Ian Fleming’s ideas and life-view were familiar to one born into an ‘old’ family. I’m not talking ‘old’ as in money or aristocracy as in his case. No, simply that my parents were not Spring chickens when they had me and the age gaps between my brothers and I were not inconsiderable. My parents were from Fleming’s era. My father could not have been more different from him in so many ways, but yet, there were familiar strains to some of the attitudes. Besides which, my dad first introduced me to him and his younger, movie-star friend many years ago, now that I recall! It explained why I found his somewhat out-dated points of view familiar, strangely reassuring although at times disturbingly distasteful. Modernism has thankfully moved us along enough to know that such points of view are now unacceptable. Sadly, though, they still exist en force – listen to the “locker room” talk of Trump and his cronies captured on tape by the Washington Post.

My first contact with Ian Fleming was through this book “The Man with the Golden Typewriter” by his nephew, Fergus, sharing his letters and snippets of adventures. My intrigue built and I was soon contemplating what was really behind this man and his younger more active, movie-star friend. With Fergus’ book on my lap, I would sit over my morning cup of tea, on our back deck under the arch of grape vine, looking across our riotous raspberry canes towards our two soaring Jacarandas that always clung onto one or two cluster of blooms into middle summer. The maggies’ warbling and morning heat would ease my soul while Fergus would share more and more of his uncle’s inner thoughts with me. It wasn’t long before I wanted to know more about his uncle, and soon, my mild curiosity built into a mildly, stimulating obsession!

It’s genetic, you see. Being a Scot and daughter of an engineer, there was little hope for me to be anything other than a pedant! Meticulousness to the point where striving for perfection gets in the way of ‘good’ and then, being fatally flawed – aren’t we all (if we are honest), giving over to mediocrity when reality pushes in and dreams of perfection dwindle with ever-looming deadlines! It leads for a very unfulfilling life at times but at others, pushes one to find out more than perhaps strictly required. Being of such an (ever-so-slightly) obsessional ilk, I have a somewhat irresistible desire to find out about the person behind the projected persona, the culture behind a societal norm, and the wave in history that led to the perfect storm of human denouement … etcetera, etcetera (picture me in classic Yul Brynner ‘King and I’ stance here)! And so it was with Mr Fleming. Two-thirds of the way into his nephew’s book and I was searching for Ian’s non-fiction works – ‘Thrilling Cities’ and ‘The Diamond Smugglers’. The ‘Golden Typewriter’ was proving fascinating for a wannabe ‘orrfur’; the insights to publishing 60 years ago and the strong relationships he had with his editors but also with other phenomenal writers of his time. Somehow, it would be fair to say, if success was based upon who you know, then I am going to be skating on very thin ice to get anywhere! Fleming was surrounded by literary giants: Somerset Maugham who was a close friend, Raymond Chandler a latter life friend – Ian had the proverbial silver, no, Platinum, spoon in his mouth … but he also worked ruddy hard at making his work a success. Now the intrigue was alive again. I had only ever seen James Bond movies. What was Fleming actually like as a writer? His letters were great examples but, perhaps, I should get some of his James Bond books? But first let’s find out about his non-fiction.