They took us to see The Greatest Story Ever Told when I was at primary school. We all knew the story, that Jesus gets killed in the end, but like all stories, knowing the end doesn’t mean you don’t hope it to be different this time. He still gets killed, but I could see lots of times when he could have escaped, or said what the very reasonable bald man wanted him to say and gone home to his mum, but he didn’t. Why not? The answer was never clear. To save us. Who? I wasn’t even born. And from what? The Romans? If it was to wash away our sins, why do I have to go through the terror and ignominy of confession every few weeks?

Sympathy fades quickly for someone who persists on a path of self-destruction. Like Mrs Roper’s husband and the drink.

hare lures the fox