Coming Home to Story

Captain Midnight here: super-dog, protector of the weak, scourge of the wicked, reporting from the front line. Quite literally, as you can see in the picture of me at the BBC Media Café.

Ah yes, dahling, I am so W1A these days. Mwah, mwah.

This week, Himself had some important work to do, abroad. He slipped away one morning, before daybreak, without a sound, left no trace. Didn’t even tell me the slightest detail of his mission. Not that I mind, being left in the dark. Clearly he has an important job to do and the less that’s known about it, the better.

Mind you, I did overhear him talking to Herself in hushed tones about ‘action’, ‘research’, and ‘agents for change’ so I assume he’s gone undercover again in some capacity or other, to change the world for the better.

Naturally his departure for Europe left me in charge of matters here in the UK. To ensure I had a proper alibi, I had to take Herself with me when I went snooping – erm, ‘newsgathering’ – around the BBC today. She did okay, considering she’s new to the work.

She hung around the café for a bit, chatting to some louche types over a coffee, pretending to chat earnestly yet nonchalantly, occasionally laughing gaily as if she hadn’t a care in the world, so as to leave me free to get on with the investigative work.

There’s all sorts one can smell out! Take those cigarette butts for instance. The ones on the pavement, right next to me. What? No, no they’re not mine! They were there already. The casual passer-by pays scant attention to these sorts of clues lying around – but as a proper news-hound I can tell you: that fine nose of mine immediately put me on the scent of what’s brewing at the BBC.

Absolutely. But that’s all I can tell you. The meat of it is confidential. Top secret.

Nope: I’m staying mum till I can debrief with Himself.

Just a few more sleeps and He’ll be back…