Wouldn’t it great to be Bond, James Bond, if only for a little while? You know, the fast car, martini’s shaken not stirred, just another day of gun play for Her Majesty?
Of course that job is already taken, but can we just pretend for a little while?
No. Just try to drive around fast in your hopelessly bourgeois Ford, drink lots of booze, but all at the cost of stable relationships. Except one, M.
I do have an “N”, a close friend who some years back gave me the moniker “Bond”, probably because I was single for so long and stayed in the litigation game. That and I own, rather than rent my tuxedo.
A few years back I went to the Spy Museum in Washington DC with my daughter Rachel. Part of the display or perhaps recordings there tell the visitor what they already know: Everybody wants to be James Bond. So I bought a sticker for my car that reads “Spy”, added another one which reads “GB” as in Great Britain, with the Union Jack prominently displayed on three sides of the disappointingly bourgeois Ford Edge. Yet I do get people passing me and turning their heads just to be sure it is just some average citizen…..
Fortunately I discovered some relation in the spy business when I was the Spy Museum, one Maureen L. P. Patterson. Of course no one is allowed to talk about her around the dinner table.
Except me, because I am,
Bond, James Bond
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