Name’s Burgess... Trish Burgess

Helen Mirren was the perfect example of a mature secret agent in the film Red.
Helen Mirren was the perfect example of a mature secret agent in the film Red.
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TRISH TAKES FIVE: By blogger Trish Burgess

It would seem I am just the person MI5 are looking for. Middle-aged women and mothers are “more emotionally intelligent and intuitive” according to a 
parliamentary report which suggests the security agencies should be recruiting their spies via Mumsnet.

I dust off my leather catsuit and immerse myself in the role

This news, together with the revelation that Monica Bellucci, aged 50, is going to play the oldest ever Bond girl in the forthcoming movie, Spectre, is music to my ears.

With this in mind, I have been musing about how the Bond films would play out if the protagonist was a middle-aged mother like me. ‘From Spalding with Love’ perhaps or maybe ‘Licensed to Grill’ although I’m quite taken with ‘Powerball’ as I know how tough it can be when it’s up against dried-on Weetabix.

Excuse me while I dust off my leather cat­suit and immerse myself into the role...

The name’s Burgess, Trish Burgess.

Sitting in a beach bar, as the sun beats down onto the glistening white sand below, the waiter approaches and asks me what I’m drinking.

“Lambrini. Umbrella, no straw.”

As I sip my wine, I look out to sea and notice Bond emerging from the turquoise waters in tight blue swimming shorts. Rushing up to him, I fling a large fluffy towel around his shoulders and cry: “James, you must be freezing. Silly boy! You’ve been swimming far too long and forgot to stay where I could see you.

“And you didn’t put sunscreen on, did you? Don’t come crying to me if you get sunburn.”

It has been a busy morning. I’ve already outwitted Goldfinger who thought he could polish me off with a couple of coats of emulsion. Thankfully I always carry a packet of wet wipes in my handbag: it gets rid of even the most stubborn gold paint.

My appointment with Blofeld was frustrating: we can never have a proper discussion whilst he’s petting that over­fed furball on his lap. I didn’t sit down, the hairs were everywhere.

It isn’t long before Jaws turns up, grinning at me as usual. It doesn’t wash with me. “That’s the second time you’ve missed your appointment with the orthodontist, isn’t it? I’ve told you time and time again to make sure you floss and you never listen.”

I send him on his way with a flea in his ear, confiscating a large packet of sherbet lemons I’ve found hidden in his jacket pocket.

Realising I have to hurry home to put the tea on, I rummage in my bag for the remote to the DB5 and slip effortlessly into its leather seats. I wonder whether Q has remembered to tell the insurance company about the latest modifications: those rocket launchers are sure to push up the premiums this year.

And my no-claims discount is non-existent after that little prang round Lake Garda last summer...

* Follow Trish on Twitter @mumsgoneto and on her blog at