Of all the people gathered around the cenotaph that day none were more shabbily clothed than our President. Not given to democratic convictions, he had ordered us to show up at the monument in Easington for no other reason than for his inklings there would be a “foreign wench” he had once “known” (the nature of his “knowledge” was unbeknownst to us, potentially a cause of heck of a lot of trouble. We all thought, frankly, that he had seen her on a piece of computer screen, not as a properly painted portrait). It was not only freezing cold, but Johnnie Musgrave, the local trumpeter, had once again confused the Last Post with the Palace of Lust, the theme tune of his favourite porn-film. We watched in disgust as spit started drooling from his horn.