Sometimes, just for the quiet pleasure it affords me of an evening, I like to pretend I'm Geoffrey Robertson. Imagining myself in a well-tailored pinstripe three-piece that I wouldn't be able to afford without giving up eating for the next year or so, I stalk up and down the living room, elongating my vowels and posing tricksy hypothetical questions to the furniture.
If your cruise ship were sinking, and you had room in the lifeboat for either a basket of doe-eyed kittens or the limbo contest co-ordinator, but not both, who gets saved?
If you could travel back in time and warn Joseph and Mary that they needed to teach their son not to get all up in the faces of the Romans and Pharisees, would you?
As a world famous cardiologist, would you save the life of a cholesterol-choked murderer, or would you seize the opportunity to devour his delicious, still-beating heart in order to gain his strength?
Bollocks of that sort.
Thus far, the furniture has proved rather less than apt at analysing the pros and cons of these ethical conundrums, as has the cat, who finds licking his own arse to be more interesting than considering moral dilemmas. As my social circle has become otherwise limited thanks to the terms of my house arrest, I needs must therefore turn to you, oh agile-minded readers, to appease my G. Robertson QC fantasies, and explore this ethical poser in three parts, inspired by my recent encounter with a rather flustered elderly gentleman on the Saturday morning train. Riddle me this:
Q1. If you are on public transport, and find yourself 'caught short', is it necessary to announce this fact loudly to your fellow commuters?
Q2. If you are, in your own words, "busting to piss", should you accept reasoned advice to alight at the next station, or should you with every sign of happiness cave to the encouragement of a group of hardened bogans, and micturate down the middle of the aisle?
Q3. In the process of freeing your genitalia from the confines of your ill-fitting trousers, and while you shout, "I'm going to piss now!", you spot a pair of women a little way down the carriage who appear sympathetic to your plight but rather revolted. You freeze, quivering, with your dick half out of your pants. If you have already decided that the best of all possible solutions to your regrettable situation is to relieve your unfortunately crowded bladder on public transport, in a packed carriage, while supplying the process with stentorian commentary - if you are already enthusiatically committed to this ethically and hygienically questionable course of action, should you still feel dismayed at the prospect of peeing in front of a member of the opposite sex?
Send me your thoughts on this Gordian issue, post haste.