You amuse me, Agent Bond, with your sultry, understated confidence. And bravo for breaching everyone else’s unbreachable fortresses, in their various remote and forbidding locales. But let’s be honest: none have been as remote and forbidding as the American exurbs.
The whimsically interchangeable street names around here will perhaps remind you of your childhood in England. To find me, try Glen Manor Drive past Forestdale Way around to Glenhaven. Or maybe take Rose Glen to Heatherdale Lane and then on to Briarcroft Court, which does not connect to Briarwood Road or Briarhaven Way. Adding to the challenge, the residences you’ll pass along the way, while not precisely identical, are nonetheless completely indistinguishable. Interlopers find it all quite maddening.
Your Aston Martin can corner impressively through Old World cobblestone plazas. Bully for you, but that won’t help with our herds of deer. You may think them charming at first, until they start leaping into your path. Does your fancy sports car have a reinforced windshield? How much venison can it withstand? Even if your windshield remains miraculously intact, these majestic creatures spout ticks like the ornate fountains you’re always cornering impressively around. Long before you get anywhere near my lair, you’ll have a serious case of Lyme disease. Which I’m told is rather unpleasant.
Let’s imagine you have somehow arrived at the circular driveway in front of my abode. Cunningly, it forms an actual complete circle with no clear or intuitive entrance and exit. You could try cornering around and around, spraying white gravel onto my fastidiously manicured fescue until you run out of gas or patience. But your usual modus operandi suggests you’ll get out and proceed on foot. If you’re considering approaching from the side or rear of the property, keep in mind that those ‘natural’ areas around the perimeter are pure poison ivy, dripping in ticks. Also, zoning regulations require setting aside that space for rabid foxes and raccoons.
I can picture you now, sauntering with inimitable insouciance up the slope of the front lawn, dapper and debonair until you trip the sensors of my automatic sprinkler system. You’ll be instantly drenched in mold spores pumped up from my basement. Who knows what that will do to your respiratory system, already weakened by Lyme?
You would be well advised to withdraw while you still can. If you don’t, you’ll come face-to-face with my crew of henchmen, each one wielding an earsplitting leaf blower. At 2200 cubic feet per minute apiece, they’ll blow the smirk off your face while kicking up toxic clouds of fertilizer and weed killer for you to inhale along with the mold spores and ticks.
You’ll never get this far, of course, but there’s only one way in: through the garage. As you would expect, it features a featureless automatic door with no exterior handles. Let’s presume that Q has equipped your cufflinks with a device for decoding encrypted garage door locks. Once you’ve gained entry, though, you’ll have to contend with a confounding gauntlet of oversized plastic receptacles. Recycling, yard trim, compost, trash. If you’ve used your pocket square to wipe deer gore and mold from your face, I highly doubt you’ll figure out the proper bin for disposal.
Not that you’ll ever need to know this, but the garage opens into a magnificent walk-in closet. In addition to multiple clothing racks of adjustable height, ample shoe storage, and a flattering full-length mirror, it contains its own walk-in closet. And guess what? That closet also has its own separate walk-in closet. If you ever make it inside, and have sufficient stamina, you’ll find the entire mansion is a maze of walk-in closets, each with custom shelving and other special design features.
Is it reckless of me to share so much information with you? I hardly think so. If you achieve the impossible and get anywhere near the innermost walk-in closet, with its spectacular 12-person Jacuzzi, private balcony, and luxurious home theater, you’ll be met by a squad of sadistic HOA goons. You may feel I’ve been unwelcoming, but you will find our Homeowners Association far less tolerant of transgressors. Farewell, Mr. Bond.