Day One: That belly-dancer kept trying to make eye contact, but, I was simply more interested in her stupendous abs. Tracy Anderson? Pilates? Have clearly quit Body By Burlesque class too soon, must get MP to renew membership at club. Would bellybutton look ridiculous with golden charm? Will find out in..about…an hour. According to the label on this prescription-strength laxative.

Day Two: M was v. disappointed by my last efforts, worrying that my diary entries made Her Majesty’s Secret Service seem as ‘weak and ineffectual as Mrs. M’s branston pickle’ or somesuch. I never asked to be a role model! No matter, am being packed off to Macau to track down the maker of golden bullets. Note to self: have MP make the ‘007’ one into cheeky key charm for libation cabinet in office.

Day Three: Black tie, safari jacket? Will never understand proper dress code for meeting bullet makers. Am fairly certain that MP missed the mark this time. Good thing hair is stupendous. Feeling…svelte. Deadly. Like a mink.

Day Four: The grey suit I wore to the casino was a marked improvement, but, kept expecting snacks to be delivered in little baskets, not gambling accoutrement. Peckish. Blast! Tiresome wench Goodnight is here, and it would seem that the only car Q could be bothered to send this time is celery-green MG. Am I not Bond? Do I not bleed? Wherefore art thou, Lotus? Feh. Can at least use oppressive damp heat as excuse to consume only liquid calories. Will keep full suit on at all times–may lose further sweat weight. Tan looking v. good though. Am bronze god. Will reward self with champagne! And a wee perv into this strange woman’s hotel room. Vastly underrated seduction technique, gents–show up unannounced while they’re showering!

Will change suit for Scaramanga stalking later. Dark, like the night–dark, like my incredible tan. Note: cigars good as calorie-free treat. Short and round, like that odd midget in the bowler hat. Put me in mind of a pug.  Or a sausage roll.  Courage, Bond!  Courage.

Day five: Secret headquarters in half-sunken boat! That’s a new one. Wonder if new solar technology can be used to fuel new addiction to burnished visage. Have been saddled with Goodnight again–must never ever give in to temporary flattery when feeling fat in future. Clearly has consequences. Cigars proving v. effective at controlling snacking urges! Faux third nipple growing on me. May keep for further….research.
Rough hench workout though. Saved by wedgie, not upper body strength–am disappointed in self. Sigh.

Day six: There are worse ways to wake up than surrounded by attentive maidens at a martial arts school–waking up next to ravaged container of Cadbury Milk Tray, for ex. Never again.


Punches: 0
Sneak Attacks: 1
Calories burned: 4, 582 (?)
Cultural Stereotypes: Holding Strong
Calories: still only liquid
Women in closets: 1

Day seven: Scaramanga has better tan. Ate peanuts. Am a PIG. Goodnight in trunk of some flying car. Today clearly total cockup, all around.

Day 8: UGH, from bad to worse! Have eaten massive lunch. Attempted to ameliorate deviation from cigar-only plan by vanquishing Scaramanga, blowing up island, but, fear that scale will still tell the tale of midget-prepared fatfest on the morrow. Am keeping robe on for sex, no matter what Goodnight says. Not all of us fill out our bikinis quite so appealingly, Goodnight. But, some of us have a better grasp of reading signs, so, we are still winning. WINNING.

Have lashed midget to mast. Calories burned: 2,000?