So where was the violin? Where was the crazed fanaticism in the eyes? You could tell the Democratic Alliance for the Betterment of Hong Kong believed Peter Lai was fiddling while the city burned.
There had been violence, said Ip Kwok-him portentously. Riots in Vietnamese camps, chopping attacks on journalists and damage to Legislative Councillors' placards.
There had even been a report of a district board member threatening to beat up government officials.
What was the Government doing to shore up the morale of law enforcement officers? No one seemed in the mood to examine the bizarre logic of the question, or raise an eyebrow at the equation of slashed posters and severed arms. All they wanted to know was when the Secretary for Security would drop the pretence and accept that Hong Kong had become the roaring inferno of violence and hatred they imagined.
Now the Eponymous Lai is not a man one would readily see in one's mind's eye dancing the walls in ash-flecked toga and heat-withered laurels. The mad, bad Emperor Nero may be famous for dancing as Rome burned, but he was also flamboyant, lustful and wine-sodden.
Mr Lai, if one were to imagine him giving into his most reckless whims, might be found covered in dust in some corner of a library, not wielding a wineskin or brandishing a bow.
