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leavened only by a handful of the requisite donkey-jacketed roll-up smokers (just as a charity event for multiple sclerosis sufferers would have its wheelchair users, or for sickle-cell anaemia its blacks).
    Eventually, after traversing the trench between two buffets, where glistening kiwi fruit cascaded and miniature sausage rolls were piled up like some novel form of ammunition, they reached their target. He was a florid politico in a suit with wide chalk stripes and a yellow waistcoat. He had an impressive lick of chocolate hair over a bulbous brow, and those out-of-control eyebrows which only men firmly within the British Establishment can carry off.
    ‘Dorian,’ Phyllis cooed, ‘this is David Hall, the Member for Bexleyheath, he’s on the Housing Committee. David, this is Dorian Gray, the young man I told you about, the one who’s putting the shelter on a computer… And this is my son,’ she added as an afterthought. Then she evaporated, leaving only the stench of her perfume.
    ‘Are you working voluntarily at the shelter, Mr Gray?’ Hall’s accent was as fruity as the buffet.
    ‘Dorian, please – and yes, there wouldn’t be money to pay me, and I’ve no need of it anyway.’
    ‘What’re you doing, exactly?’
    ‘Oh, this and that, computerising the client list, the donors and so on. I also muck around a bit with some of the regulars… muck about with art materials.’
    ‘Is it a career path for you’ – Hall was amazed – ‘social work?’
    ‘I dunno – I shouldn’t think so.’
    ‘There’s obviously a need for such people, but I wouldn’t have imagined you one of them –’
    ‘Which is all by way of saying,’ Wotton scythed in, ‘if you sympathise too much with pain, you become one.’
    ‘I’m s-sorry?’ Hall spluttered.
    Dorian wasn’t surprised that the MP was taken aback, but more shocking than Wotton’s intervention was his appearance. He looked entirely at ease, his complexion warm, his hair neat, his cuffs shot. It was as if he were a chameleon, assuming the protective coloration of respectability simply by standing in front of it. ‘Bluntly,’ Wotton continued, ‘I’m trying to warn Dorian off this man-of-the-people act. Hypocrisy won’t suit his nature.’
    ‘Do you think…?’ Hall left a gap that begged for the insertion of a name.
    ‘Wotton.’
    ‘Mr Wotton, that all philanthropy can only be for show? Surely it’s only an “act” when viewed with an eye for acting, a cynical eye.’
    ‘I’m sure, Mister Hall, you would agree that the most honest of socialists couldn’t give a toss being poorer, so long as nobody else is richer.’
    ‘D’you think there were any such honest socialists among the youths rioting the other week?’
    ‘Probably, but I know there were definitely some ballet dancers manqué – marvellous, lithe young black guys. I saw them on the news, shattering the windows of shoe stores with the most delicate of high kicks, then selecting the training shoes they wanted, then off they went through the wreckage en faisant des pointes –’ Wotton broke off as a thin, nervous woman approached their group. She was in her forties, prematurely grey, wearing loose trousers and a top which appeared to be woven from a fine hessian. ‘Hello, Jane,’ he said.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied through cracked lips, her brown eyes downcast.
    The apology was not just for the interruption – it was for everything . For colonialism and racism and sexism; for the massacres of Amritsar and Sharpeville and Londonderry; for introducing syphilis to Europe and opium to China and alcoholism to the Aboriginals; for the little Princes in the Tower and the Tower itself . This was manifestly a woman who viewed sackcloth as de rigueur . But Hall saw her as an opportunity to escape, and grabbed on to her with both hands. ‘That’s all right, Jane – we need to talk. I’m sure these blokes won’t mind…’ And he whisked her away.
    Dorian was left with a