007.5 has been having a sabbatical but now she is back in sparkling form (well, ish - don't look too closely for she is a dedicated sower of unconscious disorder, for whom the retrieval of her own dropped towel of the closing of a drawer or a cupboard door or disposal of a wrapper or banana peel would seem as purposeful an act as spring cleaning).
At the moment, I am preparing for an arduous mission in the middle of April whilst still running at least one secret agent (apologies to numbers 2 and 3, but you Dear Reader, if my Secret agent, are definitely number 1).
Part of this preparation involves training with the team. The Controller in particular.
007.5 is past her first flush of youth (Ed yeup, those flushes you have now are everything to do with age, but NOTHING to do with youth), and so is her Controller.
Older men are better companions. They are seasoned lovers. They know the world. They know themselves. They know their wines ("a Bordeaux should absolutely be thin - don't embarrass yourself by returning it to Majestic").
On the other hand, they have dodgy calves and a tendency (Ed: cough, kettles, pots and black) to relax and over indulge at the weekend so there is a slow build up to supreme fitness.
Unlike younger men, they hold their emotions in balance. They are warmer, kinder, more tolerant, less boastful (not one has told me that he came top in the Cambridge maths aptitude test when applying for a place to read English), less violent.
I may be in love.