Ernesto Farzi walks past the bakery towards Maida Vale, face almost as white as the clown’s. He hasn’t shaved, his five-o-clock shadow blue beneath the foundation and talcum, his eyebrows tweezed into great arches. Ernesto Farzi, head held high in three quarter length tweed coat, large leather handbag and slingbacks. Trousers too short, ending above the ankles, Farzi looking straight ahead so as not to make eye contact with the haters; children laughing from the top deck of buses, throwing apple cores at him. Each time he leaves his flat on Shoot Up Hill, he dives into a hole in the ice and swims under it until he re-emerges in the third floor flat on the corner of Kingsgate and Quex. An engineer working on a nearby junction box grins at him as he passes. Two men wheeling a large trolley filled with pallets into the bakery block the pavement, Farzi waiting patiently for the obstacle to clear before he continues swimming to Pauline. Maybe they’ll play vingt -et-un and eat Madeira cake chased down with a glass of Vermouth or Dubonnet, then he’ll bring out the pills and they’ll wake up on Monday.