Since I had my heart trouble, I've had to think about a very finite future. You can feel stuff packing up inside. And I may be here next year, or the year after and with real luck ten years.

I've already been a lot luckier than many people. So I've got nothing to bitch about.

But if I'm in this shape after less than 60 years, the prospect of lugging round this carcass for 700 years is a bit daunting. I think you would be glad to make any kind of mistake you're capable of after all that time. I imagine there might be a certain destructive pride in starting another world war - a bit like breaking the label on another bottle of scotch.