One of the more sobering moments of my paranoia filled life was when I first met up with Eliana, also known as the new Miss Sicily.
She'd been recommended to me by the old Miss Sicily who'd returned to Catania for consultations with Don Corleone.
The old Miss Sicily is worthy of note, aside from her feminine pulchritude, for being the first person I've trusted in the past ten years.
Eliana, aka Miss Sicily Number Two, had arrived in the Costa Cafe for our first encounter. The moment I saw her, I had a flash of recognition.
And I realised I knew her.
I mean I'd seen her once before.
Oh her hair was different but it was her.
I'd seen her chatting in the street with my favourite Al Qaeda agent, the one I refer to as Miss Arabia, about six months ago.
I'd noticed her alright.
An eye catching girl whatever way she does her hair.
One doesn't forget.
She'd scarpered pronto when I showed up.
As for Miss Arabia.
The only one of all my conspiracy theories that I'm genuinely convinced is true is that Amal is some sort of spy.
So Ms Sicily Number Two had a connection to the Amal.
Not a good start.
"Do you have any Arab friends?" I enquired sweetly over tiffin.
And she jiggled and joggled and tried to look as if she was racking her brains.
Presently she said: "Oh yes, one."
And I said: "Is her name Amal?"
And it was all such a slight meaningless coincidence.
Which means it was no coincidence at all as we experts in tradecraft will you.
I ventured to enquire did Amal happen to know the first Miss Sicily.
The second Miss Sicily told me that she did.
All my Miss Sicilies were compromised.
Including the one I really liked.
What to do.
Here is the news.
They look nice.
So I kept them around.
Stayed in touch with the one in Sicily, and continued meeting the second one in Dublin.
Fast forward to now.
Today the second one left Ireland and we met to say goodbye.
I gave her The Princess Bride
as a parting gift.
She gave me a tape of traditional Sicilian songs.
I looked at it with bitter sweet whimsy in my eyes.
This was the perfect present for me.,
But I knew that the mere possibility that Amal might have put a devil worship curse on it or treated it with radium meant it would never be coming home with me.
"Thank you," I said tenderly, my eyes misty. "This is the sort of thing I really love."
Outside the cafe I gave Eliana ye olde goodbye hugge.
The tender embrace was a mistake.
This had given her another chance to plant on my person ye olde Polonium 90 or ricin or whatever the young assassins are using nowadays.
"You need to trust people more," she said as she bounced away up the street like a beautiful elemental part of the storm of life.
I binned the Sicilian music tape almost before she was out of sight.
Better safe than sorry.
The cops, the mob, the broads (and the Archbishops and the devil worshippers and the commies and of course the Mussies), they're all out to get Heelers.