Honesty is the Worst Policy, and How to Fail Both Your Children Equally.

Greg is out of the office in the morning, "raising awareness." He texts me at 11:30am and says that he has found a solution to all our problems with difficult constituents. "Nuke 'em," is his measured response. He comes back shortly afterwards and says that he is too traumatised by his run-in with Miss Harpenden to describe his experiences. My morning hasn't been any better than his, so we decide to treat ourselves by nominating lunchtime as Writing Honest Letters Hour. This is a luxury we occasionally indulge in. A typical example would be my reply to Mr Ellis' repeated threats to kill himself if we don't get him what he wants:

Dear Mr Ellis

Thank you for your letter threatening to throw yourself off the multi-storey car park if we do not stop your next door neighbour from turning off her light switch so noisily. I regret that I will not be able to be present tomorrow at 4:00pm as you requested, as I have to be in the House of Commons from Mondays to Thursdays. However, if you could possibly arrange to re-schedule the event for 4:30pm on Friday, I shall be more than happy to attend.

Yours sincerely

Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

Mrs Underwood has written in to ask whether there are plans to increase spending on public benches on the short route between her house and the betting shop. Greg replies:

Dear Mrs Underwood

Further to your recent letter, I regret that there are currently no plans to increase spending for accessible seating in your area, as any additional funds are earmarked for tax cuts for me.

Yours etc

Andrew Sinclair, MP for the hardworking people of Northwick East.


This cheers us both up no end, though we do spend all afternoon regretting that we're not allowed to tell the truth the whole time. It's almost heartbreaking to have to shred our literary masterpieces before we leave work, but it's been a welcome distraction. I even forget that Max won't be home tonight as he's jet-setting off to Germany for his business trip - until I get home and remember that I have to deal with Josh and Connie by myself.

Do kids ever grow out of sibling rivalry? I hear yelling and incredibly-loud banging as I let myself in the front door, only to find Connie calmly listening to her iPod while Josh is kicking the hell out of the back door. It turns out that he has been stuck outside in the back garden for the last two and a half hours, and has missed the entire England-Slovenia match. May have served him right though - as he apparently called Connie a freak who didn't have any friends, before she locked him out. God knows what the neighbours must've thought. The air was blue. He couldn't get out since we eschewed Neighbourhood Watch in favour of adding barbed wire to the six foot walls around the garden, and padlocked the gate. Max keeps the key on his keyring. (I'm sure it was Steve Ellington who burgled us both times, but can't prove it.)

Connie says she is depressed as, not only does she have the most vile brother on the planet, but she didn't get the H&M job, as predicted - though the manager did write and thank her for a "most entertaining interview." She and Josh spend all evening in their respective rooms, each furiously complaining about the other to their friends on Facebook. The only thing they are agreed on is that I am guilty of outrageous favouritism, though they disagree on which of them I apparently prefer.

Now I'm dreading tomorrow night - Max and I have always spent wedding anniversaries together until now. He's left me a note saying,

"Darling, we're out of milk. Can't find details of hotel but will phone you tomorrow and let you know then. All love, Mx"


Can't find details of hotel? What sort of stupid statement is that?