COFFEE MORNING

The plane trees rustled quietly in the rugged breeze. The fountain hissed pleasingly in the near distance. A lunatic folded and unfolded a pacamac and stumbled off along the path. The yabber of a Japanese woman impinged on the right side of his brain. Across the park, the flags of all nations flapped giddily, standing sentinel over the scaffolding in the Horse Guards Parade. Little drifts of cumulus clouds scudded across the morning sky. The coffee looked and tasted like mud. Baldrick’s coffee, made of spit and dandruff and served to General Melchett. The morning sun made his eyes squint as he focused on the page, the virgin white of the paper drawing his gaze and causing his eyes momentarily to lose focus. In his left ear he heard the machine-gun staccato of a Japanese man, talking to the Japanese woman, in what he took to be the Japanese language. He thought the man sounded like Burt Kwouk in all those Tenkos, every sentence presaging an order for an execution. The metal seat upon which he sat was excruciatingly uncomfortable. His buttocks hurt and he thought he might develop sciatica if he sat there much longer. Huge aeroplanes rumbled overhead every three minutes. A posh Englishman neighed into his mobile phone: “Quite frankly, I don’t think he’s got a prayer. He’s already got an office in America. The US Government won’t stand for it.” The seated man with the aching bottom looked at his watch, a cheap and flimsy thing with a plastic strap. It was time for him to move on. His meeting awaited him. The bleat of a distant ambulance pierced the air. He packed his briefcase. He flexed his posterior. He took a deep breath. He went, at peace with the world and ready to face his adversaries.