One day in the early 70s I was walking through the grounds of a mental hospital with my maternal grandfather, Simon.

He had been on the run from the Military Police since 1946. My mother, my two uncles and my aunt all ate well through the conflict.

Simon was a butcher.

We talked about the difference between living with war and growing up in peace. There was really nothing to discuss. The former is simple — you live or you die. Peace is slightly more complicated.

In the end, however, everyone has to eat, and those who eat last die last.