"I can't comment further until after the steering group meeting tomorrow." And my bluff falls apart: "I've told you everything I can tell you without official sanction, Bob. Get your kit sorted out, clear down your chores, and go home for the weekend. That's an order! I'll talk to you on Monday. Hopefully the news will be better by then . . ."

5. Lost in committee

I GO BACK TO HARRY'S PLACE AND COLLECT MY KIT, THEN I catch the bus home, shoulders itching every time it passes a police car. Yes, I'm legally allowed to carry the Glock and its accessories, which are sleeping in my day sac in a combination-locked case. The gun and its charmed holster are supposed to be invisible to anyone who doesn't carry a Laundry warrant card; but I'll believe it when I see it. Luckily the bus is not stormed by an armed SO19 unit performing a random check for implausible weapons. I arrive home uneventfully, unpack the gun and place it on the bedroom mantelpiece (which is just to the left of my side of the bed), and go downstairs to sort out supper with Mo.

Friday happens, and then the weekend. I register the JesusPhone: it wants a name, and Mo suggests christening it (if that's the right word) the NecronomiPod. Her attitude has turned to one of proprietorial interest, if not outright lust: damn it, I am going to have to buy her one.

We do not discuss work at all. We are not doorstepped by zombies, shot at, blown up, or otherwise disturbed, although our next-door neighbor's teenage son spends a goodly chunk of Saturday evening playing "I Kissed a Girl" so loudly that Mo and I nearly come to blows over the pressing question of how best to respond. I'm arguing for Einsturzende Neubauten delivered over the Speakers of Doom; she's a proponent of Schoenberg delivered via the Violin that Kills Monsters. In the end we agree on the polite voice of reason delivered via the ears of his parents. I guess we must be growing old.

On Saturday morning, it turns out that we are running low on groceries. "Why not go online and book a delivery from Tesco?" asks Mo. I spend a futile hour struggling with their web server before admitting to myself that my abstruse combination of Firefox plug-ins, security filters, and firewalls (not to mention running on an operating system that the big box retailer's programmers wouldn't recognize if it stuck a fork in them) makes this somewhat impractical—by which time we've missed the last delivery, so it looks as if we're going to have to go forth and brave the world on foot. So I cautiously hook the invisi-Glock to my belt for the first time, pull my baggiest jacket down to cover it, and Mo and I hit the road.