"Fruit punch, shaken not stirred," Agent Ramjattan 007 told the Pegasus poolside waitress. "And hold the little umbrella." He surveyed her topography as if it were a landmark legal argument by Lord Denning, twisted his bow tie 14 degrees anti-clockwise and scanned the large crowd around the bar.

Ramjattan was waiting for Monsieur Clementier, the maverick, easily riled agent de chef of that dastardly mastermind Docteur Dejeuner, the old French communist turned conniving Permanent Secretary of a Cabinet in charge of a state seemingly bent on defying the international community.

Ramjattan cast his mind back to his boss, N's words as they had sat in his King St office that morning.

"We only look like a pair of small time lawyers but the allies are depending on us for vital information. Agent Ramjattan your mission is to find Dr Dejeuner and destroy his syntax." It sounded painful. How would Dejeuner react to being kicked in his nouns? For his mission, N handed him the latest gadget from the secret laboratory. It was an envelope into which he put a legal file. When he reopened it, the file had utterly disappeared.

"Clever don't you think?" said N, "we got the idea from the Court Registry."

Ramjattan left the office but not before stopping for the customary flirtation with Miss Plenty Money.

The buxom 240-lb wench had manhandled Agent 007 into bed last week only for him to read long excerpts from the amended Guyana constitution until she fell asleep. He was a terrible tease but Plenty Money would always carry a torch for the glamorous agent who roamed the High courts far and wide.

Ramjattan left the building and jumped into what was ostensibly a Morris Oxford but underneath its hood purred a V-8 4500 CC fuel injected turbo calibrated engine that could outpace any vehicle once it found its way through downtown traffic.

Driving towards the East Coast, his agent's sixth sense kicked in and he looked into his rear mirror. He was being followed by a horse and cart on which was perched Dejeuner's henchman, Donald "the Pitbull" Ramta disguised as a Rastafarian. A good disguise but not good enough and Ramjattan eased down on the accelerator only to find that Ramta's horse was keeping pace. At the same time three men on bicycles appeared from the Conversation Tree junction. The situation looked dangerous. The Morris Oxford shuddered as Agent Ramjattan hit the rocket booster, quickly reaching 25 mph. But while the bikes faded away, he could not shake off the dray cart as they both weaved in and out of traffic almost hitting a car-load of bandits heading from Buxton. He turned left towards the sea and gunned the motor, Ramta directly behind kicking up plumes of dust on the small track. 30 mph 35...40...45... Just before he reached the seawall he swerved sharply right shuddering to a stand still. It was too late for Ramta and his dray cart. They went sailing into the Atlantic, his false dreadlocks flying into the air and temporarily landing on the poor, startled horse. Ramjattan grinned. "Good miler. Pity he won't be around for Ascot!"

It was time to go see his contact behind the Botanical Gardens.

"Excuse me but is that a skull under your foot?" the Englishman wearing a raincoat and galoshes asked.

"No its my mother's dead parrot" Ramjattan replied reading from the script jotted on the palm of his hand.

"Oh dear, I think rain may stop play before tea.... Agent Bigbottom MI5, Ever so pleased to meet you."

Ramjattan never knew why they had to go through this rigmarole of passwords since he saw Bigbottom at every cocktail party in town. They walked around the marshy ground occasionally stepping on rib cages and decomposed femurs while Ramjattan hoped they could find a healthier place to meet next time.

"I hear rumblings in the party," Bigbottom said leadingly.

"Yes, they interrogated me for three hours last week and made me swear on Das Kapital. Dr Berry removed my ingrown toenails". "Any closer at finding Dr Dejeneur? We need the info, old chap."

"Well he was spotted at a press conference last week but people think it was a double, he was too coherent."

"Don't waste too much time with all those girls, Ramjers, this is a matter of international importance. The US, Canada and us Brits cannot tolerate a rogue state in the Western Hemisphere. It makes us look bad."

And with a swish of his raincoat Bigbottom vanished. Alone, Ramjattan extracted his shoe from the pelvis of a death squad victim and headed back to the office.

Now at Le Poolside, the frogs making whoopee in the trees, Ramjattan focused on the bar a few feet away and the distinctive figure of Le Clementier, holding forth on matters of foreign affairs. Ramjattan extracted from his pocket a paper clip, stuck it in his ear and listened in. "Incriminating evidence... I am sure the embassies will be interested." He jotted it down word for word: "Iraq...Bush ... Hutton Report...WMD ..KFC ...Visa... &%*$#!... $#%&*#...

"Working on a Friday night?" came a voice, slow and sticky as putrid molasses. "All work and no play makes you a dull boy...".

"Pleased to meet you...My name is Ramjattan... Khemraj Ramjattan." He felt momentarily awkward. No matter how many times he practised that in front of the mirror it still sounded corny.

"Hi, I'm Dixie..." said a very badly disguised Minister Jenni West, deep agent for the clandestine PPP. Ramjattan decided to play along although he did help "Dixie" adjust her blonde wig and remove her false eyelash from her cheek.

They chose her as the Bond girl? He thought. It was going to be a long night.