He defocusses his eyes, meaning he can no longer see the raindrops on the window, only the grey haze of another Whitehall day. I can do that, too. He can see the people, not huddled together, rather individual entries in some anti-social ledger, hurrying to their lives. Or from their lives. Other people, other men, with their adventurous girlfriends and kinky wives. Other people, with their life-for-now attitude, spend what they have, take what they can. And him, watching but not seeing, thinking of his normality, what he is missing, what he has already missed. Three years in and there has been a shift. He has fought the system from within, but that is never possible. He infiltrated where he needed to, but wasn't subsumed. Nor subdued. But changed. A car passes the people, the first he has noticed. I saw others before that one. Funny there aren't many around for this time of day, he ponders, movng his head from the traffic lights on his left to the junction on his right, all bound in the drizzle, connected by a low-hanging grey.

The car turns right at the junction. Towards the carpark for his building. There is nowhere else for it to go, noone lives down there. No one would go to the park in this weather, the pelicans would be sheltering out of human gaze. Idly wondering who it is, in such a non-descript car, he brings his eyes back into focus. I can do that too, although I could also have described the car. A single wall light adds little joy to the room, so he crosses the room to turn it off. While not plunging the office into a depressing gloom, the effect is somewhat uplifting, with nature supplying that odd half-light of early evening in autumn. If this had been thirty years ago, there would have been a decanter on his desk, with some rare brandy waiting to be shared with someone from his old college, some head of department briefing him over a Romeo Y Julieta, some floozy waiting for him to sign a paper then take her to one of his flats in Mayfair. If this had been thirty years ago, the building would have been filled with the hustle and bustle of the lifeblood of government.

There is a clock on the wall. Where once hung three, now there is only one. Visitors mistake this for some insular stance, reading and interpretting his every utterance, stance and choice. The media run with every snort he makes during summits, every eye-roll he makes during the speeches, every dismissive gesture whether it be a mere muscle response or attempting to cut through the waffle. They think he has no social graces, and this endears him to them. I remember the first press conference, shortly after the democralottery had taken place. To call it a paradigm shift would mean I don't understand the meaning of the term. I do.

Expensive speedlight flashes have replaced the old conical bulbs, but the air was still filled with generated quick-light. Hoodies have replaced trilbys as the attire of choice, but the air was stilled filled with chattering hacks. 'Ladies and Gentlemen of the press'. There, as ever in the workings of government, was a young lady with a clipboard, trying to calm the room. 'If you will all stand, I wish to introduce you to the new Leader of this once great nation'. Even that cynical slip went unreported, though not unnoted. There was much more to come.

When Grifton's name was released, there was a frenzy of activity in preparation for this day. None of the papers released their findings, each wanting the coup for themselves. But every old friend, every lover, every teacher, everyone he ever had contact with was approached. Money changed hands, and the lies got bigger, but still nothing reached the front pages. This was the unwritten agreement. Let the new Leader be until after his first press conference. Then they could have their fun. Public opinion has always been fickle, but after the times of upheaval, they couldn't pander to it all. Everything had changed, except their game. Reputations were still made and broken. lives built up and destroyed without a second thought. Some deserved it. Some didn't.

To say the room descended into an expectant hush would be a lie. The assorted journalists knew this new man. Or they thought they did. Their impressions had been made up from scribbled paragraphs in notebooks, from old work assesments and school reports. From scouring the net for his name, and being suprised there wasn't much there. The sleep-and-tell stories mopped up by the lower rent (but higher selling) rags were common knowledge amongst the press, but no further, not yet.

I am going to break everything, and not fix it. The first ten words were almost lost to history. They were lost to those listening, because they weren't listening. They were recorded, and have been played back many, many times over the intervening years. They came to be more famous than any other phrase, given their results. Eyes turned towards him now, and hands were raised in order to ask a question. Pushing her glasses up, glancing at her clipboard, then at the podium where Grifton stood, looking out over the room, but saying nothing more, she cleared her throat. OK, let's take some questions from the floor then. Be aware of the reporting injunction, which expires tomorrow morning in time for your new runs. Nothing to be played out in the evening billboards, please, you all know the drill.

No. I say, let them. First come, first served, why wait until tomorrow? Some gentlemanly hangup from the deference days? Nah, print away, guys, go for your life. Sir, you can't, you mustn't. I can, can I not? What odds? Well, I guess you can, sir, but please, consider. No, it is fine, whatever. Please, if you could at least follow the protocols we sent you to read. No, it is fine, I say again. But one at a time, no shouting over each other, you'll all get a turn.

The earlier disinterest had gone. The dossiers built up on Grifton implied he was no bright spark. Average guy in an average life, no flames of dissent, no desire to rise overly high. Lazy, perhaps, but not lazy enough to have dropped out. Struggled along. But this. Something was wrong. All their information gathering didn't prepare them for this. Commanding, almost. The room was his, after only a few lines. Lingustically disruptive, the tone was set, but not by the media, but by this newcomer. More throats were cleared, and recording devices, old and new, were primed. The clipboarded girl was flustered, having lost control, having lost her only function in this room. The thought came crashing down that, for this sequence, she had lost the chance to brief the press in her usual way. But the new Leader was an amateur, not one to rock any boats. They never were. That was always the case, as it was always manufactured that way. Smiling to herself, she decided to melt away, and let this one take its course. Unless he gives an oratory eviqualent to Satan's talking to his troops after the fall in Paradise Lost, this was just another loser out of his depth. Sure, she thought, let him hang himself. Maybe we can push through the end of this silly experiment.

Gentlemen. Whatever you think of me, whatever you know of me, is wrong. But I will let you find that out for yourselves. So let's start. You, middle right, you begin. What are you going to ask?

Welcome, all, welcome to my democracy of one.

Chapter Five