Bad news from Italy, where they are shooting scenes for my upcoming James Bond film, Quantum of Solace, whatever that means. Last week, a spectator had a heart attack. Then the Aston Martin delivery man drove the car into a lake. Today, a stuntman was hurt in a pile-up. The papers are calling it a curse, which frankly is better publicity than all that nonsense last time about how I was punched in the teeth, got heat rash and can't drive standard. But it's got me worried all the same. I fear these mishaps are symptomatic of declining standards in the Bond franchise, and not just on safety. Consider my latest female lead. Her name is Camille. Seriously, does that sound like a Bond Girl to you? Sounds like a horse-faced royal consort to me. No hint of perversion, no erotic little cipher. It's a name that belongs in bloody Atonement, not the Quorum of Scholars or whatever, and it's not the first time. Remember Vesper Lynd from Casino Royale? Pretty, yes, but her name sounded like something Latin you'd say to a priest. "Vesper Lynd, father, for I neglected my knitting this week." Bollocks, I say. Bring back the lusty moniker. Sean Connery had Plenty O'Toole and Pussy Galore. Roger Moore had Holly Goodhead. Pierce Brosnan had Xenia Onatopp. Even Timothy Bleedin Dalton had Lupe Lamora. And me? I get Camille, just Camille, like Cher without the innuendo. Forget the unscripted car crashes, that's plenty enough to kill the box office in Middle America.

TUESDAY

I woke up in such a funk that I called the producer. Her name is Barbara Broccoli. For real. I said she must be really steamed over these accidents. No answer. I should watch those vegetable jokes, what with all the people being injured in car crashes. So I told her that in my next film, we should script a character called Vershali Undress, an Indian arms dealer who takes Bond to Bollywood and gets him Kama Sutrified. I said we could probably get Aishwarya Rai, but Cathy Cauliflower was cold. "What next film?" she said. Now, I may look like I'm chiselled from marble, but I have feelings, you know.

WEDNESDAY

Another flippin' accident with the stunt cars, and this time a stuntman is in a coma. This Quarrel of Solar watchamacallits is going off the rails, and the studio has suspended filming. This gave me an opportunity to have a word with Marc Foster, the director. He sounded quite upset when I called, and did not seem very enthusiastic about my latest idea for an Italian Bond Girl called Bertha Submarino. "I'll talk to the studio," he said.

THURSDAY

Given this unplanned vacation, I'm just lounging around the house today with my fiancee, Satsuki Mitchell... See! That's what I'm talking about. A name's got to be memorable. Satsuki is, but Camille? Sounds like a type of towel. Anyway, Satsuki and I came up with another Bond Girl prospect --Pokki Nippelsen, the Scandinavian nanotechnologist. But then she stormed off when I suggested Sienna Miller should play her. "Okay, okay," I called after her. "How about Jodie Foster?"

FRIDAY

Barbara Broccoli called today with an unusual message. It seems the writers are complaining about my "meddling," and she's on their side. She said I'm "talent,"

not "creative," and I should keep my ideas to myself or risk a union grievance. I said she should bloody well concentrate on stuntmen who send rare sportscars plunging off corniches, not actors with a bit of vision. But that's that, I suppose. So much for the sultry Russian cryptographer, Vaginica Trot-sky.

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