From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 87)

Griffin asked me this morning if I would consider changing Jack’s pet food. I wasn’t even aware that Jack ate ‘pet food’. I thought he ate the same as us. I suppose if I had stopped to think about it, I would have reasoned out that he had particular food stuffs, though the way he begs for titbits anyone would assume that Griffin never feeds him. Strange that those two have never taken to each other. I find Jack a most affectionate and obedient companion. Griffin claims Jack is forever nipping and biting at him, but I dare say he exaggerates. I have noticed that medical professionals are, in general, most adverse to the slightest of injuries. They fuss over the merest flesh wound. Fortunately, Euphemia has not followed in their footsteps, and is more likely to sigh loudly as she wraps a bandage around whatever appendage I have recently injured, telling me to not do it again, as if it were entirely my fault. I do not think that bedside manners featured heavily, if at all, in her nursing training.

But the thought of Jack needing dog food was a stark reminder than I am no longer lord and master of my own fate. When I started in this line of work, what seems a ridiculous number of years ago now, I was barely a man - more of a callow youth. Despite this, whatever I was thrown, I dealt with it alone. I struggle to think of another gentleman who knows how to make his own bed or boil an egg. However, as my responsibilities have grown, I have been forced to delegate more and more. I admit, I have enjoyed building up my own team. I have strived not to lose my autonomy, but to keep my section as separate as possible from the others, thereby shaping people as I see fit and choosing our direction. Of course, I do have a boss. Somewhere. In a basement I expect, covered in cobwebs, or wedged in a club chair drinking brandy and muttering into his moustache. Either way, I try very hard not to disturb his peace.

But this has come at the cost of releasing my control over the little things in life. I no longer clean my apartment or buy food for my own dog. My washing is done for me, and many of my meals are cooked for me. This, one might think, is a good thing, but the truth is that all these tasks are rarely done to the standard I myself would achieve. I have to literally throw Griffin out of the kitchen on the rare occasions I have time to cook for myself. He is a tolerable cook, but I am very much better.

I am forced to keep records and write reports. Fortunately, I am expert at keeping these brief and enigmatic. I prefer my reports to remain open to my interpretation or my reinterpretation as events require.

I do still get to drive myself, but I am aware that I am going less and less into the field. More and more I am training and planning. Planning and training. This is, of course, a reflection that the more an agent knows, the less willing the department is to lose them in the field. It is also a nod to ageing and the potential loss of physical skills. This does not include me. If anything, I am fitter now than I was when I entered the service. I have kept active and am at my prime in the field. I suppose I have become rather expert at planning, but I am not yet ready to shift my life to sitting behind a desk and growing my moustache to ridiculous lengths, so I can huff through it at my subordinates.

Damn it! I’m going to take Jack out and find the bloody dog food myself. I am not that out of touch with the little things of life. We shall go to Harrods. I presume they will have some kind of sampling menu for him to try.