On Meeting a Real Live Spy

I have always wondered if I omit a pheromone. Some sort of scent that attracts crazy. Or maybe I just need to step down off my little pedestal and acknowledge the real possibility that like attracts like.
Whatever it is, curious types seem to seek me out as a great person to spin a yarn to. And I’m not complaining. It always makes for great chat. But I am starting to wonder that’s all…
Yesterday was like any other Saturday really. Off to Perc to get coffee and read the paper. As I looked up from my reading, I noticed an elderly gentleman watching me through the vase of lilies. He was sitting on the other side of the long bench from me, acting shifty. I smiled and continued reading. He reached out and took a magazine from the center of the table and leafed through it slowly, flicking his eyes up suspiciously every so often. Eventually I heard a muffled sound escape his lips.
‘Where are you from?’
I looked up and he was peering out at me from under a cap. I looked a little closer at him. He had layers and layers of old woolens on and a ragged tweed coat. He looked vaguely homeless to be honest, but maybe I did too, it was a Saturday, so I reserved my judgment. He moved his hands in an agitated way and his fingernails were dirty. I was yet to decide if his eyes were kind. They sort of moved between kind and vacant.
A delightful conversation ensued with Tom. He was from Sydney, but is here studying. Remarkably, after telling him about my research, he informs me that he does some neuroscience too. Curious. He quizzes me a little more about my life here while nervously attempting to poor tea from his teapot, but it is empty.
Tom begins to tell me stories of his time living in Malaysia. ‘They don’t like folk like us’ he tells me ‘they don’t mind the Indians, but they don’t like us. They follow you and question you all the time...always watching.’ I listen politely as he tells me that they are all moving into New Zealand, 'them Malays and the Indians', because they plan to take over the country. 'And Australia! Australia is poked’ he informs me. I nod slowly. ‘Right…ok…sounds serious.’
‘I would know about this stuff’ he says ‘I did time in Malaysia and Thailand.’ He gestures for me to come in closer. Now we are both chatting under the privacy of the flowers. I wait in anticipation as he surveys the proximity. ‘I’m actually a spy’ he whispers. ‘I was over there as a spy for the Australian government…’
You know these moments? The moments in life when you pause and wonder what your face is doing right at this second. I am someone who has a very expressive face. I can’t get away with anything. My emotions are written all over me in florescent marker. Open…book. So I wonder, as I do not want to be rude to this man, what my face is doing at this very moment. Am I on telly? Is someone watching this and pissing themselves at my expense.
‘Right…well…are you spying right now?’ I ask.
He replies…‘Yes I am’.
‘Shit.’ It’s the best I can come up with really.  He nods enthusiastically at my response.
Now obviously I can’t disclose the rest of the conversation. Blowing Tom’s cover would be poor form. Although, I have googled ‘how to be a spy’, there is actually a wikihow, and he is not doing himself any favours going around divulging secrets like he is.
So what did I learn this weekend?
They are watching us (cue spooky music). And they don’t look like James Bond. Oh hell no. The real spies, the legitimate government spies, they look more like your granddad in need of a bath. It’s the elderly folk drinking tea and minding their own at your local café that are the ones to watch out for. That walking frame…a cover. He could KO you in 3 seconds with that new hip. The little shopping trolley on wheels…there’s no milk and cookies in there. It’s full of ammunition and tracking devices. Next time ‘Betty’ needs help crossing the street, just beware. Bam…she just bugged your phone before you even got off the zebra crossing.
Who would have thought. It's the oldies you've gotta watch...bless em.
Much love XX
Words by Mwah