Being a policeman is not an easy task. Take the other night, for example; the PC visiting the youth group I help out with had the unenviable task of giving a talk on police policy for stopping and searching young people. A fairly routine PR exercise for the boys in blue, but in this instance the speaker knew not only that many of the youths had first hand experience of being stopped and searched, but also that it was he who had carried out those searches.

Narnia returns to the big screen this week as Prince Caspian opens in cinemas nationwide, a week after hitting the very, very big screen of the O2 arena at its UK premiere. The new film sees the Pevensie children – Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy – summoned back to Narnia by the eponymous hero, who is rightful heir to its throne. But it is an occupied and embattled Narnia to which they return. True Narnians are now a persecuted minority, and the murderous usurper, Miraz, rules by fear, division and violence. Cue lots of CGI, fantastical violence, elaborate sets and beautiful scenery; together with some subtle details that will please die-hard fans of the book.

‘Wrraaaarrggghh! Hulk smash!’ Fan boys have to wait an hour-and-a-half into the new film, The Incredible Hulk, to hear those two, well, nearly three, immortal words roared out by the anything but jolly green giant, but it’s certainly worth the wait. It comes in a smack-down between our verdant-skinned hero and his devastatingly powerful, and equally emerald mutant opposite, The Abomination.

The reason we talk about having the ‘courage of our convictions’ is because there are consequences that flow from those convictions – and not all of them happy ones.

This week, in an interview with The Times, George Bush reflected on his presidency and expressed regret that the rhetoric he used in regard to the Iraq war has created a legacy for him as ‘a guy really anxious for war.’ Had he known back then what he knows now, about the consequences of his language, he would have taken a different tone.

There is little that we like better, it seems, than settling down to a cosy murder.

A quick body count suggests that this is how many of us unwind – this week alone we can tune into over forty-five hours of detective drama on terrestrial television. Six of the current top ten bestselling hardbacks, and four of the top ten paperbacks, are concerned with one form of crime or another.

But why our continued attraction to, and fascination with, the ever growing corpus of the corpse? After all, despite infinite variety in locations, characters, victims, and modes of dispatch, the essential plot remains the same each time. Regardless of whether it is Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, or Inspectors Morse or Barnaby on the case, and of whatever particular crime is committed, the culprit will eventually – and inevitably – be discovered.

The world of detective fiction is a curious blend of the horrific and the fantastic. It’s a world where violence can break out at any time, and where anyone, even the least expected (perhaps especially the least expected), may have premeditated murder. Interestingly, though, it’s also a world that displays a strange form of optimism; perhaps we could even characterise it as hope. As the acclaimed crime writer, P.D. James, once said, ‘what the detective story is about is not murder but the restoration of order’. The deep-seated hope that these narratives continue to articulate is that truth cannot be suppressed, that evil will be thwarted, and that things happen for a reason, a reason that, even if not always understood, can at least be explained.

I must be one of the few westerners who has never watched an episode of ER. However, I recently received an email with a YouTube link to an excerpt from the latest (14th!) season.

The clip introduces a cancer and guilt-riddled ex-prison doctor (Truman) being counselled by a gentle, sincere and compassionate chaplain (Julia). One of Truman’s roles as a prison doctor had been administering lethal injections to convicted murderers. He relates how one of them was later found to have been framed for his crime, and how he believes he ignored God’s attempt to prevent him from killing an innocent man.

What’s the best way to win an argument?

You might think it would be to discredit your opponents’ facts or undermine their logic but, in fact, the best way is simply to deny them a voice in the first place.

Although few people openly seek to silence their adversaries, when those adversaries happen to be religious (as has often been the case with the HFE bill this week), it is so much easier to deploy the “religion is private” card than actually to engage with their arguments. Hence Jackie Ashley in Monday’s Guardian: ‘There is no sensible conversation between the opposing views to be had… live according to your beliefs, but don't try to impose them on the rest of us.’

This will not do. Christian and other religious opinions should be permitted to engage in public debate, no matter how fruitless some people think that debate is. Moreover, who is the ‘us’ here? If Jackie Ashley imagines the rest of the population thinks the same way she does, she should think again.