The assassin...

I was at the gym doing some boxing. That means I put on my boxing gloves, smack bags around and sweat a lot. There is this man I see quite a bit. I’ll be honest. He’s not someone I’d want to come across in a dark alley as my super power of being mouthy wouldn’t save me. He walks in a restrained, if-you-look-sideways-at-me-I’ll-kill-you kind of way. He boxes with bare knuckles and kick boxes bare footed. He slams the bags so hard that I can almost hear them crying in terror. In essence, he’s a scary dude. I tend to believe he’s an assassin.

I had never heard him speak until yesterday. I was punching stuff and he walked in. He looked at me. I smiled in that please-don’t-kill-me-way-I-have-a-new-sofa-arriving-tomorrow-kind-of-way. And then he spoke. It was low and contained, as you’d expect from an assassin – and British – very, very British and quite wry. I did a double take. It was not what I expected. Oh yeah, he’s an assassin all right.