The Relative Importance Of Germaine Greer, Budget Cuts And Designer Clothes. Oh, And Of Life Itself.

So now Josh seems to have become a direct victim of the cuts. And I am sick of spending weekends in A&E.

"Do you have to go out tonight?" I say to him, as he leaves the house last night. "It's always on Saturday nights that you seem to get beaten up on your way home from the pub."

"I know," says Josh, gloomily. "That's why I'm not going there. I'm going round to Robbie's instead - on my new bike."

I get a sinking feeling I decide to ignore. I'd never make an elementary mistake like that at work.

"Kiss your mother before you go," I say.

"Can't," says Josh. "According to Germaine Greer, that would be teaching me to flirt with you."

"I think she was only referring to little girls kissing their fathers," I say.

"Then she was being sexist, too," says Josh. "As well as an idiot."

On that probably indisputable note, off he rides, into the sunset. Thank God he's never seen Greer's Beautiful Boy book. I can only imagine what he'd say about that.

All this talk of flirting makes me wonder whether Max will still be awake after Wallander has finished. He looks pretty alert, so I decide it's safe to wait until the programme's over, before making any flirtatious moves. This proves to be ill-advised.

We've just gone to bed, and I'm about to commence a preliminary manoeuvre, when the doorbell starts to ring. It doesn't stop until I get downstairs and open the door.

"Mrs Bennett?" says Robbie. "I don't want you to panic -"

Only a teenager would think that that would have the desired effect.

"What's happened?" I say, as clearly as I can, given that my chest doesn't seem to be expanding quite enough to let in any air.

"Josh has had a bit of an accident," says Robbie, glancing sideways down the street. "But - "

I don't wait for the rest of the sentence. I run into the road and look for Josh. There's no sign of him, anywhere.

"Where is he?" I say to Robbie, who looks very pale, now I come to think of it.

"At the hospital," he says.

Oh. Right. Thank God for that. If Josh has managed to cycle to the hospital, he can't be too badly injured, can he? I calm down slightly, and take the deepest breath I've managed since opening the door.

"I've brought his bike back for him," says Robbie, freaking me out all over again.

"So how the hell did he get to the hospital?" I say.

"Um," says Robbie. "Well, someone called an ambulance."

"Was he knocked out?" says Max, who's walking down the stairs, while doing his flies up at the same time.

"Yes," says Robbie. "And he was bleeding quite a lot, too."

I have no idea what happens to Robbie after that. Or to Josh's bike. I just grab the car keys and my handbag, push past him, and run towards the car. Max isn't far behind.

The journey to the hospital seems to take forever, even though we're going so fast. Max is driving, and for once, I don't say anything about his white van man approach to roundabouts. I'd be quite happy for him to drive straight across the damn things if it got me to my son any quicker.

You can tell how scared we both are, because we don't actually speak to each other at all.

"Our son's been brought in by ambulance," says Max to the receptionist in A&E. "Joshua Bennett. He fell off his bike."

"Oh, yes," she says, without needing to look anything up at all - so now I'm really terrified. "Through those doors, and second left."

As we rush along the corridor, a door opens up ahead, and a nurse wheels a bed across our path and into another room. I'm pretty sure that Max also notices that there's a patient in it, covered in drips and wearing a neck collar, though he doesn't mention it.

"Where's Josh Bennett?" he says to a passing doctor, who doesn't seem to hear, so Max repeats the question at the top of his voice.

"He's in here," comes a voice from behind a half-drawn curtain, and there, slumped on a trolley but thankfully not wearing a neck collar, is Josh. Or, at least, I think it's Josh. His head is so swathed in bandages, and his face so cut up, that I can hardly tell.

He gives me an apologetic look out of the one eye that isn't covered by the bandage, as the nurse says,

"Oh, we got that done just in time - didn't we, Josh?"

Josh murmurs in agreement, and then the nurse continues:

"He begged us to clean him up before you saw him."

"This is cleaned up?" says Max, giving me a sidelong glance.

I know exactly what he means. Josh is absolutely covered in blood. I bend over to kiss him on the cheek, but then realise that this isn't going to be as easy as it sounds, so I take his hand and squeeze it, instead.

"Ow," says Josh, at which point I spot the cuts and grazes on his hands.

"What the hell happened?" says Max. "Have you been drinking?"

"No," says Josh. "It was the surface of the road. I hit a sunken drain cover on Park Street, which jerked the wheel round, and then I couldn't get control of the bike, because I hit another row of drains straight afterwards. The last thing I remember is thinking, 'Oh, shit,' and heading over the handlebars."

"Bloody hell," says Max. "I know the drain covers you mean. They feel really bad, even in the car. And they've had yellow markings round them for months, so they should have been repaired by now."

He pauses while the nurse takes Josh's blood pressure, then carries on:

"I bet it's down to this government's sodding budget cuts."

Honestly, sometimes Max sounds just like a usual suspect. The only cut I'm worried about right now is the one that's still bleeding through Josh's bandages.

"Never mind that," I say. "How do you feel, Josh? Are you okay?"

"No," he says. "Look at this blood all over my new Stussy shirt, and on my shoes and jeans. How am I going to get that out?"

Honestly, talk about the warped priorities of the male of the species. First Max rants on about government policy; and then Josh is more worried about clothing than his injuries.

Mind you, I'm a bit worried about the cuts myself, on second thoughts. Maybe they might account for why the hospital seems so reluctant to x-ray Josh's head - unless they've decided there's no brain inside it to be damaged.

Freewheeling Through Conflict, Or How To Fall Out With Everyone In Less Than One Day.

Honestly, family life is so over-rated. It's only tea-time, and already no-one's speaking to anyone else.

"I've bought Robbie's old bike," says Josh, wheeling it into the house at lunchtime. "So now I've got wheels again."

"Oh, God," says Max, presumably envisaging further trips to A&E.

Josh glares at him, but is immediately distracted by Connie, who's still flushed with the success of her first driving lesson, which took place yesterday.

"You'll only be on two wheels," she says, "while I shall be driving around on four in no time at all. My instructor says that I'm a natural."

The rest of us glance at each other, but Josh is the only person unwise enough to actually mention Connie's surprising ability to ride a bike straight into any hedge she happens to pass.

"Ah, yes," she says. "But that was only when I rode an ordinary bike."

"With stabilisers," says Josh.

"Yeah, well," says Connie, moving swiftly on. "What about when I rode that quad bike when we went to Wales?"

That's a memory I'd prefer to forget, especially now that she's learning to drive a car. Connie rode the damn thing as if she was a possum sitting astride a charging rhino. Calling her a speed freak would be to understate the case.

"Hope I never meet her driving along the M4 when she's grown up," said the owner, and the rest of us agreed, though Connie took it as a compliment. You can't say she's not capable of positive thinking, even though she hasn't even read any self-help books as far as I know.

"I got to third gear yesterday," she says. "And I used my windscreen wipers. So who's the best driver in the family now?"

"Me," says Max.

I may be the only adult in the room who has never driven into the back of anyone at a roundabout - and definitely not twice - but I'm already regretting pointing this out.

Now Max isn't talking to me; Connie's ignoring Max and Josh; and Josh is furious with all of us: Connie because she reminded him that he didn't manage to graduate to a proper quad bike in Wales, and was only deemed safe to drive a children's go-kart; and Max and me because we've locked Robbie's old bike and won't unlock it until it has some brakes.

Apparently, we're stupid because no-one uses brakes these days.

"You should appreciate that, Dad," Josh says to Max. "Seeing as you reckon you only hit those people at the roundabouts because they hesitated, and then slammed their anchors on without any warning."

Josh seems to think that that clinches it. Judging by Max's expression, it probably does.

The Alleged Power Of Prediction, And Tactics In The Marital Blame Game

Gah, and double gah. Bloody men. Before he goes to work this morning, Max pops round to Ellen's to collect the car keys and comes back in a foul mood.

"What's the matter with you?" I say.

"That was really embarrassing," he says.

As it bloody well should be.

"Well, yes," I say. "I know. I'm not surprised you're ashamed you didn't ask me before lending Ellen the car again. Especially after last time."

"Not that. It was embarrassing having to ask her to come back early. And unnecessary."

I'm so incredulous, that I can't think of an appropriate reply before he leaves for work. I sit and fume for most of the day, and then decide to go into town. It'll do Max a power of good if I'm not at home when he arrives. Let's see how he likes wondering where I am for a change.

I'm wandering around the library when my mobile starts ringing. It's Max, so I decide to ignore it. He never answers his phone when he's late home, after all. This attitude lasts for about ten minutes and then I become a bit unnerved, and decide to go home, just in case. (I'm a bit of an amateur at this "suffer baby" technique.)

When I let myself in, I find the house in darkness. Surely Max can't have gone out again already? I'm already imagining him sitting round at Ellen's muttering about how unreasonable I am being about the car, when I spot a note on the kitchen counter.

"Molly, have taken your Mum to A&E. I think she's broken her wrist. Will call you from the hospital. Max."

Oh, dear God. Isn't that just typical? The first time I ever make myself unavailable, and ignore my phone, and then I miss news of Mum having an accident. Now I am consumed with guilt.

I dither about whether to try to phone Max to find out how Mum is, but decide against it in case I set off a series of explosions amongst the oxygen cylinders in Casualty. (I assume that's why hospitals ask you to turn off your mobile?)

I spend the next hour walking around in circles, staring at the phone and willing it to ring. It doesn't, but then the front door opens and Max walks in.

"How is Mum?" I say. "What happened? Is she okay? Where is she?"

"She's still waiting to be seen," he says. "But Ted's there with her, so he told me to come home and get something to eat. He'll phone me when she's been X-rayed."

It turns out that Mum didn't fall over in the snow as I'd assumed, but instead buggered over the legs of one of those bloody side tables.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," I say. "I kept warning her that those stupid tables were a total hazard and that she needed to be careful. Thank God we had the car back so you could take her to the hospital."

"Humph," says Max. "I don't know about that. But you need to be more careful."

I have no idea what he's talking about, seeing as Mum's the one who had the accident. And surely this has vindicated my insistence that we need full-time access to our car for emergencies?

"Why do I need to be more careful?" I say. "It's not me who's broken my wrist."

"No, but it was your fault," says Max, before walking out of the kitchen as if the subject is closed. It isn't, so I follow him along the hallway.

"How can it be my fault?" I say. "I didn't cause the accident - I wasn't even there!"

"No," he says. "But you definitely talked it up."

I'm not a little tempted to predict something nasty that might happen to a husband who always blames his wife.

Bratz, Back-Stabbing, And Some Significant Omissions.

The Boss spends all day going on about how the Party needs to pull together to support Ed Miliband.

"Got to stop those bloody Blairites going behind his back," he says. "Unity, that's the thing."

"Have you had some sort of revelation?" says Greg. "Thought you believed in debate. You certainly seemed to when Blair was PM."

"Different times," says Andrew. "Loyalty's what counts now."

Honestly, that man is almost as shameless as Sarah Palin.

Talking of people going behind your back, I get a nasty surprise when I open the box of Christmas cards that has just arrived from the printer.

"What the hell?" I say, as I stare in disbelief at the most hideous card I have ever seen. "This isn't the one I chose."

"Oh, Vicky didn't like that," says Andrew. "Did you, Vicks? Said it wasn't pretty enough."

So much for the only perk of my job: choosing which entry wins in The Boss' annual "Design a Christmas card" competition. It's usually the highlight of my year. To add insult to injury, the new design stinks.

Instead of the quirky, imaginative one I chose, which was drawn by an autistic child in the special unit at Easemount First School, we now have a complete travesty of a card, courtesy of a twelve-year-old pupil at Northwick High School for Girls. Which is allegedly an Arts Academy. Let's just say that you wouldn't have to go further than the Bratz counter to spot her inspiration.

I'm so cross that I take revenge by giving Vicky the responsibility for handling the rest of the process, including updating the mailing list and printing the labels. She stops smirking pretty quickly at that point - and she hasn't even had the fun of trying to get Andrew to remember to sign all the cards in time to post them yet.

At least it's Josh's night off from the cinema, so that'll cheer me up. I don't seem to have seen him for weeks, so I'm looking forward to it but, when I get home, he's running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.

"I thought you were staying in tonight," I say.

"Nah," he says. "Don't be daft, Mum. I'm not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I'm taking Holly for a pizza and then we're going to see a film. Might as well get some use out of all these free tickets."

Then he goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which I contemplate the side of Max's head while he snores on the sofa. This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when Max's mobile starts ringing.

He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing. (I hate bloody Nokias and late-night phone-calls always make me nervous, and clumsy.)

"Mum," says Josh. "Where's Dad?"

"Asleep," I say. "Why? Are you okay? You sound funny."

"No, I'm not," he says. "Can you get him to come and pick me up? I can't walk."

"Why? Now what's happened?" I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.

"I think I've dislocated my knee. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it's bloody agony again. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me."

"Oh, for God's sake, Josh. Okay - but Dad won't be able to come. He's had too much wine to drive," I say. "Stay put 'til I get there."

Honestly, Josh is so accident-prone that we might as well get a season ticket for A&E. And it's going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That'll teach me to complain about doing nothing in the evenings.

I fish the keys out of Max's pocket, grab my coat and bag, and power walk to the car - but it isn't there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there's still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody hell.

There's nothing for it but to go back home.

"Max. Max! Wake up! The car's been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E," I say, while calling for a cab.

He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I'll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I've finished explaining that, the cab's outside.

"Max - you'll have to phone the Police and report the theft," I say. "I've got to go."

"Um," he says. "Yes, um."

"Yes, um, what? Hurry up - the meter's running!"

"Well, the car hasn't exactly been stolen," he says.

He won't meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He's still staring very hard at the floor when he answers:

"I may have lent it to someone for the weekend."

"Who?" I say, as the taxi driver beeps his horn for about the hundredth time.

"Ellen," he says.

I slam the door so hard on my way out that I think I may have shattered the glass.

So now here I am in the hospital cafe, typing on Holly's laptop and waiting for Josh to come out of X-Ray. Maybe I should ask the Radiologist to check if my heart is broken while she's at it.