His mood took a further nosedive when he saw the next speaker get to his feet.
Keith Boswell was his arch-rival. Both men had trained as lawyers before entering the political arena, though Wellington's firm had always pursued a considerably more affluent client base than Boswell, who took pride in the fact that he was more likely to represent those receiving legal aid.
The latter had previously held the position of local MP currently occupied by Wellington, and his narrow defeat following a recount clearly still rankled, adding to the antipathy between the pair.
But Wellington didn't just dislike Boswell because of his political views, or the fact that he was younger, taller and better looking, (Wellington had been known to sneer that Boswell was caught in a love triangle between himself, a television camera and a sun bed).
And it wasn't that he was infuriated by the fact that Boswell revelled in his self-proclaimed status as “The people's champion”, “Fighting on behalf of the poor and the weak and the discriminated against”.
Whether they wanted him to or not.
No, it was the fact that Boswell seemed to have a particular issue with Wellington, and never, ever missed an opportunity to have a personal dig at him, taking great delight in portraying him as the very epitome of capitalist greed and selfishness that made his blood boil.
'Here we go again, another Marxist rant about the poor and oppressed' he muttered to Superintendent Campbell, who was sitting on his left.
Tall and cadaverous, and with a polished dome, the Superintendent's oversized ears had inevitably led to the nickname of Wingnut amongst his men. He gave no sign whatsoever that he had even heard the remark.
As much a bloody politician as any of us, thought Wellington sourly, as Boswell began to address the meeting.
'I think we can understand James Wellington's obsession with criminalising these single mothers who failed to disclose a couple of hours working in a shop or pub to buy a few Christmas presents for her kids.'
'Or the widow letting out a room on the quiet to try to eke out her pension so that she can eat, and heat the house.'
'After all, these leeches, these...... vile parasites, are costing the country, what is it again?........ about a billion pounds a year!'
'Of course we should be throwing the book at these scavengers,' he continued, allowing more than a hint of sarcasm to creep into his tone, ' They're just a bunch of damned thieves!'
'Oh yes, I think we can imagine James' supporters in the leafy suburbs, husband and wife sitting in their designer kitchen, reading the morning paper, and being totally indignant when they read about some guy on disability allowance who 'forgot' to mention that he was fit to go back to work again.'
'A damned disgrace', they'll say, (mimicking a posh accent) 'As taxpayers,that's our money he's stealing!'
A baleful glance up at Wellington on the platform.
'They conveniently forget, of course, that since he started his small company, his wife has been paid a healthy salary as a 'secretary' while barely working a handful of days a year, her car is paid for by the company, the main shopping is done at the cash & carry, paid by the company credit card, they put a computer on a desk in the spare room so they can call it an office and claim household bills as business expenses.......'
Wellington was trying to protest that all that was irrelevant to the purpose of tonight's meeting, but Boswell was not for stopping.
'...... sticking as much of the pre-tax profits into their personal pension schemes as they can get away with, while of course, the two weeks in the Caribbean is claimed as a 'business trip', taking friends to the rugby, or a spa hotel is claimed as 'corporate entertaining', the horse box taking the kids to the gymkhana is claimed as a 'delivery truck' and the yacht goes through the books as a bulldozer or something like that!
It turns out that these pillars of society are, according to the Inland Revenue, costing the honest taxpayers amongst us tens of billions,' He paused for effect, 'Yes, that's tens of billions of pounds more in unpaid and “avoided” tax than the so-called scroungers at the bottom of the heap, and yet what does James Wellington intend to do about this “respectable” and “acceptable” form of theft?',
'Not a damned thing, because they are the people keeping him in his job, and the last thing they want is to change a system which blatantly favours the 'haves' over the 'have nots'!'
He sat down to a very satisfying round of applause while Wellington struggled to be heard as he tried to point out that guidelines regarding taxable expenses were currently being reviewed, and that entrepreneurs had to be encouraged and supported in order to promote growth and create employment. But Boswell was already back on his feet.
'I'm simply pointing out that a perfectly fair, valid and justifiable system has been so widely abused that many in the business community don't even believe that they are doing anything wrong.
It is fundamentally unfair that the pay of the ordinary man or woman on the street has been taxed before they see it, after which they pay household bills, and then they may try to run a car, and if they're lucky, there's may be something left over for a holiday. Most of these things will include secondary taxes, like VAT, fuel duty, etcetera.
Many businessmen, on the other hand, expect all of their household costs, cars, holidays, and anything else they can think of to be paid for before they start to pay any tax.'
'But you have to remember, Mister Boswell,' Wellington angrily retorted, 'That these people are creating the jobs that allows the man in the street to pay for a car or a holiday......'
'If you don't mind gentlemen!' interrupted Councillor Eades, 'Could I just remind you that we are here to discuss local concerns, not issues that can only be resolved at national level.'
The two political adversaries reluctantly backed off, and the meeting returned to more mundane matters.
Barely a mile from the civic centre, a couple in the back of a Porsche sports car untangled their limbs, and tried to get their breath back after their exertions in the confined space. She suddenly giggled.
'What is it?' he asked
'This is ridiculous at my age, in the back of a car for goodness sake!'
'Oh, feeling your age, are you? You must be older than I thought, what are you, forty five, fifty?'
'Pig! She poked him in the ribs. 'Nowhere near it!'
He chose not to say that he knew perfectly well she was forty one on March the twelfth.
After a moments silence he said,
'I'm sorry, but you know how it is, I have to be seen to be whiter than white, try not to give you-know-who any ammunition, at least until access to the kids is sorted.'
'It's okay. darling, I understand, especially with the problems at your office at the moment. I really wish you would at least let me help you there.'
'No!' Then realising he may have sounded a little harsh, he said,
'I'm sorry, but what we have is precious to me, I believe that this really could be a “Happy ever after” kind of thing, and somehow I don't want to risk....' He searched for the word, '...... tainting it by allowing my work to intrude. Especially as it could get you into trouble. We'll sort out the problems at work eventually'
He gave her a tired smile,
'I have a friend with a cottage we might be able to borrow, if you were interested?'
'I might be.' she answered coyly.
'We'll see what we can arrange then, shall we.'