For my weekly writing spot on this site, see the One-Minute Mystic, with a new meditation posted every Monday. Also see The Village, the story of Misty Longings, England's most beautiful village, posted episode by episode earlier this year.       The long night vigil is nearly done. You have sat motionless across the road from the property in an unmarked car for six hours. But it's 5.00am now and time to pay a visit – and it isn't for breakfast. With members of the team covering the back, the front door is smashed in. You know from plans of the property where the bedroom is, and you go there now. Terrorists and drug barons all look the same in their underpants, groggy and scared witless by the flash grenades, the barking dogs, the shouted instructions, the pointing guns, or perhaps a tear gas canister weeping at their feet, thrown by men in masks. Knock and the door shall be opened unto you, certainly, but sometimes in the security business, it's best for the seekers to do it themselves at an unholy hour, if they really want to find. You fight fire with fire, matey. This is the Age of the security expert. Yes, blessed is the Professor of Terrorism at the University of South Warwickshire, for he shall provide analysis for many radio programmes, and if he is lucky, telly also. And blessed is the security consultant advising some despot in the Middle-East – for he shall be rich and deemed credible in this dirty world. Blessed also is the former SAS man with a gift for self-publicity – for publishers and editors will come running bearing gifts. And blessed are all hard men, clear sighted assessors of risk, makers of tough calls – for they shall be kings in a Boy's Own world. In a previous life, a close relative of mine used to smash down doors at 5.00am, crawl under the main stage at party political conferences, and protect eminent politicians on holiday. Part of his training was with the SAS. There were courses on kidnap, forced entry, hostage recovery, close personal protection, interrogation and gun handling. But obviously the most well attended and most vital for future endeavours was the Creative Writing Course. These days, we don't just want writers – we want writers who have been there and done it, with names like Dave "Mad Dog" McTuff: "I'm not nice – but I'm effective." The good news in all this is that the thermal tops I get for Christmas have been well tested in bitter conditions on night exercises in the Brecon Beacons. The bad news is that it is all such fantastic fun, I might even begin to identify with it. Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's – but blessed are those who having thus rendered, don't for a moment take Caesar seriously. Caesar is as much of a fool as the men he kills. More writings © Simon Parke