The Amazing Adventures of Miss Ariana Okata

Spying Practice

It turned out that Kensington/Chelsea is one of the most posh neighbourhoods in all of London. I was not surprised; Veronica did not strike me as the slumming-it type. When I found #4-127 Chestnut Crescent, it turned out to be part of a handsome row of greystone townhouses with lovely, colourful window boxes and weeping willows out front. There was a small, equally well-tended park across the street, so I parked myself on a bench there and pulled out my tiny, yet high-powered, private investigator binoculars and waited. I'd packed a light lunch of cucumber sandwiches (with the crusts removed, English style), a packet of crisps, and a carton of chocolate milk, in case my stake-out took more time than expected.

For the first hour, no one arrived or departed from Veronica's residence. I did, however, think I spotted a handsome man in a dashing three-piece suit who looked suspiciously like Daniel Craig, star of the latest James Bond spy movie, ducking out of townhouse #1 and into a cab, but I may have been wrong about that.

Then it started to rain, so I pulled out my new polka-dotted 'brella I bought at Harrods and opened it. Just then, another cab pulled up in front of townhouse #4 and out emerged a woman just the right size to be Veronica. She was wearing a Hermes scarf tied under her chin, like Jackie O., and large-framed sunglasses, so I couldn't make a positive identification. A man looking to be in his 30s also emerged but from the other side of the cab; a quite hot man whom I recognized as the one who'd remained close by Veronica's side throughout Ted's funeral service. He ran to her side, opening an umbrella over her head. Before the pair moved quickly inside townhouse #4, I managed to take a few shots of them with my iPhone camera.

Wanting to get a closer look at my new prime suspect, I waited until dusk fell, pretending to wait for the bus while reading my copy of "M. Thatcher; His Life and Times." Despite my somewhat fading admiration of the Iron One, I still loved reading about her, from afar, as was my preference post nostril-picking. As for the title of her bio, I really should write to the publisher and point out their typo, when I have a moment. You'd think they'd have noticed it by now.

As little birdies began their twilight chirping, I put the biography away inside my bag and crossed the street, carefully looking both ways because I didn't have travel insurance. A careless oversight, yes, and one which I corrected within a few days of arriving in Europe. I just wanted to first make sure my travel budget had a generous contingency for shopping and other such necessities.

Being a work night, the street was empty. I slowly opened the front gate, which, thankfully, was well maintained and did not squeak, then crept around the side of the house to a window there. A light was on inside and I peered in – it was Veronica's kitchen, rather garishly decorated in bright colours with pictures of fruit adorning the walls. Detecting movement inside, I climbed partway up a fence dividing her property from her neighbour's and ducked back behind some sort of bush situated conveniently next to the fence, which perfectly hid me from view but also allowed me a partial view into the kitchen.

This is what I saw: the hot man whom I'd seen holding the umbrella for Veronica an hour earlier was now wearing diapers and a dog collar, to which was attached a chain. He was holding his hands up in front like paws and his pathetic tongue was hanging out of his mouth. Holding the other end of said chain was Veronica, wearing red stiletto heels, fishnet stockings and what must have been a custom-made merry widow, given her ample assets. She was also wearing a red harlequin mask on her face, but it still didn't hide those glowing red eyes of hers. They were glowing extra brightly now, perhaps indicating a high level of excitement. And just below said mask were the telltale Vampira fangs I'd suspected were there all along. I cringed at the thought she was about to take a bite out of her much-younger husband, whom she blithely led through the kitchen, with a beagle following close on his heels, barking with excitement. A beagle? I would have pictured a Demon from the 7th Realm of Hell, and possibly a vampire to boot, to have a hellhound of some kind; either a Rottweiler or a Doberman pincher, not Barney the beagle. It made for a rather discordant image. Perhaps the beagle belonged to her milquetoast husband, and Veronica's hellhound was chained in the back yard, waiting for his pound of flesh. Welcome to the upper-class suburbs of London, was all I could think. Yet another surprise, in addition to my earlier shock at seeing Baroness Thatcher in one of her decidedly low-class, private moments, when the paparazzi cameras weren't upon her. I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed overall with my first brush with the British upper class.