Important notice from Gregory Duke, caseworker to Andrew Sinclair MP. 

Molly Bennett has just contacted me from a secret location, to ask me to apologise to any of you who were sent a bizarre email containing a link to God knows what earlier today.

Molly says that the link had nothing to do with her, and she is very sorry if you thought it did. She can only assume that a mad constituent has somehow accessed her blog, spotted a less-than-flattering reference to him or herself, and spammed readers as revenge. Either that, or The Boss has found out about it. (He is in a particularly foul mood today.)

She would also like to thank all of you for your comments and "where are you?" messages, and promises to update you soon. I'll believe it when I see it.

Happy New Year, Rather Belatedly

And thanks to one and all for your good wishes and enquiries about the state of my sex-life, sanity and/or health. I am still alive - or, at least, I think I am. It's hard to be sure judging by what I look like in the mirror. Anyway, I shall be back, either in this or another format, very soon, I hope. It's just a question of deciding where on earth to begin...

A Big Thank-You

To everyone who voted for me in this year's Total Politics Awards, particularly as I've been uncharacteristically quiet of late. I promise I'll be back soon.

In the meantime, thanks also to those of you who have messaged me asking where the hell I am - details to follow upon my return...

Update - Still Having Trouble Identifying Body Parts

Josh very ill in hospital for last two weeks, so telling arse from elbow is currently even more difficult than it was before. Thanks to you all for the messages via Twitter, Facebook and elsewhere.

To be continued.....

When I know my arse from my elbow. This may take some time.

Fall-Out Of The Political (And Emotional) Kind. And Burning Bridges All Over The Place.

"God, I thought you were never coming back to work," says Greg, when I walk into the office rather late this morning.

"How did you know?" I say, wondering if he can read my mind.

"Know what?" he says, proving that, thankfully, he can't. He doesn't wait for an answer, though. He's far too agitated for that.

"Where did you get to yesterday?" he says."The Boss was going completely mad. He was desperate to talk to you."

I can't imagine why. It's not as if Andrew speaks to me when I'm at work, half the time.

"I was still on holiday," I say. "I booked Monday off as well as last week, don't forget."

"Ah," says Greg, who obviously did, despite the red sticker on the holiday chart. "Well, anyway, you'd better call Andrew straight away. He's got himself in a bit of a mess."

"Haven't we all?" I say, as I pick up the phone and start to dial.

"Where the hell have you been?" says Andrew, apropos a greeting. "Don't they have phones in bloody Dorset?"

I take a deep breath, and wish I was allowed to smoke in the office.

"There's been a bit of a problem," says Andrew. "So you need to get on to it, tout de suite."

It must be bad, if he's speaking French.

Andrew's so frazzled that it takes him ages to explain what the problem actually is, at which point I light up a cigarette anyway. I may as well burn some bridges of my own, seeing as everyone else is at it.

"So," I say. "Let me get this straight: it didn't even occur to you that the local media might object to you saying that all journalists are bound to have been hacking people's phones?"

"Nrmph," says Andrew.

"Or that Northwick Police might take offence at you implying that all policemen are corrupt?"

There's no reply, so I repeat the question. Twice.

"Nrmph," says Andrew, finally.

I don't know if he's eating, or choking, but eventually he recovers enough to counter-attack:

"It's your job to stop me accidentally doing that sort of thing," he says. "And to help me clear up the mess when I do. But you were deliberately ignoring your phone."

"I was on holiday," I say. "Supposedly."

By the time Andrew's quoted the "any other duties that I may deem necessary" part of my contract, along with the section about overtime, I've lost my patience and set light to the bin with my cigarette butt. You wouldn't think campaign postcards would catch light so easily.

"So what are you going to do to minimise the fall-out from this?" he says.

"Nothing," I say, throwing my coffee into the inferno. "Maybe you should sort it out. I've got other priorities at the moment."

I think Greg assumes I'm referring to the fire that's still burning, caffeine-based extinguisher notwithstanding, because he runs to the kitchen, and then returns, carrying a washing-up bowl full of water. He pours it into the bin, then smiles as if the problem's solved.

It isn't. The Boss carries on yelling down the phone at me, adding fuel to the other (metaphorical) fires that have been lit over the last few days.

"Please stop shouting at me, Andrew," I say, in a tone that would have rendered Dubai pretty chilly in no time at all.

Greg recognises this frosty manner immediately, from listening to me dealing with the usual suspects - and he knows what it denotes about how near my temper is to being lost. He's just not used to hearing it when I'm in conversation with The Boss. Neither am I, but today I just don't seem to care.

Greg, however, does.

"No-o-o," he mouths at me, while trying to grab the phone - but I fend him off with a manoeuvre I learned from that self-defence video I bought after Mr Humphries went berserk.

It proves to be a lot more effective than one of Josh's roundhouse kicks, and Greg looks quite shocked as he makes a gesture of submission while getting to his feet.

"Sorry, Greg," I say, "But this time, I'm not backing down."

It would be nice if, for once, The Boss did - seeing as he's  the one who approved Vicky's idiotic press release. But you can't reason with a panic-stricken MP, or not one who's still in the yelling phase, anyway. (Just ask anyone who's ever worked for John Prescott or Gordon Brown.)

"Andrew," I say, interrupting yet another tirade. "Call me back when you've calmed down. I'm not talking to you while you're in this mood."

"In that case, you'd better go home," says Andrew. "Right now. And consider your position while you're there."

Which is exactly what I have been doing, ever since Johnny and I found Max with Jemima in the gazebo. And Johnny asked me to join him in Dubai.

School Reunions, Virtually Topless Bumping, And The Mosquito From Dubai.

"Why do you always wear black when we go somewhere special?" says Max, as I'm getting ready for the school reunion.

"Because it makes me invisible," I say. "You don't want to draw attention to yourself when you're going to be the least successful person in the room."

It certainly achieves that, as no-one takes any notice of me for the first hour after we arrive at the hotel. Including Max.

I'm not sure he wouldn't rather have stayed at Dad's, hopping channels and drinking beer.

"What's the matter with you?" I say. "You've hardly said a word so far."

"Well, I'm not as comfortably invisible as you," says Max. "Not at my height. And I didn't even go to this school, did I? I bet I'm the only person here who's both unemployed and under-educated."

I feel a bit guilty then. How did I forget that Max failed his eleven plus? Not that passing it has done me much good, unless that's the fault of this stupid outfit. Someone's already asked me to take their coat.

I'm about to suggest we do a runner, and go for a drink somewhere else, when I hear a distinctive voice.

"Well, if it isn't little Molly James, playing the wallflower - as usual. Some things never change."

"Hello, Jemima," I say, through gritted teeth. "Nice to see you too. Though, actually, it's Molly Bennett now." I gesture at Max, who's got his back to me and is staring hopefully at the fire exit. "This is my husband."

"Max?" says Jemima, as he turns to face her.

"Jemima," says Max. "Bloody hell."

He looks an awful lot more enthusiastic about reunions now.

"Do you two know each other?" I say.

"I should say so," says Jemima, saying so. "Though not from school, exactly. More like after school - eh, Max?"

I'm pretty sure Max actually laughs when she winks. I've never liked people who wink.

"Can I borrow your husband, Molly?" says Jemima, not waiting for an answer. "Come and dance with me, Max."

"Oh, Max hates danci - " I say, as Max follows her on to the dance floor.

They're still there more than an hour later - and I'm still sitting at the bar by myself, eavesdropping on Phil Mould. He's discussing accountancy with James Oakenfield, (who's a merchant banker - like bloody Jemima - but who isn't any more interesting for that). Neither Phil nor James has the faintest idea who I am.

I'm not sure that I know, either. As if it wasn't bad enough having to say that I work for an MP when anyone asks, now I don't feel like Max's wife. I feel more like mosquito bait. If I get bitten one more time, I'm leaving - with or without Max, though the latter option seems more likely.

In the meantime, I'll have another gin. If Greg were here, he'd tell me to get my own back by having it put on Jemima's bill, but I don't have the nerve - unlike her. I'm sure her bosom fell right out of that dress a minute ago.

I turn my back on the room, and concentrate on fishing the lime out of my gin. What is wrong with a slice of lemon?

"Blah, Sage, Blah, Accounts," says Phil.

"Blah, Hedge Fund, Blah, Bonus," says James.

I've finally lost the will to live, and have just laid my head down on the bar, when I feel something tickle my neck.

"Argh," I say, swatting it away. "Fuck off, you bloody thing."

"Ow," says Johnny, rubbing his cheekbone, where my ring has caught it. "Do you have to injure me whenever we meet?"

I look down at my glass, trying to work out if I have drunk so much that I'm hallucinating, but Johnny's still there when I look back up.

"Surprised?" he says.

"Yes," I say, though surprise doesn't really cover what I'm feeling. Panic might be a better word.

"Why on earth didn't you tell me you were coming?" I say. "My husband's here, you idiot."

"Very funny," says Johnny. "I've been watching you for the last twenty minutes, and you've been on your own the whole time. No sign of any husband at all."

"That's because he's over there," I say, pointing towards Max, who really doesn't need to be slow dancing with Jemima to The Bump.

Johnny looks over at Max, but doesn't say anything. I don't think he knows quite what to say.

I certainly don't, so I finish my gin and order another. God knows how much food money we'll have left for the month if I don't slow down.

"Isn't that Jemima your husband's dancing with?" says Johnny, still staring towards the dance floor.

"Yes," I say. "So he got there before you. All the way from Dubai, and then you end up being stuck with me."

Johnny gives me a funny look, pulls up a bar stool, and sits down.

"What are you talking about, Molly?" he says. "I'm here to see you, you know that."

"Huh," I say. "You told me you weren't coming, so don't think you're fooling me. I know when I'm not wanted."

"You don't bloody know when you are wanted, though," says Johnny. "You told me you were coming, didn't you? And without your husband - which is why I decided to surprise you."

"Oh," I say.

I can't think of anything to add, though Johnny can.

"I do wish you'd try a bit harder to keep up," he says. "Now let's go outside. There isn't a Science Block in the hotel garden - but there is a rather nice gazebo."

"I can't," I say. "Max is over there - somewhere. And I'm supposed to be his wife, not yours."

"Doesn't seem to be bothering him," says Johnny, as he takes my hand.