Back To Life, Back To Reality. And Not In A Good Way.

Well, I'm back in the land of the living. Or of the utterly insane, to be more accurate. And I've gone right off politics - if that's what my job actually involves, which I rather doubt. I'm sure I've got more in common with psychiatric social workers than with MPs.

Anyway, the only advantage to having a shitty first day back at work is that now Christmas doesn't seem half as bad as it did at the time.

"What presents did you get, then, Mol?" says Greg, when he arrives this morning.

"A coat-stand, a shelf and a block of Caerphilly cheese," I say.

"Oh," says Greg. Which may well be the shortest sentence he's ever uttered.

At least the cheese had the virtue of being personal, though. And it was only an emergency gift, according to Connie, who was its donor.

"Unlike Dad or Josh, I ordered your proper present weeks before Christmas - and it was something I knew you actually wanted," she said. "And then Amazon couldn't even manage to deliver the bloody thing. I'll never trust them again."

"Well, it has been snowing everywhere," I said. "So I suppose it's been a pretty challenging time."

"Wouldn't have been half so bloody challenging if they'd sent the parcel to the right country," said Connie. "I'm writing a letter of complaint. Want to hear it?"

"No," I said. "I'm on holiday. That would just be like listening to a moaning constituent."

Honestly, I might as well have saved my breath. Connie had already started reading aloud:

"Given that you have inexplicably sent my mother's present to Scotland instead of to England, as per the address given, I fail to see how snow could have been a factor in your incompetence."

I'm still absurdly proud of her use of 'inexplicably' for some reason. Probably because it sums up the whole of the so-called festive season.

It remains inexplicable why Max was already asleep on the sofa by 9:00pm on Christmas Eve when we were supposed to be playing games and bonding as a family; why Connie and Josh had had an enormous row by 11:00am on Christmas Day and why, according to Connie, Max resembles a mis-shapen potato when he's drunk.

"He looks more like someone who's been let out of the day centre without his carer to me," said Josh. "And how can it take him five and a half hours to cook Christmas dinner?"

"Drinking two bottles of wine by yourself can't be rushed," said Max. "And anyway, I'm fine. Now let's crack open that After Dinner Quiz box. Then we can bond like you all said you wanted to."

"Of what is helminthology the study?"

As usual, and without any prior consultation, Josh, the self-appointed Magnus Magnusson* of Northwick, had decided he was going to read out the questions. Democracy is a concept that remains stubbornly beyond his grasp.

"No idea," said Connie and I simultaneously. "Give us a clue."

"Like you two," said Josh.

"Women?" I said.

"Geniuses?" said Connie.

"Parasitic worms," said Josh.

This should have provided an early indicator as to how the rest of the game was going to pan out, and led to pre-emptive action, but I never learn. I must be more of an optimist than I thought.

Josh's next question was directed at Max:

"Dad - what is the oldest vegetable?"

"Molly," said Max. He didn't even miss a beat.

Coming from a man who looks like Mr Potato Head, I'd have been a bit more careful with the plant-based insults if I was him.


*Magnus Magnusson - presenter of BBC Mastermind for twenty-five years, and a lot more polite a quizmaster than Josh.

Families for Dummies

Good God. When I was watching Tv last night, there was a clip of Ed Balls before he got contact lenses. He was unrecognisable. Maybe I should get some?

I wonder how many other candidates there'll be for the Leadership by the end of the week, all pretending that they're part of one big happy family and will support whoever wins. I like Andy Burnham's eyelashes, but I'm not sure they qualify him to lead the Party.

Not that I'll get a vote anyway since I refused to renew my membership over the stupid Iraq dossier debacle. When I wrote to Millbank to express my disgust, I received a Direct Debit form in response, telling me that this was the most effective way to pay.

In the same envelope was a flyer describing the new policy of "listening." Obviously this does not include reading letters from disgruntled constituency staff - or even the general public, hence the election result.

Talking of happy families, the Press keep bemoaning the death of the extended family, but what they don't say is that it's just become over-extended due to divorce, so that people like me have to spend all their time phoning various parental figures.

You feel guilty for not phoning them, then you phone one and immediately feel guilty that you haven't phoned the other. Before you know it, that's the whole evening gone. I sometimes think it would be much easier to be an orphan. Then that makes me feel guilty too.

When your job involves spending all day taking calls from a collection of often-abusive nutcases and whingers, you don't perceive having a "nice long chat on the phone" in your leisure time as a good thing, no matter who it's with. However, today's been a bit quieter than usual - mainly due to a cunning plan I cooked up with Marie-Louise, The Boss's Diary Secretary.

She's crammed his diary chock-full of (largely pointless) meetings for the rest of this week. So Greg and I get a much-needed break from Andrew's phone calls today. We're all sick to death of listening to him moaning about why it is that no-one has approached him to stand for the leadership.

So, by the time I get home from work, I am less horrified by the sight of a phone than usual, so I decide I'd better call Mum and capitalise on this rare state of affairs. Then I remember it's Dad's turn, so I try him first.

"I went to B&Q today," he says. "Never going there again on a Thursday. Bloody awful."

"Why?' I say, somewhat bemused.

"Full of bloody wrinklies," he says. He is seventy-five, for God's sake.

After he has explained to me exactly what is wrong with the country - and asked me a hundred incomprehensible questions about the apparent foibles of his new computer - I finally manage to get him off the phone. One hour and forty-five minutes exactly.

I need three consecutive cigarettes before I can handle phoning Mum. She is unavailable - something to do with the painful buttock - so Ted chats to me for 5 minutes exactly and that's it. Result!

It's only 10:45pm. If I put off calling Stepmother Mark I until tomorrow night, I might catch the end of Question Time and be able to vent the day's aggression by shouting at the TV.

Best-laid plans and all that. I miss QT, when Dad phones back with "a quick computer question." Two hours later, I go onto Amazon and buy a copy of PCs for Dummies. I arrange for it to be sent directly to Dad, labelled: a gift from a well-wisher.