Good evening, Mr Bond – I’ve been expecting you…since I was 17 years old.

I’m going to begin this post with a confession – I love Bond films. All of them. Obviously, some are better than others – and one of my top three is considered a bit ridiculous now (Thunderball) – but I’m not fussy on a rainy Saturday or Sunday afternoon.

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I love everything about them – the lavish set designs, the beautiful locations, the luxury cars, the glamorous costumes, the elegant dialogue, the (frankly rather silly) plot lines, the sassy Bond girls (they’re usually a lot less decorative and a lot more kickass than they’re given credit for), the imaginative gadgets…and on and on and on…

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All that is hardly unusual. What is unusual is the fact that I spent the best part of my teenage years upskilling myself so that I would be qualified to become a highly competent Bond girl.

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I’m not even half kidding – and my studies have made me relatively accomplished in many areas. Many are quite useless in my everyday life but you never know when you’re going to need to accurately throw a knife, scrub up stunningly well, sail a small boat, speak fluent Russian, play the piano somewhat ably, ski badly, ride a horse well, use a rifle, drive fast and/or use a limited knowledge of code.

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I also know what the acronym S.P.E.C.T.R.E. means and have lived in a state of constant vigilance – awaiting the inevitable return to prominence of this unimaginable evil – for many, many years.

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It turns out that my fears were justified and – now that Niven, Connery, Moore, Dalton and Brosnan (I discount Lazenby for obvious reasons) are out of the picture – it seems that we’ll have to rely on the most humourless Bond of all to save the day.

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I’m sure that Craig is very good at his job but I feel that the citizens of the world will always understand Bond’s need for a slightly socially inappropriate, foul mouthed, uber glamorous, wildly over flirty, often lightly toasted and hilariously wise cracking sidekick.

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Especially when she’s proved her espionage abilities by hiding in plain sight – disguised as a naive student, crappy waitress, bolshy administrator, half arsed career woman and, now, nice little suburban mum – for many years.
I’m the ultimate sleeper. And I’m just waiting for that phone call.

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Come on, James – give me an excuse to break out the good clothes. And the expensive shoes and handbags.

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Otherwise, I may just have to start considering the alternative – and I do naughty just as efficiently as I do nice.

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