On Her Majesty’s Secretive Service

On Her Majesty’s Secretive Service Title Card: Londinium Skyline from AD 200: huts, a couple of empty crosses, and a lonely legionary bent to pull up his unseasonably thin stockings.  Voiceover: This! Is! Channel 9’s! Panorama! Music: Handel’s *Firewater* swells. Drumbeats in 5/4 time.    Journo (professional voice of a newsreader): On today's (looks at autocue) Ponorama we have a man who has been described (looks at autocue) as highly specialised. Welcome! Shall we begin?  Man (mild hesitation): R-rright! Name's James Bond. (silently assesses the Journo’s blank expression) J-A-M-E-S B-O-N-D.  Journo: So, Mr Blomd, might I call you Jim?  Man (chuckles, smiles): Most do.  Journo: So, what engagements you have (looks up to the ceiling) with the Firm?  Man (tries to sound nonchalant): I’d say… I am a... a... cleaner.  Journo (intensely): Cleaning up — perhaps — some stains?  Man (nods): Yes, sometimes.  Journo (triumphantly, reading from autocue): So, like people who crossed a certain Philip? Some strategically cut brake lines? Just a notch, until someone stamps on the pedal?  Man (terrified): What the fuc*? (asynchronous bleep) *hey are old, sometimes... accidents... if too much Fig Newtons for breakfast... upholstery... Journo (conspiratorially reading from the autocue): Newtons? And how many men had Sir Isaac Newton hanged for clipping the coinage? Sounds harsh? Or fair cop?  Man (agreeably): I used to be a copper, like to think, fair. Young, strong… But pay was… ahem, no luxuries. Now that I am paid by the Crown, it’s a different game altogether.  Journo (leaning forward): By the Crown. For secretive services? Do continue, Jamie. No stone is too small… erm… to turn over… (glancing at the autocue) any interesting episodes to share?  Man (in all seriousness): Prunes are a real danger at this stage. Stone fruit, like… (enthusiastically): But a stubborn stain… say, if English salt was in the picture, it requires a more aggressive treatment. Perhaps a strong solution. Lemon juice protocol and no regrets. Though regrets is hard to measure precisely. (turns somber for a moment) And hard to dilute… regrets… Journo (gasps): Regrets! It’s a whole new dimension! (squints at the autocue) Or possibly… mauve. (hesitantly) Is mauve a dimension?  Man (shrugs): Huh… Dunno…   Journo (pensively): I once had a cat called Mauve… he was quite partial to rhubarb, you know. Rhubarb can really move things along. He is no longer with us… Maybe… like some of your encounters? No longer? With us?  Man (finally in his element): Rhubarb is quite a beast.  Journo: Was.  Man (nods): Indeed. Accelerated transit is often necessary. One wouldn’t want an unscheduled stop, mind… It creates…, you know… And potentially… (spreads his hands).  Journo (completely lost, begins to hum) *Regrets I had a few…* Man (caught off guard): Your way? That’s our song, Vesper’s and mine… What do you expect me — to delve?  Journo (getting abject panic from the autocue): No, Mr Mond, we expected you to dive, deeper, more openly… But apparently we are not fancy enough for you. Sitting here with a dismissive attitude, like you are Bond-J.-Bond himself.  Man: But… I am… Journo (decisively): This is all we have… we… thank you Joseph. (greatly relieved) And coming up next, we'll be speaking with Brenda from Bromley about her award-winning albino ferret, Flumfy! Later that day, Windsor Castle. Jim Bond: Can you believe they swallowed it? Anonymous man: It’s Channel 9, hardly Parky. Not even 8/10 Cats. Jim Bond: Still. Hook, line and prune. Like Philip was there!  Anonymous man: You had them at Fig Newtons. American, is it? CIA, NSA, FBI, JFK, CDC, right? Jim Bond: Tradecraft. I even slipped in the Lemon Juice Protocol. (conspiratorial) Got fitted me a new head. HQ is pleased.  Anonymous man: On the Hoover? Good ol’ Henry’s getting a head?  Jim Bond: Oh do shut up, mate! Envy’s a sin. Later still, Windsor Castle. Jim Bond (alone): Upholsterer… I f— (Tannoy bleeps disapprovingly) —ing wish. Tannoy (bing‑bong): All hands to the Grand Staircase. Accelerated transit to the second landing. Pruning Team to the East Wing. Orna‑mental. I say again: Orna‑*mental*. Jim Bond (weighs a little bottle labelled “Lemon Juice Protocol”; shakes his head; selects one marked “No‑Regrets Spray”): Regrets’ hard to dilute… (with pride): God, I’m good. Mum’s already rung—Brenda and Flumfy cleanly bumped off the telly. (sighs) Brenda was a total… nothing… Flumfy… (shakes head) Them red albino eyes… haunting... nightmare stuff… (He lifts a tumbleweed of corgi fuzz stamped in faded ink “E2R”.) Jim Bond (under his breath): Tradecraft! (proudly) Trade! Craft!