Mr Brian Latham
Pretty and old -- blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes. Sits bunched up and turned away from everyone until Donald Varda sits next to him. He then twists back around and segues through a series of extraordinary postures -- from Rodin's The Thinker, to simply shielding his eyes. Upper lip is sucked into a thin frown, lower lip thrust forward. Wears a blue corduroy suit. No winter coat or briefcase.
A broadcaster and cookery correspondent out of work since LBC folded. He now caters for and guests at dinner parties for a fee. Returning to his expensively mortgaged Georgian home near Elephant and Castle.
What he is doing or thinking
Last night he cooked dinner for a bullying ex-colleague who has always terrified him. As a "friend" he was paid to stay overnight and clean up in the morning after they left. Brian knows nothing about cleaning. The poodle left a turd on the carpet. He tried to hoover it up. The vacuum cleaner jammed. He tried washing the hoover in the sink. The vacuum cleaner shorted when he tried to use it again. The kitchen sink was still muddy with shit. He experienced a blinding rage, and walked out, sink, carpet, cleaner all thick with proliferating turd. He is now appreciating how that will look to his client.
Brian perceives himself to be an essentially tragic figure. You don't like being a servant, he tells himself, but you are a servant. That's what you've become. He pushes himself to his feet at Waterloo, and gets out, to return to Kensington and duty.
Car 1 map