Calendar Girls

Monday morning, oh joy. God knows why the public think working for an MP is glamorous.

When I arrive at work, I'm greeted by the sight of an hideous new office-calendar bearing the logo: Andrew Sinclair MP: Working Hard for Hardworking People. It features The Boss grinning inanely in front of a block of flats in Easemount.

You can't see the other block which got burnt out just before Christmas by our regular nutter, Steve Ellington, on the basis that, if he was going to have a miserable festive season, then so were all his neighbours.

Greg has Photo-shopped the picture to show a bevy of obese, naked women standing behind The Boss. They are also grinning inanely, and improve the photo no end. At least Andrew's gone back to the House today so I won't have to cope with him in the flesh. There's quite enough of that on the calendar.

Greg won't discuss what he got up to at the weekend, just says he's planning our next move. Our next move? It doesn't bear thinking about.


The first letter I open sets the tone for the day:

Dear Mr Sinclair,

I am writing to you because there is a serious problem on Broad Street. I walk down there every day to my job at Economyland, (a girl needs her pin-money, after all), and what should I see at the side of the road today but a dead rat! This is bad enough, but what I want to know, Mr Sinclair, is what would happen if, when I was walking past one day, the rat were to be struck by a car, be hurled up in the air, and then strike me in the face? Something needs to be done before this happens.

Thanks for all you do for hardworking people.

Yours etc
Pauline Harpenden (Miss)

Greg thinks it's funny. I despair - what the hell am I supposed to reply to that?

There are only three women in the Coalition Cabinet so far - apart from a Lord - and I bet they're only there to act as nursemaids to the men, who are probably all just like The Boss. He phones this afternoon to ask whether we need him for anything. We never do but, as usual, I pretend there's something I need his advice on.

Then he asks, "Am I for or against cycle helmets?"

Honestly, no wonder the country's in such a mess when MPs can't even remember where they stand on the simplest issue. Mind you, I bet the Tories and LibDems have no idea where they're supposed to stand on anything now, given all the horse-trading that's gone in over the last few days.

They're probably even more stressed than The Boss, who sounds a bit frazzled. I ask him what's the matter, though I don't really care since he blamed me for upsetting Mr Dougan.

"I'm thinking we may need to do something to tighten up security," he says.

"Oh good," I say. "Any particular reason?"

"Someone put dog shit through my letterbox on Saturday night."

"Oh, vital we do something about that, then," I say. I don't tell Greg - he'd be far too triumphant.

In the evening, the house feels funny without Connie, who went back to university this morning. I am left in testosterone hell, which I think must be contagious. I look closely in the mirror for the first time in days, and see hairs sprouting from my chin. God - now, I'm turning into the bearded lady.

I start plucking them out, but seem to grow another two for every one I remove, and I can't even see the damn things properly, despite the 25x magnifying mirror. I suppose I'll be able to work as a circus freak when Max notices them and leaves me.

Since Ellen's comments at my birthday party, he's taken to doing sit-ups every night - much to Josh's amusement. I think it'll take more than sit-ups, but wisely say nothing, as I am endeavouring to become an enigma.

Just before I go to bed, Mum phones to announce her latest affliction - something to do with a painful buttock. She certainly gives me one. I endure an hour of whingeing and then instruct Josh to shoot me if I ever become like my mother. He just raises an eyebrow meaningfully and returns to the important business of doing nothing.