It probably says much about my own small-town chippy judgementalism, but my first reaction to the news of the mysterious death of an MI6 operative in Pimlico was not "Whoa! Conspiracy Theory!". Rather, my first response was to wonder just how much MI6 operatives get paid if they can afford to live in Pimlico! (Although I appreciate it is only two minutes away from work across the bridge, just in case Mr Bond needs immediate back-up).
A Tale:
One evening twenty years ago, having successfully pursued and arrested the man who had just stabbed me* around the plush streets of Pimlico, I stood there panting away watching the police load my assailant into the car. Running around whilst haemorrhaging blood gives one a cruel thirst, and so I asked the nearest officer if she had any water.
Using her initiative, she called up to one of the audience members on the balcony above, and asked if they could bring water down to me. (That the homes in that neighbourhood have balconies overlooking the streets tells it's own tale).
When the water arrived, a woman conveyed it to me on a delicate little tray and contained within a beautiful crystal glass tumbler, I thanked her, and with my good hand (the other was stemming the Niagara of blood emitting from my face) emptied the contents in one draught.
I then turned to the policewoman and quipped: "You know you're in Pimlico; that was Perrier!"
Although the two events could not possibly be linked, I think it is becoming apparent that Pimlico's sophisticated facade conceals a heart of darkness which requires independent investigation.
I think we should be told.
*The perpetrator believed that the world was being controlled by gasses eminating from vegetables.
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