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The man in front of me, his hair slick with brilliantine, adjusted his doily, pulled it down to his neck.

It was a brilliant dark vermilion, like a ripe orange, and it was plastered back with immense quantities of brilliantine in the same fashion as the Headmaster’s.

She smelled his milky clots and the decay of his teeth and the citrus brilliantine in his hair, as if a grove of lemons lay hidden there.

One man, Diego Ortega, wears a layer of brilliantine so thick that his hair looks like a black patent-leather bathing cap.

Those memories belong to a distant England, a country of dreamy sunshine and brilliantine.