Spies never grow up

When I was little, I wanted to be a spy.

Scratch that – I was a spy. I can’t count the times I saved the world with an accurately timed commando roll or took down bad guys with just a pencil, a blob of glue and some cat hair.

I wrote my homework in lemon juice in case my arch-nemesis (the neighbour) got a hold of it – and crazily enough would get in trouble for handing in an empty book (my teacher wasn’t very bright). I tipped out the yogurt before anyone succumbed to the poison my neighbour placed in there (part of a plan to get my homework, I think).

I hid in cupboards and wrestled the demonic trench coats before they could carry out their assassination attempts.

I hid behind bushes and scared Mum half to death with my litre-of-custard poison gas, and threatened the evil Mr T (the turtle) with certain death if he didn’t stop trying to take over the UN.

And now I am older. I am still possessed by the urge to dive into bushes, and my curiosity about what the neighbours are doing does keep me at the curtains rather longer than necessary, but I never achieved my dream of becoming a spy.

I still keep some of those tricks though, even though I’m a little too old for the commando roll. But I’m thinking, after seeing Mr Anders at number 10 dancing in his underwear, I may give up my night vision goggles. No one needs to see that. I mean, no one.


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