Since the time just before the end of the war in Japan, when my father parked his Lee Enfield .303 (unloaded) in the corner of the living room, I have never seen a gun other than in the hands of a soldier, or latterly a fully trained armed response policeman, except on the telly.

Dad's gun, incidentally is one of my earliest memories, because the bloody thing fell on my head when I reached out to grab it. I was four at the time, and it probably explains why I have always hated the bloody things.

Facing a burglar, I would be inclined to let him take what he wants. I don't own anything that I would die for, except my family, and them I would kill for gun or no gun.

Don T.