MI5
Obviously I too want to work for the MI5. Like mum. Ever since I can remember she worked irregular hours. Sometimes she would work afternoons, she would often come back at midnight, and on occasions she’d be be away all night. Then for whole days she would be at home, rarely out of her pyjamas. She was clearly paid over the odds, for I had everything a lad could dream of. She and dad had gone separate ways, but they never slagged each other off.
I was shocked when one day, out of the blue, when he had imbibed rather a lot, he blurted out mum worked as an escort. I was never so shocked in my born life. When he saw the look on my face, he burst out laughing. You didn’t believe me, did you? I was just teasing you. Some joke.
I was not sure what to believe. My mum’s a prossie? Never. She is ever so polished, she reads all the time. She never swears. She gives money to Oxfam. But I could never get rid of that niggling thought.
Which is why I decided to carry out a little investigation of my own. As she left for work one day, I surreptitiously followed her. It must be in my blood, for I am sure I was doing everything right, and she had no idea. To my amazement she turned into a dark alley, and aimed for the massage parlour at the corner. So dad was not joking. But hang on, what’s that bowler-hatted gentleman with an umbrella and an attaché case doing? He follows her in.
Then I had my light-bulb moment. Who else could the man be but her handler? And how clever to use a sauna as a cover for their debriefings!
