Titles are hard.

Picture if you will, a deserted mansion. It is dark. The wind whistles through the overgrown garden, the rustling leaves sound like faint whispers in the night. You approach the house, slowly, tentatively. Its sagging roof and rotting timbers show its age. As you near the huge wooden door you see a face carved in stone looking down upon you, as if to warn you to stay away. The fear shoots out from your heart, through all your veins and to the ends of your fingertips. The very fingertips with which you clutch your gun, in an attempt to comfort yourself. Bravely, or maybe foolishly, you swing open the door. The hinges creak and groan as if the whole building were in pain. You step into the hall, the tap of your shoes on the dusty tiles resonating throughout the house. Through a hole in the roof moonlight comes flooding in. A staircase sweeps majestically upwards to a long corridor. You climb the stairs. With each step your chest tightens, your lips dry and your heart pounds faster inside your chest. Portraits of relatives long since forgotten hang from the walls. The rooms echo with the ghosts of children's laughter. Suddenly your hairs stand on end. You hear a noise from behind a door. You freeze in terror. You grab your gun as your approach the door. Slowly you turn the rusted handle, unsure if you have the courage to look inside. Curiosity drives you on. You throw open the door and the noise, which you thought could spell your doom, is nothing more than a pigeon, that has made its home in this abandoned bathroom.

What you don't do is leave the door shut and shoot blindly through it. Oscar Pistorius must have the best lawyer in the world if he gets away with what he has done. In my view he doesn't have a leg to stand on.