Dear Philippa,

 

What sounds like an interesting career opportunity has presented itself. My clever economist friend has come up with the idea of setting up a local – very local, south Ryedale – TV station that will broadcast only a few hours a week over the internet. The idea is robustly to grapple with topics of pressing local interest and conduct ferocious interviews with local worthies, not all of whom are all that worthy to be frank. He wants me to be the man on the sofa with the hard stare and the forensic manner – a sort of Ryedale Paxo, though the truth is I’m more Melvyn Bragg. I am too ready for such a purpose. But if MI5 want me I may not be able to fit it in, what with nipping off to Talin and similar every end and turn for a bit of spying.

 

I have been promised a fragrant bimbo who will sit beside me on the sofa and gaze at me. I’m not sure about this – I think Selina Scott, who farms near us, might be more use, what with all her experience of grilling victims and knowing where the camera is. I don’t know her myself, though I know her mother by sight, but I greatly admire the way she punished the Beeb to the tune of a hundred big ones for their cruel ageism.

 

Celebrity beckons, I can see it all. As I promenade along Finkle Street of a Saturday morning attractive and wealthy women of a certain age will stalk me, some throwing nether garments at me to get my attention. I am already practising avoiding eye-contact with passers-by, the dreaded hoi polloi,  rather as you see celebs doing in Harley Street as they make their way to consult a society proctologist. I’m going to be good at this. I shall arrive on the scene a new matinee idol, reassuringly fading. I may take to wearing spats – they’re buggers for spats are women of a certain age.

 

Not much has happened yet – the dot.com address has been purchased, political fires ready to put under pompous bottoms are being prepared, but not much else. There will be no shortage of issues with which to harry and taunt the political establishment – lunatic car park policies, delusional attempts to get Harvey Nicks to open a branch in Malton, the draconian banning of “A” boards from footpaths outside shops, the insane bloating of local government with foolish non-jobs. 

 

I’ll keep you posted on this one. Spy or matinee idol? It could go either way. But I am drawn to being part of a grey army of limping spooks, subtle and sly, winkling out strategic secrets and instantly forgetting them. Oh yes, and grousing in the goody with dangerous Russian bimbos. With rheumy old eyes, creaking limbs and failing faculties I stand ready to be of service to HMQ. Or loll on a sofa with Selina.

 

Best wishes 

Howard