'I am not surprised; I knew you were here… if you really don’t want to endanger my existence – go your way as soon as possible and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.' 'An habitual criminal is easy to spot. Ask him, "Where were you when President Kennedy was shot?" and he'll say, "I was at home in bed reading a book. I can bring six witnesses to prove it.'" There was a dutiful titter. Perhaps it's the way I tell them, thought Peter Pascoe. He looked at the twenty young faces before him. Children of the 'seventies. Adolescents of the 'eighties. Lawmen of the 'nineties.

God help them. He said gently, 'Who was President Kennedy?' Pause. A lowering of eyes to avoid catching his. Make the question easier.

'What country was he president of?' An uncertain hand crept up.

'America, sir?' 'That's right. Would that be North or South America?'

The irony of superiors is unfair because it forces you to take it literally. He went on quickly before anyone could try an answer, 'What happened to him? Well, I told you that. He got shot. Does anyone know the year?" They probably didn't know this year! No. That was unfair.

He was confusing truth and truism. Everyone remembers what they were doing when Kennedy died. Everyone except a few billion who weren't born; or didn't know of his existence, or didn't give a toss that it was over. Everyone in America, then? Maybe. Probably their kids had the date and data drummed into them with the Pledge of Allegiance. But this lot, why should they be expected to know anything about other people's myths? 'Was it nineteen sixty-three, sir?' 'Yes.