You don’t remember me, do you? Nineteen forty-three not on your conscience? It’s taken me years to win your confidence, like you did mine all those years ago, only to sell me out to the Germans. They must have made me worth your while.
Peace time neighbours in Finchley? What a cruel joke.
Clearly, you enjoy my visits, always there to greet me, with your unsuspecting smile, at your rose-arched garden gate – ‘Traitor’s Gate’ I call it, but you don’t know that.
Glad you liked that cake I baked for your ninetieth… laced with a bit extra. Just for you.