his face is familiar. as he climbs from a silver car an earring glints in the lights, flickering like a strobe. he smiles at no-one and smooths down a crease in his jacket. calmly he hides a wince as the december cool pokes a finger under his shirt with exploratory depth. acting, i guess.
hollywood teeth.
i expect he has spent most of the day in front of a mirror with a thousand well paid amazons stroking and carving and licking where possible. there is a response in the area that i don't quite understand. i spend the next ten minutes pondering it as i walk away, buffeted by latecomers desperate to glimpse his million dollar smile or his pristine wife.
they could just wait for tomorrow's edition of london lite, if they could stand the words.
it is noisy back there, and camera flashes are busy using up expensive batteries. it must be a little weird for him.
sometimes.
if he thinks about it.
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