I went to the re-enactment of the Battle of Waterloo. It was a magnificent sight: three thousand soldiers magnificently dressed with each battalion in the correct place, dressed in immaculate uniforms. Black for the Prussians. Blue for the Napoleonic Imperial Guard, with the British guardsmen brandishing their Green rifles.

Afterwards, we walked around the camp, which was cooling off and sleeping as if they were in the first part of the nineteenth century. The atmosphere, colours and movement were perfect. The display was wonderful, yet no one – not one soul – is ever killed at the event, despite popping at each other with mighty bangs all day.

In fact, the real Battle of Waterloo was a ghastly affair with a fearful death toll. Wellington could scarcely bear to look at the scene of his great victory. The reality of war is not one of pretty uniforms and brave marching bands, but of dust and death in Afghanistan.

But enough pomposity! as the Imperial walked up the hill for their last charge, I could barely refrain from shouting ‘VIVE L’EMPEREUR!’