Julie Christie, And Why A Certain MP Should Avoid The Subject Of Winter.

Talk about over-compensating for my boring life. My dreams are getting more and more exciting by the minute.

I spent last night playing Lara to Johnny's Doctor Zhivago. Admittedly, Johnny did look rather more like Omar Sharif than he does in real life, and was a lot more romantic, but I did enjoy being Julie Christie. She really knows how to wear a fur coat without turning into an Ewok.

The dream is so convincing that, when I wake up, I still think I'm Julie until I look in the mirror. Then I'm distraught to find that it's not her face that looks back at me, but my usual one, incipient beard and all. Now I wish I hadn't mentioned Ewoks.

If I do manage to grow fur all over my body, though, at least I'll be better-adapted for cold weather. I'm so angry with bloody British Gas about their price rises. Seven per cent! It's a national scandal. I'd write to my MP about it, if I wouldn't have to answer my own letter.

Since the announcement of the increase, Max has become obsessed with the cost of fuel and, even though I try to adjust the thermostat when he isn't looking, he always notices and turns it down again. Then I have to blame the whole thing on Josh and the irresponsibility of youth.

God knows how the poorest are going to cope if we have a hard winter. The hospitals and mortuaries will be full of people who were too scared to turn their heating on at all. Or who have injuries caused by falling downstairs or setting themselves on fire while wearing a Slanket.

Mind you, I'm still considering buying one, despite the risks. It's too much being cold at home as well as at work. The office is freezing at the best of times, but when I arrive today, I discover that the boiler has broken down.

Greg and I are freezing our arses off, and have to keep our coats on all morning - but Vicky says that she  will "work" from home. Apparently, she can't risk low temperatures, due to her chilblains.

"Think she's confusing them with bunions," says Greg. "Caused by those stupid bloody shoes."

"She says they're a political statement," I say. "Due to the red soles."

Talking of political statements, it turns out that Andrew has been at it again - holding forth to the local press without speaking to me first. He's told them that he's going to do everything he can to ensure that Northwick County Council have enough grit this year.

You'd think he have the sense to stay schtum on the subject of winter after last year's fiasco, but he seems to have forgotten all about that. George - the boiler repair man - remembers it well enough, though.

"See your boss is going on about snow again," he says, when he arrives after lunch. "It's in the paper. I'd ha' thought he'd ha' learned his lesson, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed," I say.

There's absolutely no point denying that Andrew made some rather ill-informed comments during last winter's white-out.

"Bloody funny, that were. Talking about what a nightmare Northwick's drivers were having when it turned out he weren't even in the country at the time."

"Hmm," I say.

I do wish the bloody phone would ring. Or there'd be a fire alarm. Or something. But nothing happens to interrupt George's flow:

"It wouldn't ha' mattered, would it - not if he hadn't pretended it took him two hours to drive home from the office that night? What a twonk he must be."

Hearing Greg snort with laughter, I decide it's time to take evasive action.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" I say. "Seeing as it looks as if mending the boiler's going to be a long job."

By the time I've made it, I'm hoping that the subject of Andrew will have been dropped, but no such luck. George carries on where he left off when I return from the kitchen and pass him a mug.

"Cheers," he says. "So, tell me something, ducks. Your boss - have an opinion on everything, does he?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that. Though he does like to take an interest in anything that affects his constituents." I turn my back and pick up a pen. "Now, I really must get on with some work."

"I'll tell you what I think," he says, slurping his tea. "That man will do anything to get his name in the paper."

"Couldn't agree more," says Greg, under his breath. Which is still visible, due to the bloody cold.