M sat at his expansive desk, staring at the Persian slipper which contained his pipe tobacco. He absently reached out with one of his wrinkled, crinkled hands and inserted his index finger into the opening, slowly and carefully "walking" his hand across the desk along with his middle finger, spilling a slim trail of tobacco as he went, gently humming Rule Britannia.
Why the hell hadn't he picked up two of the damn slippers back in '17 when they'd been knocking the Ottomans about? It had been rather unsymmetrical of him.
The office was devoid of life this morning, with his book clear of meetings until late afternoon. Devoid, that is, aside from M, and his fingers.
It was at times like these, that M usually let his mind wander to his favourite preoccupation: How was he going to bugger up 007 today?
After all they'd been working together now since near the end of the Second World War, what was it? Perhaps sixty years, give or take.
He depressed the button on the ancient brown speaker box in front of him.
"Yes, Sir?" chirped the ever alert, Moneypenny.
"Tell Bond I need to see him immediately," he said in his best abrupt, angry, brutal, cold, curt, dry, frosty, gruff, hard, impatient, irritable, moody, severe, sharp, short, sour, stern, and testy voice.
"Right away, Sir."
Good girl, that Moneypenny, he thought. Have to give her a raise one of these days.
Extracting his finger from the damp, aromatic pipe blend, M dumped the remaining contents of the slipper onto his desk blotter. He rapped the slip of cloth on the desk, attempting to remove any hangers on, and then raised the slipper to his nostrils, breathing deeply.
How old was he now? he attempted to remember. One hundred and five… maybe six? No wonder Her Majesty didn't give him anything important to do anymore, he was vested with the fate of the Empire, and yet his own great-grandchildren wouldn't even let him play with the remote to the telly.
He buzzed the button again, and could picture Moneypenny rolling her eyes in the outer office, a sense of glee running though his curmudgeonly soul.
"Moneypenny? What colour is the light outside my office today?"
There was a brief pause.
"It's blue, Sir."
He gave his best "guffaw." You had to keep these youngsters on their toes.
"See if you can find the red one, I rather liked the red one."
"Yes, Sir," she replied, sounding quite testy now, all to his secret delight.
He waited a few moments and then buzzed again.
"Yes!" she nearly screamed.
"Do you think we could find a light like one of those plasma ball contraptions? The ones with the little bolts of electricity running through them, I'd rather fancy that."
Another pause, this one longer.
"I'll call down to Major Boothryod and see what he can do, Sir."
"Very good then," he said without missing a cadence. "Now where the hell is 007?"
"I put out a general call, Sir. If he is in the building…"
"Have you checked under your desk?" he barked, holding his tobacco-stained fingers to his mouth to contain his snicker.
There was no immediate reply to this.
And then, very tersely, "I'll have him come straight in, when he arrives!"
He struggled to remove his right shoe, an ancient, classic John Lobb.
"I have little doubt of that," he strained. "And see if you can have the cafeteria dig me out a marrow bone."
She clicked off without responding.
It was a little time later when Bond finally entered the room, pausing at the oak door after opening it.
There sat Sir Miles, crimped over his chair in his three-piece Wilkinson suit, attempting to tug his tobacco slipper onto his bare right foot, a drool laden marrow bone hanging from the edge of his mouth.
"Ah, 007," he grumbled from around the bone. "How did these bastards conquer parts of three continents with such tiny feet?"
Sitting back up, and removing the bone from his mouth, M barked.
"Sit down, 007."
The agent did as he was instructed.
"Things have been rather slow lately, so we are going to light a fire. I need you to fly down to Havana, get the bastard soused, and shave that nasty beard off of him."