Many years ago, in one’s long distant youth, about the time when the Dead Sea was just seriously ill, in our Wolf Cub pack we were subjected to an inane game called Man the Lifeboats. A cub-master rejoicing in some implausible nom de guerre such as Mowgli or Akela, armed with a whistle, would shout successive contradictory commands that would send us running down the hall, only to be halted in our tracks to turn back, colliding painfully with our fellows; on the command “Man the lifeboats!” we had to sit down abruptly, usually causing the rest of the pack to fall on top of us like a collapsed rugby scrum.