Perhaps it was simply the result of one claret too many, but I was startled at a recent dinner party by an explosion from my host.
"He's innocent," my host exclaimed, standing and banging the table, when after hours of standard discourse as to politics and sport and sex, conversation inevitably turned to the trial of Oscar Pistorius.
We scoffed. I thought my host might be assuming devil's advocate for the sake of group debate. To actually engage with a sound-minded individual who believes in Pistorius' innocence was almost too flabbergasting to stomach.
It's easy to trivialise life and death over dinner an ocean away, but the blade runner parties seem intent on providing dessert. As if a standard murder trial weren't dramatic enough, the Pistorius players are outdoing Wells and Olivier in a made-for-TV epic.
We have now had vomiting and sobbing and wailing in court, the reading of particularly excruciating poetry, and a prosecutor whose cross-examination theatrics would shame his American contemporaries.