Irrational Thoughts, Loss of Purpose and Unlikely Claims - Leading to Wrinkle Formation.

God, it must be so much easier to be an animal, incapable of rational thought. Greg goes into a long rant this morning, which culminates in him asking me if I've ever considered that, for every constituent we push up a housing or hospital waiting list, there is another, less-vocal one who drops down a place. I haven't. Until now. All sense of purpose is obliterated. Greg says he copes with this disturbing knowledge by "contemplating his payslips regularly." Now I know he must be being paid more than me.

The Boss phones to check that Greg and I are obeying his edict not to speak to the "spies" in the Party offices. We aren't, mainly because we rely on them to rescue us from constituents whenever we are assaulted, but I don't tell him that. I just mumble something about us all being on the same side, to which he replies that he didn't have me down as being so naive, and that we are to communicate with Party staff as little as possible from now on. He has written his GC Report already and is going to email it to me - when he can find Carlotta and get her to scan it in. Scan it in? Why the hell can't he just type it like anyone else would, when he's actually written it while still in the office? It's more understandable when he writes it on the train - but if he's just planning on emailing me his notes, they'll be hieroglyphics as usual.

Johnny says he's still in London after having been called there to stand in for an "embattled colleague" and would I like to meet? He also says that it is a shame that Max and I can't be together for our anniversary and asks whether I don't think I am being taken a little for granted. I forget to ask him what he and his wife did for their wedding anniversary in my non-committal reply.

Talking of weddings, Dinah says she found two possible candidates for dates for Dad amongst her friends' mothers, but Dad ruled them both out without even seeing photos as "too old." She says that they were both more than fifteen years younger than him. Seems as if his recent passion for Thai food is destined to last a bit longer, though at least he's finally interested in good food. His last wife was the worst cook in the universe, bless her - known throughout the family as The Dorset Poisoner. But at least she was a respectable age. Dad will be getting metal framed glasses with a double bar across the nose before you know it.

I spend our wedding anniversary on my own, or effectively alone, as both kids are still in self-imposed exile upstairs. What a sad git I am. I don't seem to have any friends to go out with, or none who won't insist on making me feel like a poor relation, and even Annoying Ellen isn't in, when I pop round to check she doesn't need to borrow the corkscrew again. Max doesn't phone me until after midnight, and forgets to say Happy Anniversary anyway. He sounds as pissed as a fart, and is still claiming that he doesn't know the phone number or even the name of the hotel he's staying in. When I say that I need it, in case of emergencies, he says there's nothing I can't handle, given my job - and that he'll see me tomorrow night. Then he rings off.

What kind of halfwit doesn't know the name of his hotel - when he's been staying in it for the last 24 hours? If anyone told me that their husband had told them that, I know exactly what I'd think was going on. But I don't want to think that about mine. A weekend in London looks very attractive, all of a sudden.