So Twink swished his way to Poncenbey’s on a mission. Having passed relatively unmolested through Berkeley Square, he fiddled and sashayed his way within the network of Mayfair streets, twirling his completely unnecessary accoutrement of a furled umbrella and slapping his thigh rhythmically, but out of synchronisation with his vocal ejaculations, with an immaculately folded copy of the Times newspaper. After a short trot, he turned into Shepherd Market, a cutesy bustling backstreet Mayfair village of lubbly-jubbly pubs and restaurants, nestled within a closed society of swanky stately townhouse mansions. More important, though, and generally unknown, was that Shepherd Market was the centre for the Good Shepherd. Not a person, not a herdsman, but a caretaking concept. This was a construct t
