had exploded nearby and shrapnel had completely smashed Simpson’s face in; his belly was torn wide-open, and his wet, shiny innards spilled out onto the brown earth. (Needless to say, he did not live for long.) I paused for a moment, drew a deep breath, and then vomited so hard that my backside trumpeted loudly. (“Pffrrrt!”)