In Her Majesty’s Secret Service



A single swipe of his hand sent the alarm clock flying. Hitting the wall, it shattered into not-quite-a-million pieces. He didn’t want to go into work. He was so tired. Rip Van Winkle had the ideal life.

An hour passed. Then two. And gradually, as it does, three.
The phone rang. He ignored it. The first call was usually from the secretary.
After half an hour, it rang again. Head Secretary. Also ignored.
And once more, after an hour. This would be the floor supervisor.
And finally. At lunchtime, the boss called. Even the phone’s ring sounded different – almost scared, when she used it.

He picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you coming in today?” asked his boss.
“And why not?” she asked, icily.
“I think I’ve sprained my shoulder,” he said.

“James, do you mean to tell me that you’re not coming in because of a sprained shoulder?” she asked, imbuing the words with more scorn than America could produce in a year.
“Yes, that sounds about right. Could you ask your secretary to pop by for some…I mean with some medication?… Hello?”
He was talking to a dead line. “Oh well. Guess no medication today for me then.”

He turned over and went back to sleep. The fridge was full of Heineken, the Aston was in the garage. Martinis could be made tomorrow. Get out of bed? The world was not enough.