Malingering, My Arse. Plus What Your Husband Doesn't Tell You About His Day At Work.

 Greg texts me this afternoon. "Molly, enough malingering. When are you coming back to work? Hopefully before Vicky gets your job as well as Marie-Louise's. On the subject of which, I hope you've been keeping an eye on the news."

Now what's he talking about? The only news I've bothered to watch since I went down with flu was the rescue of the Chilean miners. What a fantastic outcome, and an incredible bunch of guys. Though I do think the President should have made a lot more fuss of Manual Gonzalez. Imagine being the first person to have to ride in the Fenix 2!

I mention this to Max, who says, "Why?"

"Well, when he got in it, he couldn't have known that he wasn't going to get stuck in the tunnel a quarter of a mile down. On his own, and without even being able to move his arms and legs. I felt claustrophobic just watching that capsule move into the shaft. I'm sure it gave me palpitations."

"That was because you had a bloody temperature," says Max. "And you have far too much imagination for your own good." He gives me a funny look as he says this. I hope he doesn't know about Martin Shaw.

I don't reply, as I'm not sure where this is heading, but then Max goes on to say that Mr Gonzalez didn't even tell his wife what he was up to when he left for work that day.

"Huh. Typical," I say.

"What d'you mean?" says Max. "He didn't want her to worry."

"That's probably how all men justify keeping secrets," I say. Max looks as if he wishes I was still upstairs in bed, though I can't think why.