Bratz, Back-Stabbing, And Some Significant Omissions.

The Boss spends all day going on about how the Party needs to pull together to support Ed Miliband.

"Got to stop those bloody Blairites going behind his back," he says. "Unity, that's the thing."

"Have you had some sort of revelation?" says Greg. "Thought you believed in debate. You certainly seemed to when Blair was PM."

"Different times," says Andrew. "Loyalty's what counts now."

Honestly, that man is almost as shameless as Sarah Palin.

Talking of people going behind your back, I get a nasty surprise when I open the box of Christmas cards that has just arrived from the printer.

"What the hell?" I say, as I stare in disbelief at the most hideous card I have ever seen. "This isn't the one I chose."

"Oh, Vicky didn't like that," says Andrew. "Did you, Vicks? Said it wasn't pretty enough."

So much for the only perk of my job: choosing which entry wins in The Boss' annual "Design a Christmas card" competition. It's usually the highlight of my year. To add insult to injury, the new design stinks.

Instead of the quirky, imaginative one I chose, which was drawn by an autistic child in the special unit at Easemount First School, we now have a complete travesty of a card, courtesy of a twelve-year-old pupil at Northwick High School for Girls. Which is allegedly an Arts Academy. Let's just say that you wouldn't have to go further than the Bratz counter to spot her inspiration.

I'm so cross that I take revenge by giving Vicky the responsibility for handling the rest of the process, including updating the mailing list and printing the labels. She stops smirking pretty quickly at that point - and she hasn't even had the fun of trying to get Andrew to remember to sign all the cards in time to post them yet.

At least it's Josh's night off from the cinema, so that'll cheer me up. I don't seem to have seen him for weeks, so I'm looking forward to it but, when I get home, he's running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.

"I thought you were staying in tonight," I say.

"Nah," he says. "Don't be daft, Mum. I'm not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I'm taking Holly for a pizza and then we're going to see a film. Might as well get some use out of all these free tickets."

Then he goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which I contemplate the side of Max's head while he snores on the sofa. This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when Max's mobile starts ringing.

He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing. (I hate bloody Nokias and late-night phone-calls always make me nervous, and clumsy.)

"Mum," says Josh. "Where's Dad?"

"Asleep," I say. "Why? Are you okay? You sound funny."

"No, I'm not," he says. "Can you get him to come and pick me up? I can't walk."

"Why? Now what's happened?" I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.

"I think I've dislocated my knee. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it's bloody agony again. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me."

"Oh, for God's sake, Josh. Okay - but Dad won't be able to come. He's had too much wine to drive," I say. "Stay put 'til I get there."

Honestly, Josh is so accident-prone that we might as well get a season ticket for A&E. And it's going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That'll teach me to complain about doing nothing in the evenings.

I fish the keys out of Max's pocket, grab my coat and bag, and power walk to the car - but it isn't there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there's still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody hell.

There's nothing for it but to go back home.

"Max. Max! Wake up! The car's been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E," I say, while calling for a cab.

He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I'll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I've finished explaining that, the cab's outside.

"Max - you'll have to phone the Police and report the theft," I say. "I've got to go."

"Um," he says. "Yes, um."

"Yes, um, what? Hurry up - the meter's running!"

"Well, the car hasn't exactly been stolen," he says.

He won't meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He's still staring very hard at the floor when he answers:

"I may have lent it to someone for the weekend."

"Who?" I say, as the taxi driver beeps his horn for about the hundredth time.

"Ellen," he says.

I slam the door so hard on my way out that I think I may have shattered the glass.

So now here I am in the hospital cafe, typing on Holly's laptop and waiting for Josh to come out of X-Ray. Maybe I should ask the Radiologist to check if my heart is broken while she's at it.