It's called a hard out, that little thing I'd do just before you listen to the 10 o'clock news.

You can tell by the sort of rising pace of the music in the background.

If I haven't got my words out in time or if I'm sort of mid-sentence,

there's nothing anyone can do to postpone the crescendo. And that it is a hard out. And twice this week I fluffed it,

which I suppose I should probably apologise for, but I would also point out that I don't think

you could really, I don't think you'd need your second hand. I don't think you'd need two hands

to count the number of times.

I've completely fluffed it in the course of 20 years.

And this is significant because it shows two things.

It shows how carefully I am choosing my words at the moment.

And it also shows how fallible we are, or I am, to getting

things wrong. And the reason I stopped myself there, just if you noticed, you probably didn't,

but trust me, I, well, someone did, I heard those hands hit the desk, James. That was a mixture

of frustration and dismay, Because I was about to say,

I feel equally sorry for all the dead people, or all the dead families, which wouldn't make

sense. Can you feel sorry for someone who's already dead? Of course you can't. So I just got into a bit of a

mess. But of course, the notion of conflation or equation is one that's been stalking us all week,

conflating everyone in Palestine.

Do you know, half of the humans in the Gaza Strip are children?

The population spread is probably unique in the world.

Half of them are children.

So conflating everybody in the Gaza Strip with the monsters of Hamas is, I mean, just,

...