Skinny Jeans, Neighbourly Behaviour & An Apparent Inability To Use The Phone

I am knackered after last night's stint in Casualty, though I'd really like some of their zero tolerance posters for use in the office. We could exclude at least a quarter of constituents if we implemented something similar.

Tolerance is in short supply at home today, though I'm not sure who is the grumpiest: me or Josh. He's disgusted that he has to wear a brace to support his kneecap, particularly as it won't fit under his skinny jeans.

"I don't know what you're moaning about," I say. "Wearing them was probably what caused your kneecap to dislocate in the first place. They're ridiculously tight."

"Don't be stupid, Mum," he says. "They're probably better than a brace - seeing as they cover the whole leg."

"Well, if you don't do as the doctor told you, and it dislocates again over the weekend, you'll have to hop to the hospital. I can't afford any more bloody taxis."

Max looks very uncomfortable when I say this, but he still hasn't volunteered how Ellen happens to have been lent our car without me even knowing about it. He always leaves it to me to broach contentious subjects.

It turns out that her car has broken down, and that Max offered to lend her ours so she could visit her mother this weekend.

"But why didn't you consult me first?" I say. "It is our car, after all. And I am your wife - or I was, the last time I looked."

"There wasn't time," he says. "Ellen was supposed to get to a family party by 8:00pm, and didn't realise her car was buggered until nearly 5:30pm. You weren't even home, so I couldn't ask you first."

"Ever heard of Alexander F*cking Graham Bell?" I say.

Max glares at me, before deciding to go on the offensive.

"I knew you'd be awkward about it if I asked you, anyway," he says. "I was just trying to be neighbourly."

"Being husbandly would make a nice change."

Josh says, "Oooh!" which doesn't help at all, so I stomp off into the living room.

Walking out of the house would have been preferable, but I'd be bound to bugger over in the snow and ruin my dramatic exit. There must be another way to make the same point, given some creative thinking.

I turn on the TV for inspiration. Sod my rule about never watching it in the daytime to avoid brain death: this is an emergency. Max must be able to hear it, because he comes into the room, and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. Some people just can't take a hint, can they?

When I press Play on an old recording of an episode of Swedish Wallander, he gets up and walks out again.

"Bloody subtitles," he says.

Now he knows how it feels to have trouble working out what the hell is going on.