‘Ah, something very special,’ said the caterer, pointing down the table past heaving platters of vol-aux-vents and gherkins and waxy cubes of cheese on sticks. ‘We have just received from my cousin in Tel Aviv a mould that is the likeness of Mrs. Golda Meir. The newest thing.’ Solly stared at the bust, a deep luscious grey, as though it had only recently been manufactured from wet clay. There were the soft round cheeks and the narrow eye slits, and the two deep jowls like a coat hanger upon which was suspended her wide mouth. It was definitely Mrs. Meir. The mother of the nation stared out reproachfully across the ranks of men in their velvet suits with wide lapels and even wider flares and the women in halter-neck dresses. Somebody had already attacked the nose, so that the Israeli Prime Minister appeared to have suffered a great misfortune.