Disdain on a plate

YEARS AGO I WORKED AS an assistant for a woman in Belgravia. Between other indignities, I had to fetch her lunch from Elizabeth Street, four iced buns from which she would then lick the icing, handing me back a little tower of saliva-smeared pastries.

I disposed of them on the balcony, thinking it might make a change for the pigeons from the coke wraps. Eventually she accused me of treachery and sacked me, but those dusty walks through the creamy necropolis of Eaton Square inspired