Bond is back again (and again)

With the upcoming James Bond film, due for imminent cinema release, using the last of the full-length Ian Fleming novels that has gone through a serious adaptation, you wonder how many more contortions on action extravaganza plots can be wrung from the series. I find Bond films great but once Casino Royale with Daniel Craig comes out, where can the franchise go from here?
It may get to the point after many years, where, having exhausted all other avenues for filmic potential, the plot for one film will revolve around James Bond filling in his tax returns. Bond is back in "On Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs Service - Tax Form 101E." Bond sits down on the sofa in his living room, the deadly form on the coffee table before him. Ah, if he had not left it to the last moment, he would not be in such a lethal position, but there were so many sexy women to bed that to pass them up would be criminal. Right, get out my "CLASSIFIED" stamp and I'm off. Name. Hmm. Do I put my real name or one of my aliases? The taxman is one of my greatest opponents to date - he will not care for my ignorance such is his ruthlessness. But, yes, of course, so obvious. I will stamp it with "CLASSIFIED"; they will work it out from my National Insurance number. Age. A bit personal. Some say I should be in my late twenties, others say I look far better if I give out that I'm in the mid-forties. But the truth will confound the taxman. There. Male or Female. If you are giving me the choice, I'm always going for the ladies; oh, it's relating to me. Job. "CLASSIFIED". National Insurance number. Right, done that. Marital status. Widowed. Do I receive any continuing legacy from the deceased? Well, she was the daughter of the boss of Corsican gangster organisation, the Union Corse, and I certainly can't receive any payments off him. Children? Well, I used a condom when one was available. I mean, such are my conquests, my supply won't always be topped up. Best stamp that with "CLASSIFIED". That was a taxing question, ho, ho. Hmph, I wish there had been a female foil to hear my stunning pun.
Having completed his form eventually, he hops into his Aston Martin DB5, barnstorms through town (because of a special non-speed paint developed by Q Branch, speed cameras can't pick him up), and screechs to a halt infront of the Post Office. Getting to the door, he finds a long queue, no doubt a fiendish idea by the taxman, and the post office closes in less than ten minutes. No matter, Bond karate chops on the neck old ladies waiting to withdraw their pension and overturns prams, as he struggles to reach a clerk in time. "Position Number Four is now available". He's made it with 8 minutes 33 seconds to spare. This is the real world after all. Walking up to the booth, the clerk remonstrates with Bond as to the chaos he has caused behind him. Bond withdraws his Walther PPK. Whoops, didn't want that. Bond replaces it and withdraws his tax form to hand to the now pliant clerk. As Bond walks out the Post Office, police cars race up outside. Bond is alert. He takes out his ID and flashes it to the cops. What's the trouble. "We've heard reports of a robbery in progress. "Right," Bond says, slipping out his trusty (it never jammed on him) Walther PPK and turning back to the Post Office entrance, "follow me."