Being an spy, like being an actor, requires that one take at least a rudimentary interest in ones physicality. You have to have a basic level of fitness, in other words.
It is difficult to follow a suspect, have long evenings sitting observing a suspect in the cold, be tortured in various nefarious ways and attend all of those long boring conferences on Spy-craft that are advertised in the back pages of the Spectator, if you don't look after yourself.
Or you could just end up with a desk job if you're a bit porky.
Like acting, where if you put on a few pounds, it will be difficult to progress beyond the chubby cheerful friend who lurks in the background and only appears fully in shot to push the protagonist onto self fulfilling action and love. Unless you're Richard Griffiths of course.
I also had an audition coming up for Marie Popin, a French version of the old favourite Mary Poppins, featuring a flying Au pair and a sans culotte chimney sweep and set in the days of the Barricades in Paris. There was a chance, if it was successful, that it might transfer to Disneyland Paris and could be a nice little earner for a couple of years. And Au pairs might fly...
It was with this in mind that I realised I did not quite look the part of an indigent chimney-sweep and so undertook a somewhat stringent diet that Anna has used several times in the past when she wants to lose weight quickly. Called the Cambridge diet it seems to involve ingesting nothing more than variously unpleasant milk shakes and the odd soup. Very Odd.
Anna was not dieting at the time so didn't notice that I was sneaking her hideously overpriced products as meal replacements. This was probably just as well as I had been somewhat scathing of her dietary habits in the past and had a go at her for starving herself for the sake of her appearance. Hypocrite is my middle name. Actually it's Eustace but I don't generally let on. I don't really have the stamina for dieting, if I'm honest but this was even worse than usual after two days I was weeping inconsolably as I watched The Great British Bake Off and yearning for a pie and a slice of Battenburg.
Sam (my CIA handler, if you recall) chose this moment to ring and offer me some work, of the less than legal variety. When I said no and told him to Eff off (having been threatened with castration by Anna if I ever went near him again) he did have the courtesy to ask if I was okay as I sounded 'a bit weird, even for me'.
I told him no, I was not okay, thank you very much for asking, but I had had enough and was doing a Cambridge and it didn't really sit well with me, what with my beliefs and all that. Then I heard Anna coming in through the front door and hung up on his protests.
Anyhoo, long story short and I got a callback for the part (profit share of course - those words that make an actors blood run cold, so I was in two minds) and it looked as though I might actually get the part. About six weeks after the above detailed phone call, there was a knock at my door.
When I answered, holding Giorgio in my arms, three men in matching black jackets and casual buff trousers, wearing sunglasses and carrying very smart briefcases, stood on the doorstep. They nodded a hello. And, in reference to my earlier argument, they were all very trim and smart. Though two of them had very fat necks. Oh great, I thought, The Men in Slacks.
I sighed. 'Look,' I said, 'I'm a blood donor, I carry a kidney donor card, I'm not particularly religious, my politics are lazy bordering on criminally neglectful, we have double glazing and loft insulation and most charities have received cheques from me at their offices as I'm extremely generous with the pittance I earn and I have a virgin going cold in the basement. So if you'll excuse me...'
They pushed past me, to my protestations and began taking apart light fittings and plugs.
'What are you...?' I managed to blurt out until I noticed one of them was packing a very small microphone into his briefcase, whilst the other was taking what looked to be a camera out of the skirting board. The third just stood off to one side, silently pointing to various apertures and fittings until the others removed whatever was hidden there.
'What is all this?' I shouted. Well, sort of muttered, as I'd noticed one of them was concealing a very large gun under his jacket. 'Who are you people?'
The leader approached me and reached inside his jacket. I flinched and turned around halfway so that Giorgio was at least partly shielded. I had thought about holding him in front of me in self defence (he'd been a bit grotty that morning and I was a bit tetchy with him if I'm honest), but then I thought about what Anna would do to me and decided being shot myself was probably the soft option.
Rather than a gun, the lead Man in Slacks pulled out a document of some kind and a pen and held them out to me. I stared at him blankly and he shook the piece of paper. I placed Giorgio down on a chair and took it from him.
It rambled on about how I had been identified as a possibly dangerous individual under the Terrorism Act but this had now been established as a mistake. They apologized for any intrusion but under said Act they were free to investigate any and all accusations and threats using whatever means possible. A cheque was attached to make repairs for the various listening and watching devices they had utilised in their surveillance of me, provided I signed the official secrets act form attached and mentioned this visit to no-one.
Reader, I was confused. I asked for further clarification but none was forthcoming. The lead Man in Slacks simply reached inside his jacket and this time he did pull out a gun.
I signed. And off they went. As they left, the lead Man in Slacks called back over his shoulder that if my Irritable Bowel Syndrome was still a problem I should increase the fibre in my diet.
When Anna returned she thought I'd been up to some kind of DIY and no amount of explaining, complaining and swearing would convince her otherwise. I even showed her the cheque but, given that it was a Department of Work and Pensions giro this did little to help.
It wasn't until a couple of days later when Sam rang back that things got a little clearer.
He said he was calling back under instructions from his superior (how mealy mouthed is that for an apology?) but when I had said I was doing a Cambridge and sounded so panicky and on edge, he had assumed I was defecting and selling secrets to the Russians or the Chinese and so had instigated an investigation in order to find out what I knew.
He now knew that thinking that I knew now, or ever would know, anything of importance was foolish in the extreme and that all of the tapes and files against me would be sealed and only opened if I got myself together enough to commit some act of gross treason or kill someone.
I explained that he had better keep those files handy next time I saw him. Then I swore. A lot. As much as a troop of troupers who've just been informed of the latest round of pay cuts in the armed services.
He told me that by way of compensation he had arranged for Anna and I to have an all expenses paid holiday in Paris and we could maybe check out Disneyland while we were there.
I was going to ask how he knew about that but then I realised, he'd have heard all about it over the microphones and on video. I swore at him some more but then, purely in a spirit of international co-operation and detente, I generously agreed that we would take the holiday. Really, I should have known better... Talk about the holiday from hell.
I thought it was lucky that I'd lost all that weight, ready for a nice sexy break in Paris. But when I weighed myself I realised I'd actually put on a couple of pounds. Bugger.
