It was pretty late, what with the disastrous Euro Election results coming in from all over the country, quite at random, in no proper sequence, and even Quentin getting fractious because there was no definitive total from any one Region, so no actual MEPs elected yet but Nigel Farrago's Bugger-off Party well in the lead, having picked up most of the old UTWAT vote, as well as most of their existing MEPs, so their likely Top of the Polls already gaining traction as a facticity, when Tim had a sudden yen for a pizza, but no-one else in The Bunker was interested eating, so feeling a bit like a gainpain, or knight errant, vesturing out into the Dangerous Lands, he made his way along the tunnel, but instead of the Horse Guards' entrance, he turned off towards Whitehall, where the door, anonymous, municipal grey on the outside, sans keyhole or letterbox, was usually guarded on the inside by a lugubrious police officer – a bit of a stickybeak, but Tim knew how to give little for much in return – with a bank of monitors showing the street outside from six different cameras: "evenin' Mister Timothy," said he, "it's a bit parky out, ah see that Farrago feller's still up ter 'is sabotage; some places they'd gouge out 'is eyes an' line 'im up agin a wall an' . . . . ." but Tim cut him off: "good evening Shadbolt, I was wondering where the nearest Pizza place would be, do you have any suggestions?" and the constable had a thought, then brightened: "well, seein' as it's yourself, Mister Tim, don't bother about Roux, in Great George Street, pop across the road an' take the little alley that goes roun' the back o The Red Lion – I betcha you've sunk a few pints in there, sir, eh?" and was delighted when Tim nodded for him to go on: "well, at this time o night the back door's usually open, cos it's swelterin' 'ot in the kitchen; knock 'ard and shout fer Mrs Gladstone – she's the wife's sister, just teller I sentcha and she'll give yer a doggy bag, on the 'ouse, no name, no pack drill, like," and he was rewarded by a firm shake of Tim's hand and the enclosed tenner; outside, Tim followed the directions and soon passed the plaque commemorating the lodgings of Guido Fawkes in the weeks prior to his arrest in the cellars of the Palace of Westminster with barrels of gunpowder, and then another turn and he was surprised to see four Japanese men in overalls, sitting at a little table and drinking green tea, for he had no idea that this chanoyu group met here every night after work; he asked Mrs Gladstone about them, in a hushed voice, although they were out os sight and probably earshot of the back door of the pub: "oh, yes." she confirmed, "they 'ave a little primus an' brew their own tea, been a-doin' of it fer years an' years, the table's one we was throwin' out, an' they asked us if they could 'ave it, they 'as they're own little foldin' seats, an' don't cause us no 'arm," and he felt compelled to ask: "but why do they meet there? there's no shelter, is there?" and Mrs Gladstone told him: "they all works in different Gov'ment Buildin's, cleaners an' such-like, and they likes ter meet up fer a cuppa an' a natter, a-fore they goes 'ome; they're related like, but lives in different parts o' the City, so it's just a chat over a cuppa green tea an' then they goes their own ways; yer know, sir, when yer thinks about 'em, they're not really so different from us, now, are they?" and Tim nodded, smiling at her as he took the box with his pizza and headed, in a different direction, for he didn't want the tea party to think they were being spied on, along the twisting lane and down towards the Thames.