When he gets up this morning, he cooks a full English breakfast - but only for him and Josh. I'm left with crumpets, which I can only assume is Max's way of telling me something. Irony's always been his thing.
Things don't get any better when he decides to upload the photos he took at the Christmas meal.
"Can I use your laptop?" he says. "I promised the girls I'd get the pictures onto Facebook today. They can't wait to see them."
"Neither can I," I say. Max isn't the only one who can do irony.
When he's finished, I sneak a look at his Facebook page. Bambi's got there before me and has already clicked "like" on all the photos in which she appears - which is most of them. She doesn't look half as cute wearing the fake moustache she got in the cracker as she thinks she does.
Shirley Bassey's there too, and the cuckoo, and even Max's boss has been captured, along with his boyfriend. In fact, everyone has made the cut - except me. There are no photos of me at all. Maybe I really was as invisible as I felt?
Sometimes, there's no substitute for an ill-considered revenge attack. As soon as Max goes off to Sainsburys, I look up his password, then sign back in to his Facebook page and delete all the photos of Bambi. Take that!
I feel great for all of thirty seconds before I start to panic about what Max is going to say when he finds out what I've done. Probably something about me being supposed to be a grown-up. Unlike bloody Bambi.
It might be an idea to make myself scarce before he returns, so I go into town to try to do some Christmas shopping. I can't put it off any longer, though I'd really like to. I'm becoming more bah, humbug by the day.
This is mainly due to that infuriating new thing on Facebook showing how many "sleeps" there are until Christmas. All the friends I'd previously thought of as adults are posting these damned updates every five minutes, while I'm getting increasingly tempted to go and murder them in their bloody sleep.
How come they've all got enough money to be looking forward to Christmas? So many people haven't, that you'd think those who have would show some bloody restraint. I'm expecting a rush of suicidal phone calls from constituents if all these "perfect Christmas" programmes and adverts keep on much longer.
As for me, I haven't a clue what to buy anyone, and barely any money either - which rules out all the things that Max and Josh might want. What is it with men and expensive gadgets?
I wish everyone was as easy to buy for as Connie, who still gets almost as excited by the process of unwrapping as by the gift inside it but, instead, the over-extended extended family are even more of a nightmare than Max and Josh.
Dad sends me an email saying that he doesn't want anything other than his "lovely" Porn-Poon, so that's really bloody helpful. When she phones this evening, Dinah's no more impressed than I am.
"So, everything else is Dad's life is disposable, then," she says. "Apart from the Thai bride."
"Ah," I say. "So he told you that she was all he wanted for Christmas, did he?"
"Yes," she says. "And if he thinks I'm going to contribute to that, he's got another think coming."
"What do you mean, Dinah?"
Now I'm confused. I thought Dad was just doing the over-sentimental thing he always does when he gets a new woman.
Dinah huffs as if I am an idiot, then says,
"Oh," I say. "Ah. Well - I'm not paying for that, either, then."
Why should I buy sex for my father when I'm not even getting any myself?
After Dinah rings off, it occurs to me that, not only is my marriage a sex-free zone, but so is my supposed affair. Two men on the go - and no sex with either of them, unless you count the odd hastily-typed virtual encounter with Johnny. Which I don't.
This is a hell of an achievement. No wonder Max is feeding me crumpets in an ironic fashion: I am quite patently hot stuff.