Brothers in Arms, Creative Darts, and Connie's Take On Statistics

Igor comes in to the office first thing. Again. He wants The Boss to get him a job as a postman, and brings bribes - sorry, I mean gifts. Three bottles of Vodka, and a fedora hat the same as his own. The Boss is vocal in his thanks for the alcohol, but seems less sure about the hat. He sneaks it onto my desk behind a pile of filing when Igor suggests they go and have "breakfast-lunch" together. I wait until Andrew thinks he's got away with it, and is about to go out of the door, then I run after him and say,

"Don't forget your hat!"

"Oh, don't worry, Molly. I'll be back to get it later." The Boss tries to walk on, but Igor's having none of it. He takes the hat from my hand, crams it onto Andrew's head, and says,

"There, my friend. Now we look like the brothers we are - in our hearts."

"You look more like the bloody Chuckle Brothers to me," says Greg, but they've already gone.

I hang out of the window to watch them walk along the street below. They look ridiculous. Igor simply because he's Igor, and The Boss because he's in his usual crumpled outfit of mismatched trousers and jacket, topped with the ludicrous hat. He seems to be trying to lag behind Igor, and keeps taking sneaky sidelong glances into the shop windows, as if to confirm what he already knows: that he looks a total prat. This is going to be a good day.

And so it proves to be. Only an average number of abusive phone-calls, just one threatening message left on the answer-phone, and less than the usual number of spam emails too. Greg and I power through our work, and even manage a game of darts at lunchtime. Greg gets a bullseye several times, so we have to replace the photo of Andrew with a new one, as his nose has been obliterated by the holes. I am more artistic than Greg, and manage to position a feather dart earring on each of Andrew's ears. They'd look great with the hat.

Now I come to think of it, Igor could prove to be a real bonus during the rest of Recess. Mid-afternoon, The Boss phones and says,

"Everything okay there?" He sounds knackered.

"Yes, thanks," I say. "Where are you? You've got that meeting here in an hour."

"Is there any way we could cancel it? I feel rather worn out and think I might work from home for the rest of the day. Igor was a bit much."

"Well, the chairman of the Mental Health Trust will no doubt be distraught to miss the sight of you in your lovely new hat," I say. "But I suppose I can cancel, if you insist."

"Do that, then," Andrew says. "If you can manage without me, that is."

"Oh, I think we can," I say."So you won't be back at all today?"

"No," says The Boss, almost in a whimper. "Bye, then. See you tomorrow."

I put the phone down and punch the air, while Greg whoops and does his version of Igor's Russian dance. This reminds me of my nightmare so I make him stop.

I actually finish work on time, and am really glad to get home. Connie arrives shortly after I do - now that she has finally grasped the concept of flexi-time, this happens more often. We sit down to watch the news together, then she says,

"Mum?"

"Yes, Con?"

"Political question."

"Con, it's very nice of you to take an interest, but you really don't have to."

"No, I am interested. It's about these benefit fraud figures they keep quoting on the news."

"Oh, yes?"

"Well, if they know exactly how much money benefit fraud costs the taxpayer, then doesn't that mean that they must know who's committing the frauds and how much they're each getting away with?"

"Er - I have no idea. I've never thought of it like that before." I say. Good point. How do they know?

"Well, either they know about it, in which case why don't they just do something about it - and tax fraud too - or they don't know. In which case they must just be guessing and pretending they aren't. Mustn't they?" Sometimes it takes Connie's highly-literal brain to see what normal people's don't.

But I'm too relaxed after today to be capable of deep thought. Or even the shallow kind.

"Well, then they must be guessing, Con. After all, they've pretty much had to do that about the size of the population for the last God knows how many years."

"Well, they shouldn't present it as fact, then - should they?" says Connie. "They should call it a guesstimate."

I must get her a copy of that brilliant old book on how to lie with statistics. In case she ever wants to go into politics.