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Real men don't cry. We just get something in our eye By Nigel Farndale 'Daddy, you're crying,' say my sons. 'No, boys, I'm man-crying. Very useful skill.' A short walk from my house in Hampshire, on a hill overlooking theheathland（石南灌丛）, is aplaque（斑块，血小板）marking the spot where Richard Pryce Jonesdeliberately（故意地，谨慎地）crashed his Halifax bomber during the war. He could haveparachuted（跳伞）to safety, but that would have meant crashing into the village. Theepitaph（碑文，墓志铭）reads: "He died that others might live." It never fails to move me. Not to tears, you understand. That would be disrespectful. But I do usually managea lump in the throat（喉咙哽住）and that film ofmoisture（水分，湿度）over the eyes that men have in their emotional armoury. Gordon Brown demonstrated the non-crying cry beautifully when he made his farewell speech on the steps of Number 10. That catch in the throat. The determination not to weep in public. At that moment, if at no other, he had nobility. Not everyone can carry it off. I don't think Paul Gascoigne ever quite got the hang of it, for example. But I like to think I have it down to an art, my techniquehoned（磨光）from years of watching The Railway Children, Sleepless in Seattle and that scene in Dumbo when the mother elephant is locked away. "Daddy!" my sons will say, pointing the accusing finger. "You're crying!" | 
