The Unexpected Hazards Of The Internet...

Blimey, the internet's a dangerous place. Not just because of all the bomb-making instructions, but also because anyone with a computer can access it. And I don't just mean Dad and all his Thai "friends" either.

Carlotta phones to ask Greg to update The Boss' website this morning, though unfortunately not with an accurate CV. She wants some of Andrew's recent speeches added, as well as a clearer instruction to constituents that they should contact me or Greg, and not her or Marie-Louise.

"Mr Beales is far too demanding," she says, as if we aren't only too aware of that already.

While Greg's doing as Carlotta asked, I decide to take a quick look at what The Boss has been blogging about this week.

Honestly, Andrew seriously needs an editor. His blog's a nightmare - full of mad, unrelated witterings about stuff he knows nothing about. Pretty much like the letters he'd write to constituents if left to his own devices.

He's also mis-spelled Easemount, for God's sake - so I get Greg to correct it before everyone who lives there phones to complain.

"I bet they've already started leaving comments all over the internet," he says. "It's just occurred to me that we need to be keeping an eye on that for references to Andrew, as well as checking the papers. I'll google him now."

I dread to think what he's going to find. Whatever the first thing is, it's obviously funny, as Greg starts laughing out loud.

"Hey, Mol - you're famous," he says.

"What?" I'm still reading Andrew's blogged account of last Friday in the constituency. He needs a thesaurus if his over-use of "interesting meeting" is anything to go by. And a dictionary.

"You're being quoted."

Shit! How did that happen? I look over Greg's shoulder, while trying not to pass out from excessive after-shave fumes.

"Oh, my God," I say.

A constituent has cut and pasted one of my replies (sent on Andrew's behalf) into a discussion board about cycle helmets.

I'm sure it didn't seem quite so obviously non-committal when I wrote it, though Andrew's continuing inability to decide what he thinks on the issue is a bit of a challenge. The constituent makes it clear that he's not impressed, though.

"Huh," I say. "It's hardly fair to blame me for Andrew's indecisiveness, is it?"

"True," says Greg. "Seems we're writing for a wider audience than we think. Maybe we should get ourselves an agent. Fame and fortune, here we come."

Sometimes Greg thinks he's much funnier than he really is. And I'm not at all comfortable with the idea of my correspondence being published on the net, because I've just had a really terrible thought. What if my emails to Johnny fell into the wrong hands?

I'd better order him to delete them all, as soon as possible. The last thing I want is to find one of those posted on an oil barons' chat forum, despite their perfect spelling.