19...

...is not an easy age. Technically an adult, but not in truth really grown up.

My own nineteen was not a bad time: cosily ensconced in University, a recently de-flowered virgin, pep full of life and a terrible sense of certainty. (One could even listen to Dylan's line - "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now" - and think how right he was without blushing for the very presumption of it.)

Two nineteen year olds have come to my attention this evening. A Chinese snooker player reduced to humiliated tears because he could not comprehend how partisan a crowd could be, cheering and hooting when he missed a shot. Deeply offensive yes, but hardly life-threatening.

Another, a Royal Marine, who flew on the wing of an Apache helicopter - never designed for such a passenger - under fire into a Taliban stronghold to rescue a fallen comrade.

Funnily enough - and this is not to do with dreams of military heroics of which clearly I have few if any - I could the more picture myself, then or now, attempting the latter not the former.

Yes, the appeal of saving a life is potent, the face of real personal danger to achieve a goodly deed is one to confront, the notion of true sacrifice for a fallen brother-in-arms is magnificent. But yet it is not even that. I could so the more easily attempt something essentially private - just something between a few close friends bound to a cause - than stand alone in a public arena and battle it out with an anonymous crowd.

So brave both for doing so young what so few of any age could endure.