How To Distinguish A Kindly Gesture From A Bribe, And Will Ed Remember To Mention Max?

Honestly, who'd have thought a bunch of flowers could cause so much trouble? I wish The Boss had never sent the damn things now.

Greg's still sulking when he texts me this morning, though I've got a horrible feeling he may have a point.

"Seeing as I am at least as valuable an employee as you are, Molly, and I didn't get a bloody bouquet" he says, "I can only conclude that The Boss must know about your job interview. Which you stupidly decided not to attend because it only takes a few manky flowers to make you feel guilty."

Not half as guilty as Max thinks I am, though. He wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the arse.

"So who the hell sent those?" he says, when he walks into our bedroom this morning, and notices the vase of flowers on the dressing table. (He might have spotted it last night if he hadn't opted to sleep on the sofa to avoid me moaning about his alcohol-related snoring again, but wine obviously has far more sex appeal than me.)

"The Boss did," I say. "As a token of his gratitude for all the hard work that I do."

"For God's sake," says Max. "I have met him, you know. Can't you do better than that?"

"If you don't believe me, I'll show you the card," I say - which I will, when I can find it.

In the meantime, changing the subject seems the best option by far. I do retain some political awareness, after all.

"I feel bad we're not going on today's march against the cuts," I say. "Don't you?"

"No," says Max. "We can't afford day trips - because I'm already being cut, remember? Today's my last day at work, but I bet Ed Miliband and the unions are only going to bang on about job cuts in the public sector, as per bloody usual."

I suppose I could try and argue that it's the public sector that keeps the private one going, but with the demise of the Audit Commission, I've got a funny feeling that this no longer applies to the furniture retail trade. Or not to its luxury end, anyway. I'm pretty sure that's why Max has lost his job.

Which I'd have done well to remember, before turning down my interview, on the strength of nothing more than a floral display and a pat on the back. What the hell is wrong with me?

My bullshit detector's on the blink - which isn't going to help with next week's jury service. I wouldn't trust me to decide what I want for lunch at the moment, let alone whether someone is guilty or innocent. Apart from Max, of course.

When he finally gets home from the pub tonight, he's bearing a bunch of flowers of his own - and an over-sized card in very bad taste.

"So did Ed mention me?" he says. "In his speech about the cuts, I mean?"

"I don't think so," I say. "Though he did refer to Martin Luther King. Anyway, never mind that - let's see your card."

Max passes it over, which just goes to show how drunk he is. There are the usual bad jokes, and messages saying how sorry his colleagues are to see him go, followed by "Best Wishes" and their names.

Trust bloody Bambi to buck the trend. She sends "lots and lots of luv." Along with an excess of kisses and hugs.