I used to play Chess. A lot. I used to be very good too, and would probably still be entrenched in that microcosm of ticking clocks and notation if not for a resurgence of the limbic, impatient, pleasure-driven part of my brain. Anyway, about 15 years ago, I was playing against a typical Chessy guy. It was a hard game, and if we were forced to adjudicate, I would have put money on a draw. Around the 20th or so move, he spent a good 10 minutes in deep thought, then sighed and dropped his king. To say I was shocked was an understatement; why did he resign? Had he better things to do than Chess, so wanted to leave early? We shook hands, stopped the clocks, then I asked why he had resigned. He pointed out that he couldn’t defend against my attack down the right flank, and was going to be in checkmate quickly. I remember looking at the board, thinking whether I should tell him that one of my pieces was pinned and therefore couldn’t join the attack, but instead I nodded knowingly, then stood up and wandered down the rest of the boards, smiling like the Cheshire Cat to myself.