I seriously considered ending my arrangement with Griffin this past week. This would, in all likelihood, have condemned him to the gallows, and at the height of my ire, I would’ve considered it well deserved. He had, and I still shudder in recalling this, placed a pair of my finer handmade shoes on the floor of my wardrobe, and left the door open.

I simply cannot conceive of what he was thinking at the time.

Of course, Jack took this opportunity to chew upon and digest almost the entirety of the upper leathers of both shoes. Not only did this make him copiously sick, but it deprived me of my most expensive pair of handcrafted shoes.

Still, life must go on. I immediately contacted the lady who does both my manicures and pedicures and she confirmed that she would able to be at my flat within two days. She is most sought after, and it normally takes at least a fortnight to get an appointment with her. After my feet had been buffed, pumiced, and powdered, I took myself to the shoemaker’s. I had them make a new last in the shape of my foot as I felt the previous one had been made prior to several rather arduous missions I’d undertaken. Not that my feet are misshapen, you understand, but they may have developed extra character.

Now, in a bare month, I will have an expertly fitted pair of new leather brogues that caress my feet like a beautiful Italian mistress. The expectation is titillating in the extreme.

I could almost forgive Griffin. Almost.

Gods, but I hate being ill!

I’ve been laid up before, having been stabbed, shot, and punched so hard in the ribs that I had to lie more or less still for a whole week, but all of these have given me some kind of strange satisfaction. Not the pain, you understand, rather the marks of doing my duty. Usually, the other fellow comes off worse, and I feel pride in that, but I also feel a certain amount of pride watching a scar form on my skin. I admit, I don’t particularly fancy a scar on the face, although some men manage to wear that with a rakish charm. Obviously, such a thing would make me stand out – and a spy never wants to do that. And, yes, I admit, I am a little vain about my looks.

Now, scars on the body can be an endless source of fascination to one’s lovers. I’ve enjoyed making up the most ridiculous stories about them. Not boastful you understand, but generally comical. ‘Oh yes, I got that one arm wrestling a giant panda. Generally, they’re quite good natured bears, but I must have caught that particular one on a bad day. Didn’t hurt it you understand, just nasty big claws though.’ Or some such nonsense.

When I did a bit of nude modelling, I had to convince the artist not to include the scars. Some of them are quite distinctive. My badges of honour I call them. There’s a couple upon which it’s really rather pleasant to encourage a lovely lady to trace along their length with her dainty fingers. Definitely gets things moving – as it were.

But, on this occasion, I’m not injured. I have no badge of honour. I’m stuck at White Orchards snuffling and sniffling like a schoolboy. I’ve roamed the wide world, fallen in rivers, climbed icy heights with far too little clothing, and never a moment of illness from my adventures. I come to see my goddaughter and within a day she’s given me some wretched child malaise that has sent my sinuses into overdrive and my temperature soaring. I’m in bed with a hot water bottle, shivering with the fever. Even Jack is appalled at my weakness and has absconded to the kitchen to beg for sausages. I only hope to goodness that word doesn’t get back to the department that I’m laid up in bed with the sniffles. I’ll damn well never live it down!

I have noticed that the upcoming generation seem to be taking to eating between meals. I predict this will be the downfall of society. 

‘Snacks’ are generally something that I give Jack. I also refer to them as treats, or, I don’t refer to them at all. Even a dog shouldn’t eat between meals, but sometimes those brown eyes of his are simply too sorrowful, and I become convinced that Griffin has forgotten to feed him. This is, of course, never the case. 

When it comes to myself, while at home, I prefer the routine of breakfast, luncheon and dinner, or supper if one is dining lightly. Even I, these days, must be careful to keep my physique in its prime. A waistcoat button stretched to its limit, or a pinching trouser waist will send me into a week of lighter meals. But generally, I stick to regular mealtimes. 

At house parties’ things are a little different. They include a ‘teatime’ of cakes and tiny sandwiches that would not satisfy a mouse (this meal, I believe, was invented for ladies who were bored in the afternoon). Then, after dinner, there’s often a supper for those who have stayed up late. This is to remind guests that the evening really is over, and also to prove the largesse of the host. Those who’ve partaken lightly of dinner, to prove their control, load up like pigs at a trough now that the most important (and prettiest) ladies have retired. After a ball, there’s always a breakfast at 4am to signal the end of the evening and sober up the guests enough to get them to their carriages or to their chambers. 

Thus, it seems to me, in the ordinary way of things, the upper classes have always had more than enough food on offer. Too much, if one consults the tailors of the middle aged men who rule the great houses and the banks. Control and self-regulation must be a gentleman’s watchwords, as they have been mine, if he is not to turn into a porcine caricature of himself by forty. 

Even the other classes have regular mealtimes that they hold dear, be it dinner or tea. Of course, the lower classes are rising, and the upper classes are in retreat. Which, really, is how it should be if we are ever to have a more egalitarian world. I say this with the ease of a gentleman who was born rich and who has always made sound investments (the irony is not lost on me). 

But the disruption of strikes and wars has led to people grabbing food when they can. I’ve even heard stories of quite senior people consuming a luncheon at their work desks. Surely all this can achieve is indigestion and stained paperwork? Splitting one’s concentration is never wise. Besides, food is one of the joys of life and should be savoured. 

Although, in some ways, I suppose I do understand this descent into ‘snacking’. Always, when I was in the field, I’d eat when I could. If the ‘field’ happened to be a country house, there was little to alarm one other than a straining waistcoat, but if the ‘field’ was actually a field, it was quite different. When tramping through the wild on reconnaissance, or when evading others, or even pursuing a target, it’s important to keep up one’s strength. You can never quite be sure when you’ll next be able to eat again, despite what supplies you have (and you may have to abandon them at a moment’s notice). It’s only at times such that these that I ‘snack’.  

My reflections, thus, lead me to the thought that the everyday working lives of our population are moving towards a similar chaos and confusion that is present during a mission. Lines that had been drawn in the sand, such as when a man’s working day begins and ends, are slipping. I don’t think this is good. An army marches on its stomach, and a civilisation reigns through organisation and order. When we eat is one of the foundations of our nation, and when we work is a critical outline of our days. Without a necessary distinction between the two, all is in disorder. 

But then, those close to me only laugh at my dire predictions of descending chaos. They point out that I myself have never lived my life constrained by rules, or even vaguely coloured within the lines. But I’m Fitzroy! I don’t believe there could ever be a society of Fitzroy’s. It makes me shudder at the mere thought. I’m proud of who, and what, I am but I’m quite certain the world only needs one of me. Although, perhaps, the ladies might argue differently.

There once was a time when it was very much the thing to arrange amateur theatricals during weekend house parties. The main draw of such activities seemed to be the extraordinary costumes, especially the ladies, and a chance to openly flirt in front of an audience. 

Unfortunately for me, these thespian activities have returned to popularity. Now, I’m far from adverse to seeing a lovely looking young woman in a daring Grecian costume (although seeing her dowager, cake-loving mother in a similar gown can give one a proper start). Nor am I disinclined towards the theatre in general. I always enjoy a good play. I can even put up with the singing that sometimes encourages these antics. A piece of good advice I was once given was never to sing after dinner, and I believe I’ve yet to meet another person to whom I would not gladly enforce this advice.

As it so happens, I’m a fine actor myself. My profession demands it. I was even once rehearsing in a West End play, and I fancy I would have taken London by storm if it had ever opened. Even I was surprised at how very good I was. But this is the nub of the matter. I was on a mission searching for a traitor at the time. My department would never have allowed me to appear on the open stage. In fact, the only way I could do so would be if I changed profession entirely.

As a spy, I pose as a gentleman of leisure who attends weekend parties, so I’m always acting. I’m always looking for contacts, rooting out dissidents, but in such a manner that no one would ever believe I’m an agent of the crown.

At all such events I must appear no more than a mildly intelligent, outrageously charming, handsome, and good natured fellow. I must appear totally incapable of dissembling - the very trademark of a spy. Thus, I cannot step one well-shod foot upon an amateur stage. Instead, I’m forced to watch the ham-fisted oafs of the house and their idiot friends cavort about acting and thinking, quite erroneously, they were born to tread the boards. I must applaud them and dowse them with praise when I know how much better I’d be at it. I must even, and I shudder at the mere thought of it, flub every audition offered to me after supper. I must appear to be utterly incapable of acting - when I am, by far, the very best among them.

It quite makes me sick. I tell myself I’m already engaged in a role, but the truth is, I truly hate to appear to be inadequate in any department. Worse still, the ladies are captivated by any man on stage, no matter how bombastic and infantile their performance may be. 

On one occasion, the rehearsal was so dreadful that I seriously considered setting fire to the house just so I didn’t have to sit through the final event. Instead, I consoled myself in the arms of the mistress of the house who was boiling with a passionate rage after seeing her husband on stage flirting with a young lady half her age. There’s something to be said for backstage activities after all.

Today I had occasion to pass by Buckingham Palace, the King’s official London residence. I cannot help but reflect that it looks more like a wedding cake than ever. Like almost all of the bigger and older residences in the country, it’s in a state of permanent expansion.

I don’t like this trend. I recall one house party where I entered into a medieval hallway. I was then shown through to a room in the Queen Anne wing that had lots of large windows, as was befitting of the period. Now, while such large windows do let in a lot of light, but they also let out a lot of warmth. The only respite from this is the huge accompanying fireplaces which, typically, either have a pitiful fire in them, or a raging inferno.

On this particular visit I’d indulged my romantic nature and accepted an invitation from a very boring chap. I’d quite determined that I was going to have a weekend filled with medieval adventure; jousting (albeit verbally) and courtly love (several of the ladies present were eager for my attention). But, on the whole, the mishmash of architectural styles and period furnishing from colliding eras unsettled me greatly. There’s nothing quite so disturbing to a cultured gentleman’s digestion than the sight of Louis XIV style furniture in a medieval hall. The owner, a man seriously lacking in any kind of personality, had clearly decided to be eccentric instead.  I ended up accepting the first amorous advance I encountered, merely to get away from the hideous Ormolu clock in my own bedchamber.  This proved to be an overwhelming disappointment.  She had a complete lack of literally inclinations and declared proudly to me - mid congress - that she’d yet to open a book this year, and that a library in a house was a waste of a good room (it quite put me off my stride).

I was brought up in a castle, or rather, as brought up as any child of my era was. I spent my youngest years, and subsequent school holidays, there. Thick walls, the most determined of draughts (which always seemed to find a way through the smallest of gaps), the delight of a roaring fire, and morning washing-up water ice-cold and invigorating. Although the plumbing, originally non-existent, had been updated, the castle was otherwise well maintained, but not significantly expanded or modified. It’s one of the few things - the very few things - my father and I agree on. The soul and character of the family home remains largely unchanged from how it originally was, and where there have been additions, they’re reserved, and in the same style. It’s a fortress of a place, and I have fondness for it.

Fundamentally, a man’s seat, or his family’s seat, should be like our proud country, not afraid to be bold, but without being brash, and of a style that reflects of our noble British heritage. The King really should move back to Windsor Castle, a place of real grandeur. I’ve an uncanny feeling that his descendants will not take so kindly to living in Buckingham Palace.

I have taken to having coffee with my breakfast. I suspect this is due to my American legacy, mother having hailed from the American States (I also believe this genetic heritage may account for my more rebellious streak although, unlike those ‘across the pond’, I have yet to cede from the Empire!)

Most of the people I encounter in the King’s domain still hold to an early morning tea. Some gentlemen even fortify their early morning brew with a touch of the grain (whisky - and one sincerely hopes they don’t use an aged single malt, for that would be a terrible waste). As it’s my desire that an early morning brew sharpens the senses, rather than dulls them, I would never, ever consider this option.

Personally, I find tea a soporific beverage. I suppose if a gentleman or, less likely, a lady, might be nursing a sore head from the night before, then such a gentle awakening may well be a relief. But on the rare occasions when I’d had to imbibe more than my constitution would like, I want to get through the repercussions as quickly as possible (tabasco sauce, raw egg yolk, and fresh pressed tomato juice generally recalibrate my system, if not my mood).

Thus, I have taken to having freshly ground coffee to awaken me first in the morning. Even the smell is delightful. Coffee, well ground and well brewed, is a perfect concoction, and it’s not too difficult to achieve. Even Alice, on occasion, brews a pot for me (not too frequently though as there’s such a thing as tempting fate).

I also prefer it without milk or sugar - as strong and as black as my heart some would say. Ha!

I own the fact that I’m not a modest man. In my line of work, although one has to remain discreet, lack of belief in one’s abilities, and ultimate success in most encounters, can be fatal. Blind confidence is not required, but something damn well near it is.

Nor do I believe in living modestly. I’ve previously remarked that during my rare times at home, I don’t spare my purse strings but indulge myself as only a gentleman of means may. I do draw the line at excess. I don’t drink brandy every night, but when I do its bloody good brandy (I’m not enough of an oenophile, or a fool, that I’ll pay thousands for something that passes through my system all too briefly, but I will part with a goodly amount of money for things that genuinely please me).

Likewise, I’m always generous with any of my paramours. I do my best to leave them in no doubt that our relationship is not permanent, but while we’re together, both of us should enjoy ourselves as much our time allows.

On occasion this causes me concern. And this is the nub of my worry. A little gnawing niggle that pervades my conscience. If I give the best of the best, does that mean that after my departure, my ex-lover’s life is forever cast into shade? Can anything else, or rather anyone else, ever be quite as good? This is, perhaps, why I’m a frequent customer at my jewellers. Towards the end of a relationship, I like to give some token that will bring the recipient much happiness (and what else, other than myself, is most likely to please a lady?).

But, still, it rankles. Should I be less charming towards the end of an affair, so that I’m less missed? I have a great admiration for the ladies who indulge my passions, or I would not be with them. I feel while we’re together, I should give my very best in all departments. But, once again, I ponder - does this mean I have to leave a legacy of loss behind me?

I have no answer, and it worries me. As ever, in almost all areas, I am positively unsurpassable.

Poor ladies.

I believe I’m no different to most men in that, on occasion, I awake in the middle night with the strangest of thoughts. One’s brain, still half in the dream world, attempts to enter one’s normal state of reason and the oddest thought processes occur.

One night I was sleeping alone - if I awaken while with a companion any passing thoughts are quickly pushed aside - and I found myself thinking about shoes. In particular, my own fine handmade shoes that Jack is so keen to chew. I believe I must have been having a nightmare, for before I was fully awake, I found myself standing in front of my wardrobe checking that said items remained intact and out of my canine companion’s reach. Speaking of whom, he had once again found his way to the end of my bed and was snoring loudly.

I have quite excellent night sight, so I was able to do this and return to bed without having to put on a light, thereby disturbing the dog. Jack can, on occasion, bounce exceedingly high for such a small dog, and should he ascertain where I keep my favourite shoes, I’m sure he would exhaust himself trying to get to them.

But, as I lay there in the dark, I began to wonder why Jack was so eager to eat my shoes. I fear, I must already have been tumbling back into sleep, for my brain produced the idea that perhaps my shoes smelled like sausages to Jack. Or, worse still, bacon.

Of course, the only reason my shoes could possibly smell of either would be if my feet smelled likewise. Such was my dream ridden state, I became acutely worried that my feet smelled like some of Jack’s favourite meats. I won’t say I reasoned the need to investigate at once, for there was clearly no reason to be found in my sleepy brain. I soon found myself twisting into various contortions in an attempt to smell my own feet without disturbing the dog. I’m fairly limber and was quickly able to assure myself that my feet smelled only of the extremely expensive soap I use (I tend to indulge myself at home for while on a mission I may have no access soap for days and it’s quite a punishment for a gentleman of my sensibilities). I fell asleep quite content, only to be awoken the next morning with Jack nibbling at my toes!

I decided the only thing to do was to make light of the whole ridiculous situation, and have since used the story when in bed, naked with any of my paramours. Not only does it make the ladies laugh, but also allows me to demonstrate my flexibility, which can lead to the most delightful of situations.

There are certain phrases in the English language that all gentleman tremble upon hearing.

‘Darling, I have something to tell you…’ accompanied by fluttering eyelashes and a winsome look from a wife or mistress. Usually, the lady in question is pregnant, or has committed a minor indiscretion, such as spending all the housekeeping money for the week on a hat, or a small dog (or, possibly, a small dog worn as a hat? I’ll never understand female fashions. I prefer less material, not more).

Or even, ‘Darling, you remember so-and-so?’ If they were a friend, they’re dead. If they’re someone you detest, they’re coming to dinner.

Or there’s also, ‘I feel a sick headache coming on.’ The gentleman has likely forgotten an anniversary and his life will be a misery for weeks to come.

There are other general sundries, such as those uttered upon sight of one’s sartorial choices. ‘Interesting’, ‘How Novel’ and ‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ Or my favourite, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was a fancy dress party.’

Between ladies, the language is usually more innocent, and the meaning even more vicious. ‘Oh, it’s been an age since I saw you,’ meaning what a shame that age has ended. Or ‘How very brave you are to…’ and whatever follows is deemed foolish to the point of stupidity.

I admit, I do enjoy the ‘How is your husband?’ spoken to a lady who has recently become someone else’s mistress. Or, of a baby, ‘What a chubby faced little cherub he is. He clearly takes after you.’

But, of course, these are observed conversations. None have ever applied to me. No, the worst one I hear is, ‘Something must be done.’ This usually means the speaker has failed to do something, disaster has ensued, and the speaker is looking for someone to blame. It’s a phrase that grows in the telling. Usually, it’s muttered first by old men in their clubs, and is a sign that an ill wind is blowing. If uttered by a senior member of the department, it means they’re out of ideas and are looking for inspiration. When a parliamentarian utters such a phrase, it normally means he’s spotted an opportunity to bend the public will to his point of view and create a change the likes of which the public wouldn’t normally tolerate.

You’ll note that this phrase is never expressed as ‘I must do something!’ The speaker calling for change invariably has no interest in doing any actual work. No, they wish simply to be the catalyst, and for history to attribute such a change, if successful, to them. But do they actually do a lick of work themselves? Never!

Whenever I go to the Houses of Parliament, I do my best to eat and drink them out of house and home when I gain access to any of their dining establishments. Their food is ridiculously cheap for such well padded pockets. Eating my fill there is the only way I know if getting value for my taxes.

And, for clarity, I do not support any particular political party. I’m apolitical. I hate the damn lot of them. All of them are nothing more than men of words, who sent others to do their actions, and in the worst of times, to die for them.

Today has been a black day. I blame the cheese. I should never had had the Stilton at luncheon.

The day began with one of Griffin’s omelettes. I can only assume an ill omen passed overhead for it was spectacularly dreadful, even by his standards. I felt quite queasy afterwards. It certainly encouraged me to eat out come midday.

I spent the morning reading up on paperwork I’d removed from the office. Completely forbidden of course. The reports are generally locked away securely, as if they’re government secrets. I suppose some are - but I digress - it was barely a challenge to liberate them and bring them home. Honestly, one expects better security from one’s own department.

They made depressing reading. All signs point to war, and after the hard work that I, Alice, and so many others have done to pull the country back from the brink. We’ve risked our necks time and time again for King and Country. It’s not like I expect thanks. In fact, I’d find such a thing far too embarrassing. What I don’t expect, however, is all the bloody politicians undoing all my - our - hard work. The wrong word in the wrong place and six months’ worth of missions, the death of three spies, and various other hardships, all willingly endured, are done away with in a trice. And for what? These wretched sparring matches between those parliamentary fools are rarely for the good of the people, and more about boosting their own damn egos.

At my club I overheard a number of fools talking about being patriotic. This was followed by how ready each and every one of them were prepared to go into battle. They spoke of the Boer War as if it had been little more than a jolly vacation and talked enthusiastically of the practical improvements that have been made in the killing of one’s fellow man. Not a single one of them under sixty, and none of them going to see any further action.

Gods, but I despise these old men. I sometimes wonder what the world might be like if it were run by women. I simply cannot see those who have to spend nine whole months and undergo frightful pain in order to create a human life being so eager and ready to sacrifice the youths of our society the battlefield.

One always hopes that wisdom comes with age, but it appears not to be so for the crusty old duffers at my club. I’m sorely tempted to poison their whisky and do away with the lot. Except, it is rather a fine whisky, which would be a terrible waste, and I suppose I might get into a modicum of trouble with the department.

Ah, well. I’ll press on regardless, continuing to strive to bring peace to the world, or at the very least, shorten any war. Considering the idiots that surround me, is it any wonder that I prefer the company of the gentler sex? Although, I have to say, the lady I’m currently seeing, I shall call her Ruby here, is a positive wildcat in the bedchamber. Now that’s the kind of active engagement I really enjoy.

I’m not a man to make New Year’s resolutions. The calendar date is entirely arbitrary. I’m aware that for many people the festivities of Christmas and the New Year make them reassess the more mundane aspects of their lives. My life is never mundane. Neither is Yuletide necessarily a time of rest for me, as I often have to deal with people in more intimate terms than I do for the rest of the year. Appearing to be a normal, handsome, charming, chap of wit and intellect is quite a challenge for me.

However, the one exception to this is that on the first of each new year I tend to take a breath and take stock of the world. Primarily I ask:

1)    Is the world going to hell in a handbasket?

2)    Am I expected to do anything about it?

3)    Can I do anything about it, whether I’m expected to or not?

It’s not unlike my yearly meeting with my business manager. I oversee my properties and my small estate from a distance. I like to drop in now and then, but on the whole, I have a trusted manager who understands my way of doing things.

The answer to question one is invariably, yes, the world is going to hell in a handbasket. It is, after all, as full of malicious, narcissistic, self-motivated, power-hungry individuals as it is full of the nicer elements of humanity. Probably more so, and yes, I also agree that most of them are a disgrace to my own gender.

I’m often expected to do something about it, in particular corners of the world. I don’t claim to ever save the world, but I contribute, I hope, to his Imperial Majesty’s attempts to bring peace to the Empire. Occasionally, I remove unpleasant individuals from any unpleasantness they are undertaking, but more often that not, I aspire to render a number of them null and void by setting them at each other’s throats; the spy equivalent of a game of chess. This is the most fun to be had in the service - outside of a lady’s bedchamber.

I prefer working on a long leash. In other words, to be given a set of aims to achieve, and to be allowed to achieve them as I see fit. Morley, being a traditional army man, likes to be more hands on. The problem here is that although he is not unintelligent, he thinks in blunt terms. He’s used to marching forward, attacking, and marching back while defending. The game of cloaks and shadows is much more subtle. I’m attempting to train him, but we’re often at loggerheads. Not least because he considers his higher rank of utmost importance in our discussions. Whereas, spies, like myself, do value the chain of command - to a certain degree, but we’re generally dismissive of rank in individuals. It’s more about what you can actually do rather than the number of pips on your collar. I suppose I may feel differently if I ever survive to the rank of Colonel, but I doubt it. That I’m almost always correct means that such opinion unlikely to change.

With regard to questions two and three, whether there is anything I can do about it, with or without being tasked, occupies a lot of my time. Although I often do spectacular things, more than most in my profession, it remains true that the majority of a spy’s time in the field comes down to watching, evaluating, cultivating sources, and obtaining information. More and more intelligence is being passed back to headquarters for analysis, making us little more than glorified reporters, but I’m old fashioned enough to enjoy putting information together when I’m in the field, and acting on it.

I am, as ever, fond of the mantra, ‘act now and seek permission later’.

I suspect the current year will bring me much action. This makes me sad for my fellow man (and woman), but also, on a more personal level, quite excited, and an excited Fitzroy is an awesome thing to behold.

So, the New Year cometh, and I’m making my plans. The house party I’m currently attending, and which was surprisingly enjoyable at the start of the Christmas period, is descending into slaughter.

On New Year’s Day there’s to be a duck hunt. For this monstrous event the local ducks have, as far as I can ascertain, been bred, fed, and lured to live out at the end of the estate where the marshlands meet the land. More than twelve determined guests are set to go out and shoot from a number of well concealed hides and boats. The boot room is currently awash with ammunition.

I am, naturally, invited. Since the invitation was issued, I’ve been making plans to sabotage the hunt. I don’t like such abject slaughter and I imagine that less than half of the birds will end up being eaten. All of the guests going are good shots. Some of them superb shots.

Of course, it’s easy enough to hole the boats, and leave unpleasant surprises in the hides, but I’ve been thinking about small incendiary devices. The kind I have used to make as a child when I was bored during the holidays. Easy enough to make from kitchen sourced ingredients and although they make a nice loud bang, and create quite a flash, they almost never do any real damage to the person unfortunate enough to set them off.

I sat in my bed last night finalising my plans until I realised, I can’t do it. Firstly, because Alice will know at once that it was myself who ruined her husband’s day. She’s no great enthusiast for hunts, but she’s a great enthusiast of her husband and she’ll be exceedingly angry with me. Never a pleasant experience. I don’t mind being thrown out of the house. I have, by now, drunk and eaten my fill, and the other guests are being a drag on my soul, like Marley’s chains. Still, I don’t like upsetting Alice. It’s not only that I don’t want her to be upset, but it’ll cost me a deuce of a lot to get back into her good books. As we must work together, and as I’ll have been the cause of the disagreement, it’ll be down to me to patch things up. After all, that’s only cricket.

Secondly, and the main reason that is stopping me from going all-out on this plan, is that two significant dignitaries, who are also staying here, are planning to attend. There’d be one hell of a commotion if I blew either of them up, even if it was only a tiny explosion.

I’m going to have contend myself with going out late on New Year’s Eve and doing my best to scare the creatures from their home, with as minimal a disruption as possible. Everyone should be partying enough that I should be able to slip away. I’ll have to make it look like an action of nature that so many birds have vacated the premises, which’ll not only take time, but entail my getting rather wet into the bargain.

I’m damned annoyed about the whole thing. I only have decent clothing with me, so I’ll have to ruin something. In fact, I’ve decided that I deserve a prize for my restraint. One of the young ladies here has been making eyes at me, and despite what I’d implicitly agreed with Alice about not making mischief while under her roof, I’ll test the boundaries. I don’t have to seduce her, for if the young lady is as attracted to me as she’s indicated’ I’ll take her to bed and make both our New Year’s celebrations that much more joyous.

If I’m truthful, how could she resist with such a fine specimen of manhood? I only hope Alice doesn’t find out or I’ll really be in the soup.

I’m still floundering in what is proving to be the longest festive season I can remember. Obviously, I don’t mind all of the parties, or all of the ladies in their finery.  It’s simply that this year it all seems emptier and more vacuous than before. We stand on the brink of war, and everyone’s doing their level best to ignore it. Human nature, I suppose, and I say this with scorn.

However, international warfare aside, my most pressing problem is that Alice has invited me to spend Christmas at White Orchards, and I don’t know how I feel about this. There’s to be a house party. It’ll be civil, full of intelligent people, and if her wretched husband hasn’t drunk all the wine that I gave him as an apology for stealing her away the day they came back from their honeymoon, decent booze.

Some pleasures will be denied to me. I won’t feel as though I can flirt under her roof. I’m sure Alice wouldn’t be impressed if I ‘entertained’ one of her friends in my boudoir. She can be most unreasonably possessive of me for a woman who married for love.

Then there’s the issue of Christmas dinner. I don’t object to whatever meat or fowl is chosen for the main course, but I do own to certain requirements for this festive repast. First, and foremost, I require a decent pickle to go with the meat. It must be appropriate to the chosen beast or fowl and preferably home-made by a decent cook. If it must be bought, then nothing less than a jar from our foremost store (which also supplies the sovereign) is acceptable. There should also be a decent English mustard, as yellow as a day-old chick, and it should be smooth with a faint tang of sharp white wine, and also homemade. I require several options for the vegetable course, and a freshly made, smooth, unctuous gravy - no chunks of onion in it please. Potatoes must be piping hot and salted, however they are served. Most importantly, there must be a freshly made - and I mean within the last half hour prior to dining - bread sauce. Without that, the meal is simply not festive.

I’m quite accommodating when it comes to the first course. Lobster is acceptable, with a preamble of some light, well made soup. Nothing stodgy like Windsor Soup! If several courses are being offered, I enjoy a palette cleanser in the form mouthful of sharp sorbet between the courses, or something equally refreshing.

Naturally, the wines must be matched to the courses, and a good brandy offered, as well as the regular port in the final phase of the degustatory engagement. Dessert should be something eye-catching. I don’t tend to eat much of it myself, but I require it to be artistically celebratory in appearance. I’ve less requirements for its taste - mild and inoffensive is best at the end of a long meal. Flaming Christmas pudding, if it must be served, should be later in the day.

There also has to be a decent cheeseboard, finger bowls, fresh flowers, along with sparkling silverware and crystal glasses. A plentiful supply of fresh linen napkins is a necessity. There are a few things worse than seeing one of the diners mop his chops with an already stained napkin. Fresh linen should be offered with each course.

I prefer for time to be taken over the meal, and for it to be given over to pleasure of consuming. I don’t go to Christmas dinner for the conversation, but for the feasting. By the very end of it, I want my waistcoat buttons to be straining - no small feat for any hostess - I have a capacious appetite on the merry 25th.

It’s by these requirements alone I’ve survived Christmas dinner with my family these many years, and I’ve come to rely on these restrictions for my happiness on the day.

I don’t know the cook at White Orchards, and thus cannot predict how competent they are. As I often do with the cooks of houses I visit regularly, I send them pickles, or other minor ingredients for them to try and enlarge their culinary horizons. This must be done with the utmost care, for cooks are ridiculously temperamental. However, a gentleman who takes a genuine interest in their craft is deemed unusual enough to ensure a happy outcome – certainly in all my interventions to date.

So, do I accept this invitation to White Orchards? I will be a bear with a sore head if I don’t get what I want for my Christmas dinner, and Alice would never speak to me again if I sent her a full list of my requirements.

Alas, even in my personal time, I must utilise my masterly diplomacy. There’s no rest for the wicked - and I can be very wicked indeed.

The festive season has turned up with its unwelcome regularity. While I’m all for brushing along tolerably with other members of the species, I simply cannot embrace this whole ‘goodwill to all men’ nonsense. I mean, I appreciate the sentiment. I understand people aspiring to create a heavenly paradise on Earth (although it sounds like a deathly bore to me, and I’d doubtless be the snake in the garden). Indeed, I spend my working hours attempting to attain world peace, but it’s not the kind of peace brought about by open arms and blind acceptance.

The problem with the doctrine of seeing all men as brothers, etcetera, etcetera, is that not all families get along, not by any means. Take mine for instance (and yes, please do take them). Also, there are some thoroughly unpleasant rotters in the world, who will always be out for themselves, prepared to lie, scheme, murder, etc., for their own self aggrandisement and prosperity.

In short, you can’t have peace without people like me who go out and tackle the rotters. I’m aware that I’m not, in the general sense, a very nice man, or even a good man, given the things I’ve done (Alice says I’m a good man who does bad things for all the right reasons, but that’s getting far too metaphorical for me). To have your peaceful garden, you need tigers like myself to root out and destroy the monsters.

I even believe not all men are born good. Sometimes, even with the good ones, something goes wrong. Perhaps it’s what they’re taught as a child, deliberately, or by the deprivations of their upbringing. Or, perhaps, they’re born with an insatiable desire for power because their brain is fitted back to front, or they’re attempting to make up for some other intimate inadequacy. I really don’t know.

I do know that not all men deserve our goodwill. Not a popular theme at this time of the year, so I shall keep it between my diary and myself, and the few others who understand the sentiment.

And as for all men being brothers – why, that would make all women our sisters! Given my fondness for the opposite sex, it doesn’t bear thinking about!

They’ve only gone and mentioned me in despatches! I don’t want to be mentioned in bloody despatches! You don’t mention spies in despatches that’s the whole damn point about being a ruddy spy!

To be fair, I was acting in my capacity as a scout, and they used my real name, rather than my spy moniker. Unfortunately, a member of my wretched family saw it. Then it was ‘how the devil is a wastrel like you a captain?’ and ‘what were you doing behind enemy lines?’ to which I responded - none to politely - ‘what the devil do you think I was doing? Going to a dance?’

However, suspicions have been raised that I’m not wholly useless, and that I might even be doing my bit for the country. Of course, my father thought they must have either exaggerated wildly, or got me mixed up with some other captain. From now on, when working with the regular army, I’ll insist on being referred to as Captain Fitzroy. Maybe one day that’ll even be Brigadier Fitzroy.

Not that I do any of this for the glory. I’m in it for the adventure, and the ladies, like any decent gentleman.

Little Hope is a delight that I hadn’t expected in my life. I’ve always quite liked children. My own stepsiblings’ children were close in age to me, and I, more than once, entertained them during family events. After my mother died, they were always preferable company to that of the adults.

But the feelings I have for Hope are different. I’m around her far more often than I ever saw (or still see) my nieces and nephews, so it makes sense that I know her better. What I didn’t expect to feel was the sense of warmth I get when she smiles at me or runs towards me whenever I enter a room. The feel of her little hand in mine makes me feel strangely protective, awakening a sleeping lion within. I rather fear I would single-handedly slay an army of men rather than let one hair on her head be harmed.

Of course, I was there on that dreadful night when she was born. A horrific storm was preventing medical help from reaching us, and Euphemia was in a bad way. I don’t mind admitting this was one of the few occasions in my life that I have felt real fear.

But, as I’ve recounted elsewhere, it all ended well. Obviously, neither mother nor child choose the day on which she was born. I completely approved of Euphemia’s choice to call her Hope; the armistice having been signed on the day of her birth.

But, as I sit here at White Orchards, waiting for the child to dig into her pile of presents, with a table piled high with her favourite foods and a very large cake, I personally find it a most difficult day. I love to see her happy, but today is a challenging day for all adults. The war is less than five years behind us, and the cost to the country, to our comrades, our families, and our friends, is still an open wound in all our souls.

Poor Hope, to be born on a day that causes so much mixed emotions - the reflections, the sadness, and, of course, the eternal gratitude to all those who served and all those that died to keep us free. I’ll spend much of the day smiling at her, but like all of the adults on this estate, we’re smiling to hide the tears the past still demands of us.

Alice doesn’t like Cairo. She didn’t enjoy the journey here and finding a blazingly hot and crumbling city with less than the usual amenities didn’t delight her either. I thought she seemed a bit off colour and I kept her in the shade, plied with liquids that were safe to drink.

It’s not like she’s complained. She hasn’t. She knows how vital Africa is to the war, and she knows how much I wanted to meet the British Intelligence chief here. I mean, she didn’t even comment when he and I hit it off about as well as lemon juice and milk. He’s very clever, crafty, and cunning, but totally bound up in his own propaganda, fantasies and lies. He’s not the least bit like myself who, along with the planning, has always dealt with the more physical aspects of the job. The kind of missions that Alice and I excel at.

She’s not bothered by him. She says his mind is rather interesting, in a sort of Alice in Wonderland kind of a way. I really don’t believe she could have made a more ironic comment.

Still, there’s a good bit of dancing and dining to be had here among the madness, and I’ve relished getting some time to indulge in that. Alice, surprisingly, was less than keen.

Then, this morning, all became clear. I can’t say I’m sorry to have a good excuse to leave this place, but the reason for going is as terrifying as it is delightful.

I have, on more than one occasion, attended a Halloween ball during a country house party. These tend to be masked, or at least very poorly lit. Hideous artwork of ancient relatives are pulled from the attic to adorn the walls. There’s a perfusion of candles, and at the most sensible houses, buckets of sand are hidden nearby for when the riotous guests get a little too full of the Halloween punch and flail about wildly. Such punch is always hideously strong, dyed a vile colour, an excuse for guests to loosen inhibitions, and generally the cause of skull-splitting hangovers (along with the pretence of lost memories of highly inappropriate behaviour).

However, I’m far from suggesting that these events descend into an orgy of hedonism. There’s usually no more bed-hopping than one already tends to observe at a typical country house soiree. However, there’s much shrieking by the ladies, and more than the usual opportunity for them to swoon publicly into their arms of their man of choice.

It’s all rather a bore. Personally, I don’t believe in ghosts or such things. Of course, growing up in a castle, it’s only natural that one had a few ancient relatives who tended to overstay their welcome and drift around on moonlit nights, but they hardly count. I find it’s my living relatives that have caused me far more distress.

As for other matters of nonsense, such as the current craze for spiritualism, it’s pure rot, full of charlatans, and a vile excuse to pray on the grieving. I’ve no time for such parasites - or at least I didn’t until I was introduced to Madam Arcana.

She’s been an asset of the department’s for longer than I’ve been in training. Wearing outrageous turbans, and wrapped in shawls, she hasn’t noticeably aged since I first encountered her at one of those Halloween events.

On that particular occasion, I’d been told that our hostess had engaged a spiritualist, and I was to attend the third meeting of the evening as part of a group of four, where information would be surreptitiously passed to me. I entered the darkened room with my beautiful, elegantly dressed (albeit rather dim-witted) companion for the evening and sat down in one of the chairs provided around a circular table. I was a bit hesitant in choosing a seat, but the fortune teller, Arcana, pointed one out to me.

When the candles had been blown out and the whole rigmarole of ‘is there anybody there’ began, I expected to have a piece of paper passed to me at any moment. The performance continued with Arcana showing a remarkable talent for mimicry and for throwing her voice. I was resting my eyes when I suddenly felt a hand in my pocket - at last, my informant had made contact.

Only, this hand seemed to be exploring my pocket rather thoroughly, and going far deeper than one would expect, even for a close of acquaintance. It wasn’t long before I realised that my companion, who had taken the seat next to me, was being playfully amorous. I’d no objection to passing the time in such a fashion and had begun to enjoy the occasion far more than I’d anticipated, when Arcana’s voice changed once more, and she began to speak in Arabic. Although the accent was rough, I could easily understand it. I pushed my companion’s hand away brusquely and listened intently. 

What she imparted was no less than a top secret and utterly vital message from one of our best men. Suddenly, I realised her relevance to the department. My disapproval of her vocation had blinded me to its obvious use. She’d access to significant people across the globe and was, I later discovered, one of our main and most successful couriers. In return, the department boosted her reputation, and everyone from minor nobles to sovereigns called on her services. Despite myself, I was impressed.

I too have used her on occasion. Having been with the service longer than myself, she does tend to treat me like a boyish newcomer. Still, she’s a wily old bird, and I regard her with some mild affection.

Of course, after said gathering, and being a gentleman, I ensured that my companion got to finish her aborted encounter, and in a place of much greater privacy. I am, after all, far from being an exhibitionist.

There are days when I contemplate the notion that the tales of H.G. Wells and his like aren’t quite as fanciful as many may think. Writers like Wells aren’t generally my kind of thing, but Hope came across them recently and has been devouring them as eagerly as if they were toffees (currently her favourite kind of sweets). This, of course, meant that she wanted to discuss them with her godfather. As I’ve been at some pains to establish myself as a fount of all knowledge in her eyes, I quickly read one of Wells’ books, and found it not nearly as bad as I’d feared. I appreciate imagination, and he certainly has it in spades. But, never did I think that anything he might write would connect in any way to my life.

In his book, The War of the Worlds, there are extra-terrestrial beings in giant machines that have come to take over our planet. They’ve no interest in humanity, or the damage they’re doing, as they run rough-shod across London (obviously, being the centre of the world, they attempt to capture London first). They’re entirely self-serving.

Well, I believe I may have met one of them today. He styled himself as a Minister of the Crown but was entirely uninterested in anything said during our meeting. Rather, he was far more intent on getting to one of the Westminster eateries before it ran out of roast beef.

I wasn’t the main speaker at the meeting, more of a supporting one. Of late, there’s been a ridiculous idea that the SIS should report more to politicians (as if they could understand half of what we do). This chap was utterly uninterested in the process, and intently interested in fulfilling the desires of his stomach. The report being given was so very boring that I found myself beginning to imagine us all in one of Mr Wells’ books.

I suppose, on reflection, it provided me with some light relief, as well as reminding what incredible asses most politicians are. They may not be extra-terrestrial, but they’re far from human.

I’m a rather nifty dancer and at various dance events I will almost always be able to glide effortlessly across the floor. I prefer not to indulge in dances that make one look undignified, but sometimes the urge to join in is just too much.

What people never seem to understand is that the placing of one’s feet, and the control of balance in dancing, is exactly the same principle one uses in fighting. Also, in learning dance steps, one repeats and repeats until one’s body knows exactly what to do without thought. In hand to hand fighting, or cane or sword fighting, it’s exactly the same. Muscle memory kicks in, the body remembers the steps, so the eye and brain are left to observe, ready to counter and react to what an opponent is doing.

What really fascinates me is if one could learn to fight in unison with another, the same way that a couple might dance in perfect harmony. Generally, fights are ugly, scrappy brawls, but if one worked in combination with a partner, might one have an advantage over the chaotic brawlers?

I’m unsure, but in the interests of experimentation, I’m dedicating some of my working hours to dancing. It’s also rather good exercise.

Quite coincidentally, I’ve discovered that Alice is an excellent dancer, and rarely has the opportunity to dance. It’s fortunate then that I’m taking her to practice every night we are in London this month.