She: At least Moneypenny’s remembered her lines this time. She: See what? What am I meant to see? Couldn’t see it. “If you look at the satellite blow-up, you can clearly see this!” She: More likely to be mediocre thriller, bottle-and-a-half of wine and thoughts not worth thinking, isn’t it dear? Good book, glass of wine, alone with one’s thoughts. Saturday evening in Rules and no bookings. She: He’s wondering who’s being referred to as “Sir”, then remembers it’s him. Me: It’s like macramé, but with fewer stranglings. Me: Good spycraft from Gary, sitting with his back to the door. Suddenly! He’s interrupted by people he should have fired several days ago.
Meanwhile, Gary is dining alone, which probably happens to him a lot. Me: Smash thee that loom, my honey darling smash thee that loom. She: I’m not sure the internet improved us as a species. She: Or they used to be made when they could get away with it, and The Tragics could only enjoy the films as diversions from things that matter, rather than dissecting them relentlessly on the internet and treating that as a thing that matters. There are always plot holes in these things, although they tend to move more quickly so there’s no time to think about them. And he wasn’t the most practical man, was he? No-one stopped and asked him why he was taking plasterboard up there? Every year? Or about the overalls? Not a summer look.
She: Most hotels object to taking your own food in. She: And every year bashed through into his secret room, then plastered it up again. She: So this Mr White went every year to that hotel? It’s like the Monday morning Pendolino from Crewe. In which two drunks get into a fight on a train.
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