Before I reached home and disrobed, the phone rang. I answered in my best voice, "Yallow." It was the coloured version of the word hello. A mysterious voice told me I had to save the nation. I said: "Why me? There are people more competent, Captain Griffith and John Sandy." "James," the voice said, "your country needs you to sort out this spy plane matter because the head of the Security Council knows nothing about this." I shot back angrily: "This looking really bad. Kamla, the head of the Security Council, does not know about a spy plane."
This was really a threat to national insecurity. The last time I flew a single-engine plane was when I stole it and took off behind enemy lines to see my beloved Betsy. I was shot down by some German soldiers in Poland. A bullet caught me in the groin, and I am unable to function. As a boy I flew paper planes and had fun doing it. My mission was to sneak into the Security Council meeting and listen attentively. As a tea lady I snuck in and placed my button-hole mike where Kamla was sitting. I saw the high-ranking military officials come in. In my best feminine voice, I said: "Hello." No one took notice of me. I saw John Sandy, Ewatski (with pilot licence in hand) and Commissioner Gibbs. He looked like a wet fowl. Kamla was steaming like a freight train.
She said:"How could you rent a spy plane and not even tell me. You feel you are the Prime Minister or what?" Gibbs bowed his head. He mumbled a jumbled confession. "I am sorry," he said in his best Canadian voice. She threatened to out his light and asked him what he had to say. He said that it was Carnival, and he didn't know the spy plane episode would have turned ole mas. Stupid me, I said: "Nice one, Gibbs." There and then the security alarms went off and I had to duss it. I jumped through a window and was lost. Reaching Woodford Square, I changed off into a vagrant, dragged a piece of cardboard and slept for the night, placing my Glock 9mm pistol under my belly. You see me, I gone.
