We Get Smart

Sometimes parents need to have a conversation over the heads of their kids. Recent advances in our kids' spelling abilities means Tracey and I have started resorting to codes. Fortunately I've spent forty five years studying this sort of thing. Only recently I read Ian Fleming's entire James Bond series, and I've similarly watched every episode of Get Smart at least once. I am all over it.

"Our Southern Son phoned up today," I told Tracey while Master7 sat between us on the lounge watching Surf's Up.

"What are you talking about?" said Tracey.

Big heads up, people, if you're going to resort to talking in spy speak it's a good idea to make sure the person you're talking to knows what's happening and has a copy of the codebook.

"You know," I said meaningfully. "Our Southern Son."

"Geoffrey, Mum," said Master7, his eyes not leaving the screen. This was going well.

"What did he say?" asked Tracey.

"Nothing, just letting you know he called," I said, trying to throw Master7 off the scent. I gave it another couple of minutes before I tried again. "I also spoke to The Big G today," I said. Then, before Tracey could say anything I quickly added, "And please catch up or we'll be here all night."

"What did he say?" We were off and running. I filled her in on the happenings in our big lad's life, using our clever new language full of colourful people called things like The Big F, The Big M, The Big L and The Big A.


Finally the whole story was passed on and we settled back into watching the telly.

"So who's M?" asked Master7.

"What mate?" I asked him.

"I know who The Big G and The Big F are. I just can't work out The Big M. Is it Mishaela or Molly?"

I looked at Tracey. "Sorry about that chief."

Next time we better lower the Cone of Silence.

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