This is not a funny time. People have been injured. People have been killed. We are at war. And yet somehow there is a strange humor, a strange continuity of life and hope, that allowed us to enjoy a Passover celebrating freedom in improbable circumstances, not unlike the story of the Jewish people throughout the ages, and in fact it allowed us to fulfill strangely the words of the Haggadah.

All in all, all genuine seriousness aside, It would be dishonest not to admit that parts of the last 24 hours contained more than a little comedy. Dry. Dark. Certainly not for everyone. But if I didn’t have humor in me, I don’t think I’d cope at all. So let me work backwards.

As the festival drew to a close this evening, we once again found ourselves under attack, praying the concluding service of Passover in our safe room listening to rockets overhead. But to understand the full absurdity of that sentence, I need to go back to earlier in the day. And to the night before.

Earlier that afternoon came what may have been the most bizarre moment of the entire Passover day. Picture the scene. I’m in the park with my sister, my mother, my brother-in-law, my youngest nephew, my wonderful carer, and our dog Buddy. I should mention at this point that I am 50 years old, have a terminal illness called PSP, and am wheelchair bound. Buddy chooses this precise moment to........

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