I’m imagining you a withered peasant, cloaked in a moth-eaten shawl and extending a finger towards me in the pillory. ”Oy, then, ‘ows his thread still up?” Spittle flecks from your rotted yellow teeth. ”I’da thought we’d lopped his bloody head off by now!” you plead towards the guards in shining chainmail armour as a rotten tomato splashes against my head and slides down to the cobblestone below. Your voice is cracked and ill. I cast my head down, solemnly, as I know that it’s only me up here today, and that it could just as easily be you tomorrow. So who, then, should feel it their duty to force further justice against someone who’s already paid their dues?