Fulham, West London. A massive Rolls Royce stands outside my local Sainbury's. It's a limited edition Phantom Black. Only 25 were ever made (I'm not a car geek, I know this now courtesy of Google). Standing still next to the back door is the white anglo-saxon driver/bodyguard. By the way he stands erect he must be ex-military. A couple of council-estate kids with a black&white pitbull straining on the leash snicker in the background.
A little later inside, as the cashier scans the barcodes of my foodstuff, I notice the large digital numbers on the next till running into hundreds of pounds. The Sainsbury's security guard is holding multiple bunches of tulips. In front of him a woman is dressed in a black burqa and a tight-fitting black quilted Moncler jacket. Behind the veil, her Kohl circled eyes are young and wealthy.
As she glides out of the store and disappears behind the black-tinted glass of her car, an electric jolt runs through the human medley queuing for their lucky dip on the Euro Lottery.