Luckily the ordering and aquiring of lunch in busy British shops was a terse, brief matter without any artificially-cheerful small talk or anyone looking at him twice. Anonymity, even for five minutes at a time from ordering his food to taking the warm pasty, could be as refreshing as a cold drink on a warm day.
Percy focused on his lunch as he left the shop, plucking at the crimped crust with overly-particular fingers, pinching off the bits of burned edges and dropping them underfoot for the pigeons. He looked off down the road that led back to the Ministry, but hesitated.
Bugger it. Every other person in that building claimed an hour for lunch and stayed gone longer than that. For this one rebellious day Percy could allow himself a short walk to enjoy his lunch instead of flinging himself back at his work.
He turned away from the Ministry, looking down the street with a slight spark of cheer flaring in him. Sometimes, rarely, even the small rebellions could be cheering.