As Noel Coward once observed, mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
I've just been walking down a road in Afghanistan where a few weeks ago I'd have been shot on sight by the Taliban. Or worse.
Passing a pylon still smeared in dried blood, I was told it was where a government worker had been decapitated by the insurgents.
Normally this would have quickened my pace. But my companion was reassuring.
He was after all, no less a figure than the chief of police of Herat, a man whose substantial frame would challenge even Friar Tuck or Little John from that other haunt of insurgents – Sherwood Forest.
It also helped that we'd gone for our little drive into the country with about 50 of his merry men - all of them heavily-armed. The front line of the Taliban is being rolled back from the outskirts of this city in western Afghanistan.