Attempting Not To Shoot The Cigar-Smoking Messenger, And The Return Of The Russian Dream.

I'm still so annoyed about the car that I decide I've got to talk to someone else about it, so I phone David after lunch. Now I wish I hadn't.

When I've finally finished describing all the weird Ellen-related incidents there have been over the last six months, my best friend just says,

"Well, I know you've wasted your potential, Mol, but I never had you down as stupid."

"What d'you mean?" I say, trying not to sound hurt.

"It's bloody obvious what's going on. You'd be the first to say that if it was happening to someone else."

David exhales noisily. I bet he's smoking one of those stupid Cuban cigars he bought on his show-off stag week. For a moment, I hope he chokes on it, until I recall that I did ask him to give me his honest opinion. He's just wrong, that's all.

"But I haven't got any proof," I say. "And Max always goes beyond the call of duty to help people."

"Humph," says David. "If I were you, I'd come here for a visit, while you decide what to do next. Leave Max to stew."

I say I'll think about it, but I know I won't really. Leave the field clear for Ellen? That'd really make me stupid, wouldn't it? And, anyway, it's nearly bloody Christmas, I haven't got any money and David will probably be all superior and annoying if I do go. Better to stay here and confront the situation.

At least, that's what I'm planning to do, until Josh looks out of the window and says,

"Looks like Russia out there."

"It does," I say. "Pretty, isn't it?"

It's odd how much more appealing wearing a fur coat and minus ten temperatures seem, all of a sudden. I must ask Johnny whether he'd consult his wife before lending someone the family car - if it was their only one, of course. He'll have to use his imagination there.