All that worrying about guns, and I somehow forgot that I grew up in Western Canada in the seventies. With parents who collected antique rifles. You know: old guns. Which, apparently, they used as art.

I don’t know. It seems to me that if I spent my infancy crawling around a gun rack, and I turned out okay, well, maybe my daughter can be exposed to the odd game of shoot ‘em up and not turn into a card-carrying member of the NRA and Junior Dick Cheney Fan Club.

Here’s hoping.