James Bond was around thirty-five years old when we met him for the first time. That was over fifty years ago. I thought it was time someone wrote an update on his adventures…

The black ink of night betrayed nothing as Bond slowly opened his eyes. The noise had come from the sitting room.

His hand reached out and grasped the cold hard shape of the glass on his bedside table, he would need his dentures.

Swinging out of the bed he slipped on his slippers and slipped in his teeth. His walking stick fell into his grip as he hobbled across the bed room. He was naked, it did not matter, this would be quick. Holding his left knee to stop a revealing creek, his gnarled hand quietly pushed open the door of the sitting room. The lights blazed as his stick prodded the switch.

“Oh God!” She gasped, her gaze travelling over his nakedness, at what was left of his body.

He smiled. “He won’t help you my darling.” Bond purred, pleased, that for once the cackled of age did not lace his sexy tone. But the familiar tensing of danger now ached across his shoulders.

Pussy Galore straightened, as much as her hunchback would allow. In one hand, it’s hole of death pointing at Bond’s head, glinted the black metal of a Mauser pistol. In the other, the steadying reassurance of her Zimmer frame.

“You know what I’ve come for.” She croaked. “Take those – now!” The Mauser muzzle moved menacingly.

Bond paled. The three tablets on the coffee table were certain death, an overdose of Viagra. They were Pussy’s favourite weapon. The Viagra caused an erection so huge the victim’s brain died from the lack of blood.

“Drop your stick!” She commanded. Bond’s stick, with the deadly darts in the handle, the canister of nerve gas in the middle, and the atomic bomb in the tip, that he had stolen when M was not looking, clattered to the floor.

He did not hesitate, a tap from his heel and the pink pom-pom from his right slipper hit Pussy’s forehead, dropping her instantly.

Dragging himself around the inert form and then untangling himself from her Zimmer, he hobbled to the kitchen.

He needed a drink.

Taking down his extra strong cocoa, he smiled as he stirred in the hot milk. The name James Bond still meant something. Especially when it was written on something they were all after.

His pension book.