It was a grey morning. The light filtered through a dusty window but wasn't even strong enough to cast shadow on the floor of suite 158 on the sixteenth floor of the private New York hospital. Connery was groggy but still managed to stretch out a hand. He longed to feel the cold texture and ever familiar contours that had nestled inside his jacket, next to his arm pit, through countless encounters and tense circumstances. Yes his wallet was still there. Carefully he fumbled and then gripped the smooth leather and pulled it towards him. The leather was cold against his cheek. It smelled of him. Old Spice, Tabac, Coal Tar soap and the sweat of 75 year old film star. There were some notes in it that were now out of date.


Connery was recovering from an operation. He'd recently undergone surgery to remove the wallet from his inside pocket. The operation was a success but the surgeon was worried. "Obviously..." he began, gazing at the press agent over the rims of his Foster Grant cheapo reading glasses, "... there will be some side effects. A man doesn't carry a wallet unopened in his pocket for all those years, then expect a straight run to normality once it's been removed." The doctor drew a deep breath and let it hiss out between clenched buttocks. "Noooo no." he intoned, "It'll require weeks of recouperation, some councelling probably. His bank manager might be the best one to do that."
"Maybe he should return home for some R&R." said the agent.

"That would be a good idea." agreed the surgeon, "Familiar things will be good for him. They'll evoke memories of childhood and help him to rebuild himself."


Two days later, Connery was stepping off the plane. The familiar surroundings made his chest swell with pride. Scottish to his roots, being back in his homeland had an immediate cathartic effect. Yes, it was good to get back to the familiarity of the grand old Scottish province of Bahamas. How he glowed at the sight of the familiar Scottish vegetation. The palm trees, the bannana groves, the worked out sugar cane plantations. There had been a moment of tension but once he saw the tax free banking houses in the main street, it passed quickly.


He arrived at his house, a traditional Scottish lodge of pale pink stucco nestling in a housing development of exclusive traditional Scottish houses called Lyford Cay. It was a pretty house a bagpipes throw from the traditional Scottish coral beach where traditionally warm clear Scottish water lapped the traditionally Scottish pink coral beach.


Mrs Connery was there to greet him. "Now Sean, you need to rest. But we should have something to eat before you do anything else. I've got the barby going. What about some traditional Scottish fare, haggis washed down with a dram before you pop into the studio to record that message for the SNP."

"Fuck that Micheline." retorted Sean "Chuck a couple of Lobshters on the barby and crack open the Crishtal. I'm in the mood for dancshing."