Yet again I have been referred to by my nearest and dearest as ‘grumpy’. I don’t like this. To me, grumpy is something one falls into in one’s dotage, when one is longer fit and able enough to wrestle the world into something akin to what pleases one. Not that the world ever pleases me overly, it being full of contentious human beings.

In my more winsome moments, I’m prone to think that the world would be a better place if it was run by dogs. Dogs are fiercely loyal, unconditionally loving, delightfully playful, and innately intelligent.

Ye gods, some of my past lovers, to my shame, could not fulfil such criteria. As for the people in my department, a degree of loyalty is really all one can expect. Alice, of course, has an abundance of all four attributes, but I don’t think she’d take it well if I told her she was as good as a dog, although it certainly would be a complement of the highest order coming from me.

As well as being winsome, I can be playful in so many ways, both publicly and privately. In public I am quite passionate about my country, and in private I am simply quite passionate.

I fight for justice, and I work for peace. In fact, if I was to write down a collection of the things I do in any given month, it would be clear that I’m far more than what constitutes a grumpy fellow.  I might not bestride the world like a colossus, but I get around a fair bit, and I do make a difference. Could a mere curmudgeonly, belligerent, grumpy old fellow achieve that? I think not.

Yes, I may snarl and snap occasionally, but have you seen the state of the world today? In my humble opinion, it’s well deserved. There are far too many who lounge in their chairs, and in their clubs, having read the papers, and complain loudly about how things are, but are they prepared to get off their backsides and do anything about it? Oh no, that’s far too much to ask, and so it’s left to the likes of me.

So, to anyone who calls me grumpy, well, you can put it in your pipe and smoke it. I am, considering my occupation, the finest tempered fellow in the world.

Quite against my will, I have fallen in love a number of times. Unlike many of my gender, I don’t separate desire, or rather sexual need, from affection. Intimacy, to me, is exactly that, that special time I share with my intimates. Of course, I haven’t been in love with every woman with whom I have shared a bed, but there are a few who will always be of enduring affection to me.

I place the fault for this romantic soppiness squarely on my mother, who read me far too much in the way of poetry before I began school. Also, and I’ve no shame about this, I see women as human beings, never as mere objects, or in any way lesser beings.

They are delightfully different to men, and I celebrate them for that. The very idea that women across classes, who oversee servants, or run a household, could in any way be considered less intellectually gifted than many a man of my acquaintance, is nothing short of incredible. I’ve known more than one fellow, thought to be of above average intelligence, and trusted with the finances of a bank, who has no clue how to tie up his shoelaces without his valet’s help (and let’s not get started on the subject of bow ties).

The gentlemen of this era, especially those of the upper classes, set a standard of intelligence so low, a dog - nay, a hedgehog - could outwit them.

I’ve spent much of today in gentleman’s clubs, being undercover and fishing for rumours. I fear I shall have to do it again tomorrow. I’d rather join a group of washer women around their washtub. Not only would rumours be more free-flowing, but being of the real world and grim experience, I’d expect their conversation to be of substantially more interest than how Lord Whatsisface won a sausage-eating competition by secreting some down his trousers, thus beating Viscount Thingummy, who slyly fed some to his dog under the table, and who promptly vomited on his boots, exposing his deception. Of such men are empires supposedly made. Sigh.

I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to have not taken my place among the lowest of the nobility, thereby neatly avoiding having to spend my days with such mind-numbing dolts, but Lord in heaven, do I ever pity those poor women who are forced to marry them to preserve the ever-decreasing bloodlines of the so-called leaders of the nation. Still, I shall continue to do what I can to ease their burdens, poor darlings.

However, I simply cannot allow myself fall in love again. My country must be front and centre in my affections and my attentions. To care for anyone else so much that a threat of danger to them might make me forsake my duty is quite unthinkable.

I do worry about Jack. He is very dear to me, and his eventual passing will affect me more than many of my family, or colleagues, dying ever has. Then again, I hope I keep my affections out of the sight of the general public. I doubtless spoil Jack at home, but to the world at large, he is merely my dog.

Merely my dog? Ha! He’s worth two of the best of them any day.

Like most gentleman, I wear an elegant square of silk in the top pocket of my suit. The less said about why this became a fashionable trend in the first place, the better (it has to do with the practices of unsavoury gentlemen in the 17th century).

I digress, my silk is purely for show. I carry a regular handkerchief about my person for actual use. Not so much for sneezing (although, granted, such an occurrence can happen), but rather for tying a tourniquet around whichever limb has been shot, or stabbed – a very real occupational hazard. Remarkable that such a simple piece of linen can save one’s life, but judiciously applied, it most certainly can.

I keep a further handkerchief (cotton, more absorbent) to offer to weeping women. While I’m seldom the cause of such weeping (well, not that often anyway), it does seem de rigueur for women of the upper classes to initiate some frequent eye leaking to show their sensibilities. I find it an awful bore.

Victorian romance novels may depict a dashing hero preserving a handkerchief into which his beloved once wept at their parting, but I much prefer a scented billet-doux any day.

Of course, when it’s someone that one knows who’s in genuine distress, then an embrace is the obvious option. However, if at all possible, draping one’s handkerchief over one’s shoulder before the damp (and sometimes slimy) clinch occurs, helps to preserve the delicate bond between oneself and one’s tailor. Indeed, if my weeping companion knows me well enough, she will have both the good sense and the politeness to contain herself just long enough to allow me to strategically place my handkerchief in advance of collapsing into my arms. I, in turn, will afford them more time to compose themselves if they allow me the good grace to have my protective covering in place.

However, a lady that one does not know will receive no more than the passing of a handkerchief. The offering of said item is a society approved way of signalling that while one acknowledges her distress, it simply won’t do, and can she please stop. A well brought up lady will pocket the handkerchief, although a less refined woman may attempt to return it to the gentleman. Heavens, they might even blow their nose in it before attempting to do so. Please don’t do this. Ever.

I don’t wish to ruin the line of my suit with a crumpled handkerchief, nor do I desire to have something uncomfortably moist in my pocket. Even for those ladies who have been nearest and dearest to me, the handling of a used handkerchief is a step too far (especially if they may have sniffle due to a cold or a fever, for as much as I may be close to them, I don’t wish to be that close to their germs).

So, for the preservation of my clothing, and my health, keep your facial secretions (and my used handkerchiefs) to yourself.

I never met Lily Elise (that being her stage name, she was born Elise Hodder). She was, and remains, a most beautiful and talented actress. I have been privileged to see her perform on stage on multiple occasions. I suspect…well actually I know…that I could have talked my way backstage to steal a personal meeting, and I did consider it on many occasions, but I never ever did. In some ways I thought of her as I think of the sovereign, as an ideal, a concept to be upheld and venerated. If I had met such an icon of beauty and femininity in person and she had, say, sneezed, it would have reminded me that she was but mortal and human just like the rest of us, and prone to all the biological necessities that come with it. On the stage, as the sovereign is upon the throne, she was far above such matters. Angelic, and a lady to whom I could offer my most unsullied of devotions.

Perhaps I should have attempted to befriend her, for in my opinion, she undertook a bad marriage. She was unhappy and he was a most possessive boor. Eventually they parted, but it was later on in her years and the damage had already been done. The girl, who had once been temporally fired for giggling too much on stage, had become a very different and far more sombre woman.

Elise became one of the most photographed women of the Edwardian age, when such media was only just beginning to be appreciated by the general masses. I have a small collection of images of her myself.

Despite once being described as having the most kissable mouth in England, I do not think it was her beauty that enraptured so many men and inspired so many of her own sex. She had an abundance of charm, and charm is something that does not fade with age. Indeed, it is a rare quality among both men and women (of course, I have it aplenty, when I choose to employ it). The essence of charm is to make others feel at ease and to feel valued in your company. It is a strange, sparkling form of humility at its best (this doubtless being the reason I only employ it on occasion, for I am not humble by nature).

I saw her when she was still a chorus girl at Daly’s Theatre, and in even among the line-up of what was nothing less than a bevy of beauties, I saw then that she was something out of the ordinary.

Mind you, I rather wish she hadn’t been quite so successful in introducing the fashion of plumed hats to society, even to the point of motivating Celeste to purchase one. Both ladies suited them, that fact is incontrovertible, but the hats gathered dust at a ridiculous pace and if caught in a shower, turned any lady into the very image of a wet hen - including the temperament. Indeed, the description ‘mad as a wet hen’ has never been quite so apt.

In the main I don’t discuss politics. There are occasions when in order to be thought simply a gentleman of leisure, I must profess a bare interest in the subject. As an agent of the Crown, I am not allowed to vote, and in general, the aim of my professional colleagues is to sort out relevant matters before they come to the attention of elected politicians who invariable complicate matters.

The real problem is that anyone can stand for parliament. It helps to be a gentleman, so we get a lot of industrialists standing, as well as individuals from the lower ends of the aristocracy. These individuals seek at best fame, and at worst self-aggrandisement.  Sometimes the sons of the titled peers stand - the younger sons naturally. After all, if one has a decent title, one is automatically a member of the House of Lords. Say what you like about the Lords, they are divided into two groups. The first attend to eat their dinners in the lofty environs of Westminster and come to London to take in a show or two or visit their mistresses. The second come from the families who actually train their offspring in how to take their seat. This second variety often prove most useful in curtailing the business of the lower house.

The issue is, as ever, a matter of training. The better schools pride themselves in turning out gentlemen who know which utensil to use at dinner, can flash a neat shoe on the dance floor, and can be (almost) guaranteed to not take things too far with an actual ‘lady’ before marriage. These scions of the good and the great are often rather proficient at making speeches, and in some cases, can even manage to shave themselves. What they are not taught is how to run a country. In fact, I know from my colleagues in the civil side of the service that once the euphoria of being elected is past, then new parliamentarians are prone to wander the halls of Westminster rather like sheep in search of a sheep dog. Fortunately, there are enough civil servants to herd the majority towards the bars (full of cheap champagne) and the restaurants (full of yummy old-school fare with overdone steaks and spotted dick.)

Occasionally a few of them escape the herd and attempt to do some actual ruling. These cause a great deal of trouble for my department and can disrupt the Empire and even the course of world events. No one has trained them for the job they are trying to do, but their schooling has given them a great deal of confidence to wade in and get on with things. The mess they cause is then borne by the taxpayer, my department in our attempts to smooth over world events and, of course, the ordinary man who is conscripted as a soldier.

The so-called leaders of the country do have meetings with the Sovereign, who has been trained in ruling, foreign affairs, the laws and rules of the Empire, all from Birth, but who is prohibited from actually running the country. I do see the wisdom of not putting all the power into the hands of one person, no matter how well equipped they are to rule, but to put the country into the hands of over-confident, bombastic, untrained, and often intellectually limited individuals will always seem to me to be utter madness.

If it were not for the men and women behind the scenes who are there to sweep up most of the messes these MPs make, then I believe the Empire would be in complete chaos.

Some people have thought me teetotal. Utter tosh. As I previously recorded, I don’t drink while on a mission for fear of alcohol affecting my razor-sharp wits and my speed of reaction to a sudden or ongoing situation (needless to say, this is like lightening when I am sober). Of course, there are times when I must drink to keep up appearances while under cover. At such times I rely on the tolerance I have built up in my free time, and even more, on sleight of hand. Once you manage to get them to a certain stage of inebriation, your mark is often so squiffy eyed that they wouldn’t notice if you produced an emu from your pocket and proceeded to dance with it.

I have known men who tip their drinks down their sleeves. This only works with shots, or half glasses of wine, and makes one intolerably sticky, not to mention upsetting one’s valet and tailor. I don’t do it.

My preferred drink, off duty, on a night by fireside, is a good brandy, accompanied by an excellent book and my dog snoring at my feet. Could a man be happier? I note here that I despise tobacco and will not smoke it, even in-character for a mission.

But it does mean I have a taste for the better non-alcoholic beverages. I insist on a special roast for my coffee beans, and that they are only ground moments before the coffee is made. Griffin once had my coffee tasting bad for a week, I was beginning to wonder if he was attempting to poison me, only to find that he had ground up enough coffee beans for a week and was keeping them in a tin. I gave him a lengthy explanation (a very, very lengthy one) as to why this wouldn’t do, and he has never done so again. I check regularly, whenever I am in the kitchen, making my own omelettes. A simple dish, but one that still defeats him completely.

Although he was a man of the middle-classes, I have surprisingly also had to educate him about tea, and the temperature at which the water should be added (fortunately, I have never had to remind him to warm the pot as that would have been too much, and I rather think I would have returned him from whence he came if he didn’t understand such basic necessities of life).

We had a conversation over the different kinds of boiling points, from simmering to rolling boil, and all in-between. It has made a huge difference to how he serves my pasta too (one foreign dish he took to with great aplomb and devours in heaps himself).

I should stress that I am not being either overly controlling or fussy here. I am extremely fond of peach blossom tea. Not the common orange blossom, but peach. It has the most delicate of flavours that is instantly spoiled by over boiling the leaves. It is always taken without milk which, in general, is how I take my hot beverages. It is the taste, as much as the caffeine, I want and so, for example, take black tea with lemon. I cannot abide the sweet, milky mess that Alice causes Hot Chocolate, and which I have caught her, more than once, sharing with Griffin. He, lacking the taste of a gentleman, adores it. It quite turns my stomach if I come into the room and smell its sickly scent. Very much a woman’s drink - and I think that is quite the worst thing I have ever written about Alice in these pages. However, adorable though she is, she is not perfect. Indeed, if she were, wouldn’t that be a bore!

I fly rather well. I do it as I do most things, in my own unique manner. This does not make me a bad pilot. I have walked away from every landing I have made. In my book this makes them all hugely successful. While it has become something of an in-joke among my intimates that my flying is erratic, I hold that even at the very worst, it is no more than idiosyncratic.

You must remember that I learned to fly during the Great War. I was not, as most young pilots were, given a training of some weeks. Basically, I had to get somewhere, and while they had found me a plane, there was no one who could be spared to fly me. Therefore, I climbed into that cockpit with very little idea of how the controls functioned, but a reasonable understanding, from my own education, of how life, and more importantly, gravity worked.

Of course, the planes then were very simple compared to what the RAF has now. It’s not an exaggeration to say they flew more on the pilot’s intuition than actual mechanics. It did mean I finally found out what the plans known as ‘the dancing sprite’ (which Alice and I retrieved during our race across the continent) did. It was a device that prevented a plane’s guns from shooting off the propellers, but rather through them at synchronised intervals.

But I digress, I have since approached planes much as I did that one flight during the Great War - as creatures to be wrestled with and tamed to one’s will. I put in enough hours to keep a licence of sorts, and to let me occasionally wear both the flying jacket and the great coat of the RAF. Both of them are distinct and far more stylish than anything the army has ever produced, and which, naturally, suit me.

We married very young. Her father was in the business. Indeed, I’d met her through one of those dinner parties you have to endure when you are first being assessed. The kind of affair where you know that you’re under scrutiny by someone of your father’s set, but don’t yet know why. I had it so wrong. I thought they were recruiting me for banking, and this probably sealed my fate. I’d no interest at all in entering the financial world, and therefore, while I was not rude (that would have been completely against my upbringing) I was entirely myself, doubtless giving off an air of confidence I’d not have exhibited if I’d known I was being examined for service to the crown.

I’d already embarked on my first affair, with the daughter of the master of my college (not as bad as it sounds, and I was far from the first young student she had selected - I suppose it was to be only one of two times in my life I have felt hunted - the other, of course, being Celeste).

So, I sat at the dinning table, and spoke arrogantly of my thoughts on world affairs and the empire. I made light of my academic achievements, and overall gave the impression that I found college rather dull (which I did, but mainly because I felt so cooped up all the time.)

The second eldest daughter of my host (without a title, she was a bit of a reach for me, but I was wealthy even then) showed a flattering interest. She also knew far more than I did about what was really going on. She didn’t know the details, but she had a sense of her father and her brothers’ business. These things do tend to run in families. The general public often think this is due to snobbery and elitism, but really it is more to do with the vetting process, and everyone knowing each other from birth.

Anyway, I enjoyed flirting with her. She was pretty and bright (much brighter than the master’s daughter who had the minds of so many to plunder, but instead preferred to rigorously investigate the contents of their trousers). This new lady in my life was encouraged to meet me several times before I was sent on my first assignment. This was the observation trip that erupted into a rebellion, and where I lost another woman as quickly as I had fallen for her. I came back in a bad state. Most people wouldn’t have realised, but my pretty, bright, English rose saw it more than most.

I thought then that rather than the more violent and passionate affairs I had embarked on, I would benefit most from having a kind and loving wife, who had some idea of my business. I would have an anchor to return to, a safe harbour after a mission.

My Rose was far more than this. She was a truly good person. A kind and compassionate heart combined with an intellect that saw the evil that men could do and still held hope. In this she was far more remarkable than I understood back then.

With her father’s blessing, we married that year. I had every intention of holding up my end of the vows while on British soil, but abroad I knew (as did her father) that the seduction of wives of important figures remained an important weapon.

My Rose and I were well suited in mind and soul, but although gratifying, our martial encounters were more romantic than truly passionate. I was content and I fancied myself deeply in love. The truth, I now realise, is that I was deeply fond of her, but that was the extent of it. I believe it was a fondness that would have grown into love, had we been allowed the chance. She was exactly the kind of wife I needed to move up the career ladder in my kind of employment. Even my father was pleased with the arrangement. The sole dissenter was her younger brother, a strange young man. He adored his sister, but I could tell that there was something about him what would make for an efficient cold-blooded killer once he entered the family business. He always set me on edge. I was wary of him back then, and still am.

While I was away on a mission, my Rose was murdered. I will never know if this was because of her father’s position, or my own. I was profoundly shocked and grieved deeply. I had already experienced severe grief and overcame it then as I had before. Her brother never forgave me for - as he saw it - failing to protect her, and for carrying hedonistically on with my life. He became my enemy from that moment onward, little though I realised it then.

However, this sad and sorry tale is the reason that as soon as I felt myself becoming fond of Alice, I encouraged her to marry and to establish a life outside of my shady world. Of course, in the end, even I could not deny the bond that made us the greatest spies of our time.

Is there anything as warming as the smell of baking bread?

As a child, when my mother was unavailable, I spent my time either in the kitchen or exploring the grounds of our home. The wildest, most tangled bits were the best as no one could find me there. As for my schoolwork, being precociously intelligent, I always had it finished in a trice and easily outstripped all my tutors. The problem with teaching the young is, however highly you may have attained your first degree, the habit of teaching boys of between seven and eleven tends to dull first the spirit, then the wits. All boys are awkward in their own ways, and I was merely one of the more sanitarily awkward.

So, my point is that I find cooking therapeutic. I enjoy kneading dough. I don’t even imagine that I am pummelling the body of my enemy. No, I am lost in the chemical changes that the yeast is producing and focussed solely on getting the very best constancy. This is especially important for a cheese bread, or an egg-enriched dough such as brioche (ah, brioche - toasted with cinnamon and brown sugar - heavenly).

Perhaps it’s due to my work, which can be destructive, but I rather like creating something and then invigorating myself with it - that is, eating it. I am naturally a strategic thinker and I excel at interpreting patterns, both in codes and languages. I am not a painter, and I am not a writer - other than this succinct tome. Thus, I think the muse that inspires artists comes to life in my cooking. I am, if I have not already said, a superb cook. It also calms me. It fulfils in me a need that I do not think is met elsewhere in my life.

Sadly, the majority of the women that I have allowed into my life, have been very poor cooks. Of course, ladies of a certain class are not expected to cook. In my opinion this needs to change. To be unable to feed oneself, even in necessity, is quite ridiculous.

Alice tried and is the best of a bad bunch. She, at least, understands flavour and values good cooking. My goddaughter is a poor cook and content to be so. She has a lamentable taste for champagne but can, thankfully, recognise a decent wine. If she had been as completely devoid of palate as she is of directional sense, I fear I might have had to disown her, and that would have hurt me more than it would have hurt her.

The twenties, coming on the heels of the Great War, fairly roared. As an unencumbered gentleman, still able to pass as young, due to my level of fitness and superior grooming, the world - or at the least the parts my department was overseeing - was my oyster. Alice, laid low with the double affliction of marriage and motherhood, could rarely accompany me. Jack also frequently had to stay at home. I missed them both a great deal, far more than I expected.

However, it did mean I got to mix with the bright young things (an ironic term as most of them were dimmer than a penny candle). I generally presented myself as well-heeled and up for a bit of jollification. Bringing along some of the better bottles from my father’s cellar, without his knowledge of course, endeared me to the louche kinds who crammed their automobiles with booze, fast (though still upper-class) ladies, and cocaine. The subsequent ‘adventures’ that followed mostly seemed to involve harassing the average working man - a creature the bright young things appeared to find endlessly fascinating.

There were also the parties at which champagne, cocaine and clothing were strewn about with careless abandon. I generally pretended to drink excess, I don’t take drugs, and my tailor would be bereft if I treated my wardrobe with such carelessness.

On the whole, I was on the lookout for trouble at home, more than just enemy spies. In particular, fools who adopting some barely understood ideology, taking it upon themselves to use their connections to hand over information to the other side(s). You have to remember; these were the spoiled children of the mothers and fathers who had seen so many lost in the trenches and were determined their own little darlings would live life to the full. Thus the children had powerful connections and doting relatives who had access to all kinds of vital security information. It was quite a nightmare time to be a spy.

For all their much-vaunted waywardness, the danger came not from their ability to scheme and plot, but from their lack of intellect, childlike susceptibility, and overly indulgent relatives.

It was also assumed everyone was ‘naughty’. I certainly saw a lot, but I sampled very little of the wares on offer. I tend to like to have some idea of where and with whom my female acquaintances have been before we - er - personally entertain each other. But, as I suspected, my aloofness and disinclination to join in with the more bacchanalian celebrations only made me more desirable. Needless to say, I could point my arrow wherever I wished and achieve success. Nothing, I find, cools desire more than availability.

I suppose there must have been moments of the 20s I enjoyed, but on the whole, I found the whole scene rather a bore. Of course, there is no power on earth that would make me confess this beyond the pages of this diary. The tales I tell among the gentlemen, and even the edited versions with which I beguile the ladies, make me sound like a right rogue!

None of us know how many days we have left to spend. So, what matters, or at least what matters to me, is how we spend them.

I have never been a proponent of doing anything that I don’t want to do. Of course, I have (in nursery I was even made to eat Brussel sprouts, which are, without doubt, dredged from the very drains of hell itself). As I have mentioned more than once, I have done things that still give me nightmares. But I have always, in terms of my professional life, done what I have thought was right.

I am also most suited to my profession. And this is the advice I give to all who ever ask (which isn’t many) - if you wish, or you need, to work, then find something that fits your nature, that will give you satisfaction and that you believe in.

This doesn’t mean you have to be a great inventor, or some such overachiever. A cleaner may take great pride in making order out of chaos. A chestnut seller, who stands out in the cold each winter, may live for the smiles he sees on the faces of his customers as they warm themselves with his fare. A librarian may find a life’s work in providing knowledge to all. You get the idea. Whatever you do for work should bring you joy - and if it doesn’t then you need to find a way to bring joy into your employment. This can be no more or no less than the camaraderie you find there (though such is not my thing.)

And then there is the time you are not at work. This is much easier to advise upon. Do whatever it is that brings you joy and harms one else in the process. Life is a gift, and you owe it to yourself to find joy. If you can also bring joy to others in the process, then all the better (in my case, all those lovely ladies).

I have done many things that weigh heavily on my conscience. They always will. Nightmares have been my constant companions since I joined the service. However, I believe that all my actions, even the worst of them, have been for the greater good.

Espionage should be what stands between us and war. I never fought in the trenches, but I profoundly wish that none of my fellow men had had to suffer so. But this modern war, this so called Second World War, makes me weep. To wage war against combatants is one thing, but to wage war on innocent civilians - including children - is this not the foulest of all mankind’s crimes?

I despair. I despair of it all.

I awoke with nothing particular on my mind. A mission had been dealt with the night before and my day lay blissfully open before me. Old Morley will want a debrief, but he can wait. Nothing quite like keeping those desk-bound chappies on their toes.

I lay and luxuriated in bed. Something I am not wont to do on my own. I wallowed for long enough that Griffin, who never brings me tea in bed, brought me tea in bed. I believe it was an excuse to see if I had died in the night. Certainly, he adopted a most disappointed air when I sat upright and relieved him of the beverage.

I had a long bath. Jack popped in to see me and stuck his nose in the bubbles and sneezed. It was a relaxing kind of morning. I allowed Griffin to attempt to make me an omelette for luncheon. The result was so foul I didn’t even want to offer it to Jack. I resolved to take the dog for a walk and visit any chop house that would be happy to serve us both.

Finally, a satisfactory meal being accomplished, and Jack being spoilt terribly by the chef, we left to walk off our repast. The park beckoned. The sun was out, and the ladies were promenading. What more could a man want? Sun, ladies, and a full belly. Sadly, it seems a dog does want more.

I am grateful he didn’t actually catch the swan - although he gave it a game go with his odd, jumping gait. When Jack gets up a good turn of speed, his back legs always seem to try and overtake his front. It was quite amusing, or would have been if he hadn’t been after a swan. If he had caught it I would have had a lot of explaining to do.

Unfortunately, for the squirrel, Jack was indeed fast enough. I did manage to stop him eating it, but I still had to escort a bloody-mouthed dog all the way home. Needless to say, we were given a wide berth by other pedestrians. One young woman in a dull olive dress pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and looked as if she was about to faint. As I was the only gentleman present, I gave her a firm shake of the head, indicating this would be excessive, and she straightened her backbone and carried on. I imagine it was quite the most exciting event that will happen to her for some time. Her teeth protruded in such a manner that only an expert kisser would be able to make certain he didn’t get his tongue bitten in any amorous encounter (and as I didn’t take to her, I therefore did not offer my services).

At last, we arrived back home, and I handed Jack over for a bath. Griffin was all lamentations and sighing. Honestly, you’d think he’d have learnt not to get himself bitten by now. Jack is a most pleasant animal, and I am sure Griffin had far fouler patients in the past.

I went for a medicinal brandy and attempted to block the cries of distress issuing from my valet.

Jack and I had a little snooze in the afternoon. After that, I sent a telegram to one of my female friends and asked if she would like me to give her dinner. As her husband is away on business, she answered promptly in the affirmative. I said goodnight to Jack, as I didn’t anticipate being home before breakfast, and set off with a spring in my step (and a certain anticipation in other regions of my anatomy).

All following matters were concluded satisfactorily, and I returned home shortly before luncheon the next day. Overall, a not unpleasant twenty-four hours but, on the whole, I think I prefer to have only the briefest of flirtations with civilian life. Being on a mission is so much less fraught than conforming to the rigorous etiquettes of normal life.

Also, Jack briefly escaped while I was away and came back with yet another a squirrel corpse. Griffin is wearing another bandage, and I can only hope he doesn’t add Jack’s prey to my dinner tonight. I shall open a good strong bottle of claret to drown out the taste of his cooking. I will wake up tomorrow morning when, I suppose, I shall finally have to go and put Morley out of his misery.

I am not, in general, a man who gets bored. In fact, give me a dozen lifetimes and I believe I could comfortably fill them all to the brim.

My first love was language, and I speak ten languages fluently. I can make myself understood in another twenty or so if you include regional dialects. As most polyglots know, the more languages you learn, the easier it becomes. They fall happily into different groupings and many of them steal from each other to a remarkable extent. I do use my languages on missions, or I did when I worked abroad more frequently, but the required vocabulary was limited, ranging only between seduction, interrogation, and small talk (for fitting in). A lifetime composed solely of engaging in languages, travelling to different cultures, enjoying the art of other countries, meeting interesting people (while not having to kill them) would be almost enough.

I certainly don’t think I could spend a lifetime being a member of the upper-set. Dinners, balls, affairs, and all that become somewhat stagnant after a while. The most exercise the upper class do, other than the inevitable, almost incestuous bed-hopping, is hunting or fishing. As I heartily disapprove of blood sports, I fear I would get very bored very quickly. Also, Intelligence is not encouraged in the aristocratic gentleman, so my love of reading and learning would, at the least, be frowned upon. These are people who, even today, buy books generally because they look good in the library. Heavens forbid anyone other than a love-sick maiden searching for a romance should actually read any of them. Indeed, I think I could almost have spent a life among the dreaming spires of Oxford, reading, researching, and discovering.

Of course, I am an active man, and while I don’t precisely collect friends, I do like being in the midst of things. I am acutely observant, and as such, find much humour in observing our so-called superior classes, great men of business and even supposedly greater statesmen. In my more honest moments, and these are fortunately rare, I own that I do like creating a little mischief. If I had nothing to do but malinger among these people, I suspect I would turn into a rather dark and Machiavellian character.

I don’t particularly enjoy fighting, but I do enjoy training with my cane, learning offensive manoeuvres in Ju-Jitsu. However, I really like punching people in the face. The ones who deserve to be punched anyway, and let’s face it, there are so many. There are not many professions or pathways open to a gentleman where he can achieve this without punishment or restraint. As a spy I often get to punch the enemy, and if I do overstep the mark and punch people on my own side, or members of the upper class, there are generally little or no repercussions to myself. Of course, if I did this more often, even the powers that be might get a bit fed up with me.

Whatever I did, I would always require female company, both within and without the bedchamber, but I believe I am sufficiently entertaining to the better sex that I could accomplish this whatever path I had taken.

Thus, sadly, I must own that I am boringly predictable, and that in any of many lifetimes I would almost certainly end up in the field of espionage. I am a spy down to my fingertips (and jolly nibble-some fingertips they are too, as some of my female acquaintances can attest).

A gentleman’s hands should reflect his status. There should be no calluses, the skin smooth, and nails fastidiously clean. A handshake should be firm, and the hand, when gripped, unyielding. When he takes a lady’s hand she should feel a gentle strength, a hold that suggests security rather than dominance, and of course, his hand must be absolutely dry.

What is less well known is that most gentlemen either employ a manicurist or have their valet perform this service. The latter, for me, is a skinflint approach. One should always employ a professional to do a proper job.

My young lady, who does my hands between missions, has become used to me returning with torn fingernails and rough patches of skin. She is most adept at smoothing over these little issues that arise from hanging off cliffs, or buildings, or even having to wrestle with and strangle a man. She knows that I go off and do dangerous things. I suspect she thinks I am some kind of gentleman villain. I have done nothing to dissuade or encourage this belief.

The poor girl lives in Clapham and is married to a marginally successful greengrocer. Her life before me was dull to a degree that is barely imaginable. Before her marriage she was in service as a lady’s maid. Her husband allowed her to work in some fashionable beauty salons for a while, but inevitably he found he disliked having a working wife, and how it interfered with the readiness of his supper. Now, he allows her to visit ladies in their homes for a few hours, a few very expensive hours. She was recommended to me by a female within the service, and I was pleased to accept, knowing she had already been thoroughly, but unknowingly, vetted (naturally I performed my own checks as well - it is always frustrating to find a potential service or person that suits you, only to discover they are members of the communist party, or entertain other such unsavoury beliefs or behaviours).

Anyway, my lady, whom I shall refer to as Annie in these pages, takes exceptional care of my hands, and has even found me a hand cream that smells only very faintly, and even then, it’s a musky, manly scent, to help soften the calluses I get when I’m especially active. I use the cream regularly, even on missions, but take the greatest care to conceal this from everyone else, even Griffin, who knows almost everything about my physical form, right down to my preference in underwear (silk, if you must know).

But even Annie was appalled when I returned from the mission where I was tortured. As the other possible outcome of said mission would have placed me on the Titanic, I am, while not happy, consider myself content with the outcome. I can live with the damage that was done to me.

I did have very elegant and shapely hands, and a superb degree of fine motor skills. There wasn’t a gun in the Empire that I couldn’t bend to my will, nor a trigger that I could not squeeze to its lethal conclusion. Alas, those days are past. A cursory look at my hands, after a great deal of post-torture exercises on my behalf, does not reveal much. But a lady as used to my hands as Annie is immediately saw how crooked my fingers lay compared to their once incomparable form. As I was in considerable pain after the event for some months, a fact I kept from most, I had to explain to Annie what had been done to me. Although of course I didn’t say why, or where. I believe it greatly added to her romantic beliefs concerning who I am and what I do. I am aware she values our connection as much as the income it brings her, but after the damage, she was prone to blush occasionally as she handled my digits. I, of course, moved my voice to an even softer, gentler, basso and allowed my hands to rest slightly too long in hers. She responded most adequately.

Imagine my surprise when one day she arrived with books she had sourced, describing ways to exercise hands that had been injured. She spoke at length, if somewhat shyly, about what she had found, and proved to be quite knowledgeable. I was extremely touched that she had spent her own time attempting to help me. I had already seen a number of Harley Street consultants, but she was not to know this. Besides, she also showed a certain quickness of intellect that I had not suspected. It struck me that nursing might be a fine profession for her, where it not that I did not want to lose her, and that her dull and controlling husband might object.

However, I have done what I can to help her in several subtle ways. I have not furthered our intimacy, despite her appreciable prettiness, as I find that liaisons between the classes tend to include an unpleasant power dynamic, where those of the superior class prey on the lower class. Something my father certainly did, and something I am determined not to do. Admittedly it is hard to do this when she looks at me with such charming and alluring eyes, but although I am rarely a gentleman in my behaviour, I do aspire to never be a cad.

Not many people know I have been married twice.

This includes my current wife, who is completely unaware of her predecessor, and long may it stay that way, or I shall really be in domestic hot water. I would rather face an enemy agent naked with only a toothpick (silver of course) to defend myself than face my angry spouse.

Damn it! Why do I only fall in love with the more dangerous of the female species? Oh, that I could have found contentment with a quiet, loving dove of a wife, who warms my slippers every night and heeds my every command.

Actually, no, strike that very thought. Even contemplating such a dull life-mate makes me quite nauseous.

I am about to join a gentleman’s club that swims in natural waters found in the Capital. There is a shortage of places where one can swim in fresh water that is easily accessed from my London flat. This new club would be a most excellent idea if it weren’t for the fact that I will not be the sole member. I shall have to discover the least popular times for members. I find swimming a meditative activity, and I do not want to be disturbed by the uncontrolled splashing of poor swimmers or, worse still, a selection of random and unnecessary greetings.

My sudden desire to swim comes after much research and thought. I endeavour to keep myself fit – necessary for my line of work. I run, I box, I do a variety of muscle building exercises, and I ride when I get the opportunity. I also practice with several kinds of melee weapons. However, all these exercises are necessarily taxing. While I may be in my prime, I am aware that most gentlemen are not shot, stabbed, or otherwise injured with the same frequency as myself.

More than one close female friend has remarked on the number of scars I have about my person. I have finally come to realise that Alice may be right when she chides me for pushing myself too hard. Hence the swimming. It is a excellent way of exercising, defining muscles and improving breathing, without placing myself in any danger of injury. It’s also suitable for when I have been injured on a mission as I can swim slower without drawing attention to myself or my injury. I can, I believe, begin my active recuperation more swiftly with such an exercise. After being stabbed, while in the healing stage, it would be foolish to step into a boxing ring. However, not even Alice can object to me going for a nice swim.

I must add, research has clearly indicated how swimming changes a body for the better. I’m no medic, but it leads me to suspect that swimmers’ bodies tend to be sleek, defined, and much appreciated by females.

I am aware that at some point I may have to slow down. Hopefully not for many decades. I think it’s possible that swimming may be exercise I carry on into older age. After all, I need to keep myself as fit as possible. I may eventually have to give up boxing, but while I draw breath, I have no intention of giving up women.

One’s position in bed is something every gentleman should ponder. Indeed, he should actively investigate alternatives - whether he be married, entangled with a mistress or simply a bachelor.

When I am resting alone, I have discovered that I sleep best in either the ‘dead man’s float’ with my face turned slightly away from my pillow, or the ‘starfish’ with my limbs spread out wide. Neither of these is a suitable posture when I am with a dear lady, or indeed, when I am on a mission.

Whilst on a mission I must always be ready to leap out of bed at the drop of a hat or, I suppose, a pillow, to deal with any incoming danger. As I always opt to sleep without any nightclothes, if I can, this means that in such rare occurrences I must throw modesty to the winds if I must tackle an opponent. I believe I am as coy as any British gentleman when it comes to displaying my personal attributes to a member of the same sex, but I push any such civil inclinations to the side when I or my companion is in danger. No, the dead man’s float or the starfish will just not do when one is on duty. I therefore either sleep on my side, facing the most likely point of ingress (such as a window or a door), or on my back. In either position, if one is even slightly overweight, one is liable to snore and so, for both the circumstances of romance and duty, it is vital to keep oneself in excellent physical shape.

Woe be the man whose mistress leaves him because he snores, but dead be the spy who sleeps under camouflage in the open and snores like a chainsaw.

When the situation is secure, I like to let my lady fall asleep in my arms. However, one must take care that once she is safely in the land of dreams, one can gently roll her to one side, thus avoiding the pain of having a numb arm all night. With this is mind, I prefer not to entwine lower appendages when sleep is the only possibility on the bedroom menu. Alas, so many women have such little stamina, beautiful though they may be, it is only another highly trained and physically fit (female) spy, who is able to adequately keep company with me through the night. Therefore, it is necessary to keep some physical distance from my lover when we sleep, least my recurrent desire awaken her in a most common fashion.

In conclusion, if one wishes true rest, I prescribe not only a secure situation, but lone occupancy of a bed. To truly sleep as one wishes and enter the deepest of slumbers, I find, I must be alone.

Still, when tempted by the alternative, sleep isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

My favourite New Year’s Eve was the one I spent half-running, half-falling, my way down a foreign mountainside while being shot at by enemy agents. It really was an exhilarating battle with gravity, an exercise in my magnificent dexterity and a challenging of the fates themselves. There was no way I should have survived. But I did. The only casualty was my Oxford brogues. I now have special ones, handmade, that look smart, but are useful when slithering down sheer slopes. Needless to say, I have not had to do so for quite some time.

So, it is understandable, I hope, that I find the English New Year’s Eve celebrations somewhat tame. I once spend a Hogmanay in Scotland before I joined the service. I recall very little of it, save a lot of dancing, pretty girls and a strange dark mash (haggis). I awoke the following day with the worst headache I have ever had and two young women snoring beside me. Despite the pain, I had a feeling of contentment and of having enjoyed myself very much.

Again, the English New Year pales in comparison. I shall probably stay on at White Orchards but uncork the fine claret that I have been concealing in my room, and I shall invite Alice to join me in it on New Year’s Day while the rest of the house conducts its usual slaughter (the duck shoot). As for New Year’s Eve, I shall strain every sinew to go to bed at a reasonable hour, taking a delicious lady with me. Intimacy with the fairer sex is the only thing I have ever found that matches up to the excitement of being shot at – and indeed, often leads to that very experience should the offended husband appear.

I’ve written about Christmas many times. The older I become, the more frequent the inconvenience of this event becomes. I’m aware it’s a yearly occurrence, but I seem to be having to arrange my plans earlier and earlier. I like to think that we, as spies, are the tip of the spear, the first to detect threats to King and Country and, as such, we are vital to the defence of the realm. But the pencil-pushing civil servants at Whitehall keep banging on - ‘I say, old chap, you’re not going to need home team support over the holidays, are you? Only most of the department will be on leave. Probably best to herd you all in from the field, what? Can’t have you straying off into a bit of trouble on your own, can we?’

Even when I’m back on home turf, they keep badgering me - ‘You need to be front and centre at any Christmas party, old chap, so no one suspects you’re a spy.’ What’s with them calling me ‘old’? I am only twenty-eight, and in damn fine shape too. It might be a figure of speech, to make them sound congenial, but I don’t like it – or them for that matter.

These days, it seems that the other side, or sides (basically anyone and everyone who is not part of our glorious British Empire), is also noticeably shifting their plans earlier and earlier out of the month of December. This is not, as I first thought, some glorious deceit, but other members of my fraternity, regardless of allegiance, are seemingly succumbing to a moral affliction and shifting their plans to avoid Christmas tide.

Bah and Humbug! I’ll damn well show the rotters. I will continue to operate through the twelfth month of the year, this one and every other. Of course, I won’t work on Christmas Day itself. I’m not a barbarian. I’ve always rather liked Christmas Eve too, so maybe I’ll keep that day clear as well. A nice evening by the fire with a new book and a fine brandy sounds like heaven. I have been invited to a rather promising Boxing Day party – with no shooting for once (hurrah).

In the meantime, I will need a little time to put together suitable cadeaux for all my lady friends, and hosts. Say a couple of days shopping in London’s fair city. I suppose I ought to take a few of them out to supper too.

As for friends, family, and colleagues, I have been putting together the following suggestions…

 Alice – diamonds (plus a small ‘token’ present to appease Bertram)

Hope - selection of age-appropriate toys

Bertram - decent brandy (for me to imbibe while I’m staying)

Father - unrelenting contempt

Nephews and nieces - postal orders

Siblings - the gift of my absence

Griffin - decent clothes, proper shoes, and two tomes of compulsory fiction

Jack - a turkey for Christmas and a decent steak for New Year

Morley - a traditional Christmas card

White Orchards staff - the usual tips, plus a Yuletide bonus (plus brandy for the butler, a sewing kit for the housekeeper and a catapult for the boot boy)

Various other male associates - Christmas drinks at the club

Myself - new cane, top hat and entire evening dress refresh; best brandy, selection of reading material, ancient and new, and a membership with the local swimming group (one has to treat oneself, after all).