In theory, I start proper work tomorrow. I say in theory because my manager at BM has yet to contact me to tell me what the heck I'm actually supposed to be doing, or even where I'm supposed to be. I'm taking an educated guess and hoping that somewhere in the Paris area is my general destination. Perhaps on my way to the office some woman will stop me and say "gee, there sure are a lot more people in red t-shirts than there used to be" and I'll say "well, red is the new black", at which point she'll hand me a briefcase with fingerprint-encrypted DVD instructions inside that self-destruct after 30 seconds. "Your mission, should you decide to accept it..."
Of course my "mission" is top secret. As is everything at BM. We are not allowed to tell strangers we work for BM. We are not allowed to disclose the name of our clients, or to tell people where we are travelling to in case they can deduce the identity of our client based on the destination. We are not to use the BM name to reserve a table in a restaurant, in the apparently quite likely event that enemy agents decide to sit next to us and spike our drinks and end up torturing us for information.
On the one hand, it's rather intoxicating to think that I'm a new, corporate James-Bond-type figure (in a dashing, fitted Hugo Boss pant suit and Jimmy Choos, of course). On the other hand, it's a massive conversation killer and basically guarantees that I will never get a date again. Imagine the scene: it's a crowded, no-longer-smoky bar, the margaritas appear, a tall, dark handsome stranger leans in and asks: "So, what do you do?" "I can't tell you." "Oh. Will you be in Paris next week?" "I can't tell you." "Right. Oh look. I think I see my friend over there. Nice meeting you. (Aside) Nut case."