In Which Woolly-Headed Thinking Gets Me Absolutely Nowhere Fairly Quickly.

Bugger. I thought I'd got my mojo back there for a minute, thanks in no small part to last night's Newsnight. By which I don't mean Jeremy Paxman's possibly-accidental use of the Jeremy Hunt word, either.

"What the hell are you wearing on your head?" says Greg, when I walk into the office this morning.

"A woolly hat," I say. "As must be obvious."

Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that boy. He's as blind as a bat when he wears those coloured contact lenses.

"I can see that," he says. "But why are you wearing it? It's horrible."

"Because woolly hats are what activists are wearing now," I say. "And, as of last night, I count myself among them. And, anyway, I've only borrowed this from Josh until I can learn how to knit my own."

Greg stares at me, as I pause for effect before making my surprise announcement:

"I have got my political drive back."

"Let's see how long that lasts," he says, as the phones start ringing.

Then he steals my hat and throws it on top of the bookshelves while I'm stuck listening to Richard Levinson  who, as usual, insists on reading parts of the Daily Mail aloud.

Despite this provocation, I manage to resist falling prey to cynicism until lunchtime, when Greg suggests we make an executive decision to turn the phones off and take our lunch-breaks at the same time.

"Want to go for a quick drinky-boo?" he says, before retrieving my hat and passing it to me.

I'm sure there's no need for him to hold it between thumb and forefinger, as if it is something long-dead, but Greg takes no notice whatsoever of my scowl of disapproval. He just keeps talking:

"We can wash away the general hideousness of the mad, the bad, and the criminally insane - before we have to talk to them all over again this afternoon."

"Yes," I say. "But I have to go and buy some toothpaste first, now we've finally been paid. My mouth tastes like hell. I don't think salt is half as effective as Mum claimed it was when she had to use it to clean her teeth during the war."

"Well, d'uh," says Greg. "Of course it isn't any good. Otherwise Colgate wouldn't have made all that money, would they? Anyway, you go to Boots, while I go and get the drinks in. But hurry up."

He looks incredulous when I tell him that I am not going to Boots. And even more incredulous when I ask him to remind me to call Vodafone when I get back to the office - to cancel my contract.

"Huh?" he says. "Why? You're always telling me that Vodafone is the only network that gets a signal in the depths of Easemount. How are you going to phone 999 if you run into Steve Ellington during the next public meeting there? And you love Boots and your Advantage card. You won't get points like that anywhere else, you know."

Greg pauses to let what he obviously intends to be a killer blow sink in, then continues when he sees that I remain resolutely unmoved:

"And I wanted you to pick me up one of their meal deals while you were there. Why would you want to deprive me of my lunch, Mol? Haven't I suffered enough this morning? Why would you do this to me? Why? Why?"

Oh, for God's sake. Greg sounds just like Josh when he gets going.

"Because," I say,"Boots are cheating this country out of millions or squillions of pounds in tax -"

"Allegedly," says Greg, looking around nervously. He really does lack revolutionary spirit.

"Coward," I say. "And get this: I'm sure I read somewhere that the ex-Chairman of Boots is going to be in charge of commissioning for NHS Direct. Probably thanks to Andrew Bloody Lansley. So we we can't let pensioners and young people fight this battle on our behalf - we have to join in and make our views known. Although I am a bit worried I might be allergic to CS gas, given my tendency to Miss Chambers-related urticaria."

"You're bound to be," says Greg. "You react to everything. But hang on a minute, Mol - what's with the royal 'we'? Boots are the only people who stock my hair-gel. And what about Topshop? I bet you haven't thought about that!"

Oh, bugger, I haven't. Until now. Sometimes Greg is so annoying. Where else am I going to find adult clothes that don't absolutely drown me? Marks and Sparks might claim to sell a size 8 but it'd be labelled a size 14 in Topshop. And it'd be called a one-person festival tent in Millets. There's nothing for it, but some creative thinking.

"I shall have to make all my own clothes, then," I say. "Once I learn how to sew, seeing as Mum never taught me how to do that either. I do wish she hadn't been a bloody feminist. A raised consciousness is of no practical use to anyone."

Greg looks at me as if I am insane, but then he didn't have to spend his teenage evenings waiting hand and foot on a bunch of bra-less women drinking wine and eating loads of biscuits while discussing how their lives had been blighted by their husbands and children. (The 1970s weren't half as much fun if you fell into one of those two categories.)

"Anyway," I say, getting a grip on myself. "I'll deal with Philip Green once I've found an alternative source of freakishly-small outfits, seeing as you can get arrested for not wearing any clothes. In the meantime, I'll start with Boots and Vodafone. And so should you. Sod the meal deals, and bugger your hair gel, Greg. This is time to make a stand on behalf of all the working people in this country."

Sometimes I think Pete Carew might be right when he tries to persuade me that I'd make a much better MP than The Boss. Imagine me on an extra-large soap box right this minute!

"Except all those who'll lose their jobs if UKuncut succeed in closing down the shops that employ them, of course," says Greg.

Now I've had three gins, half of Greg's (really horrible) tuna and cucumber meal deal, and the arguments for and against revolution still aren't looking any bloody clearer. Sometimes strategic thinking isn't at all what it's cracked up to be.

Grovelling, Sycophancy, And A Potential Flaw In Andrew Lansley's Plans.

Well, if today is anything to go by, there's no way these NHS Reforms are going to work. Not that I should care, given that I probably won't have a job in politics for much longer, thanks to those idiotic GPs at Silverwood Surgery. Talk about victim culture and people not wanting to take responsibility!

The Boss is already in the office when I arrive this morning, and he's opened all the mail. He hasn't managed to lose any of it, either - more's the bloody pity.

"Molly!" he shouts from the Oprah Room, as soon as he hears me enter the outer office. "Get in here - now!"

Honestly, sometimes I could swear he thinks I'm ten years old. I deliberately take my coat off as slowly as possible, and spend some time turning on my PC and finding a notepad and pen, before I finally join him. I'm trying to teach him that manners maketh man, but it's been a pretty thankless task so far.

"Yes, Andrew?" I say. "Did you want to go through something with me? Or did you just want a coffee?"

"Bloody right I want to go through something with you," he says. "And the coffee can wait for once."

He glares at me, then thrusts a piece of paper into my hand.

"Read that," he says. "Then tell me what the hell you thought you were playing at? You've only gone and upset an entire GP practice."

"What?" I say. Probably a bit tremulously, as The Boss seems so angry that I'm a bit worried about his blood pressure. I'm sure the top of his head shouldn't be that red.

Andrew says nothing, just gestures at me to read the letter, so I obey. Though I can't believe what I'm reading - which is saying something, given the total lunacy of 50% of the mail we receive on any given day.

"But, Andrew," I say. "I didn't say that to Mr Franklin. I just told him what the hospital consultant said - that if Mrs Franklin felt her bunions had worsened significantly, then she should go and see her GP, who could advise the hospital if necessary."

"Well, that's obviously not what Mr F told the GP, is it?" says The Boss. "You bloody idiot. You've pissed off every doctor in the whole practice. Look - they've all signed the letter of complaint, individually!"

My legs suddenly feel a bit wobbly, so I sit down on the sofa next to Andrew, and stare hard at the letter, as if its content is going to have altered since the first time I read it. It hasn't.

The letter still accuses me of irresponsibility, and tells Andrew that the Practice does not appreciate its doctors being made "apologists for systems created by politicians". For God's sake.

"I did explain that it's what the GP writes in the referral to the hospital that often affects the priority that a patient is given on the waiting list," I say. "Which is true, though I didn't put it in the way they're saying I did. And, anyway, seeing as they're doctors, they must be able to tell that Mr F is a total nutter, who'd tell anybody anything to get what he wants."

Andrew doesn't say anything but I can feel that he doesn't give a damn whether I'm being unjustly accused or not. He just wants the problem solved - as usual. I'm so furious that I can't let it go, though, so I carry on regardless:

"So I would have thought that someone from the Practice would have phoned to ask me what I'd actually told Mr F before they kicked off like this, if only out of professional courtesy. That's what I would have done in their place," I say. "I always check my facts before I let loose."

I'm not sure if Andrew hears me or not, as I'm feeling a bit tearful and my voice may have wobbled a bit - I do wish irritation at injustice didn't always bloody well make me cry - but what I've said doesn't change his opinion, anyway.

"I don't care what your excuse is," he says. "I can't afford to have a vocal bunch of bloody doctors against me, so you will write to them today, and apologise. Grovel, in fact. And I want to see a copy of the letter before you send it off, so I can see whether this was only a one-off cock-up, or if you're as crap at your job as I've been hearing."

"From Vicky, I suppose," I say, as I stand and walk out of the room.

I sit at my desk, and type the most nauseatingly sycophantic apology ever written, while swearing furiously under my breath. And glaring at Vicky and willing all her hair to fall out.

Greg raises his eyebrows at me, but I'm still too cross to risk speech - so I just push the letter from Silverwood surgery over to him, together with a copy of my reply. He winces as he reads the sorry saga, then sucks in air through his teeth.

He's about to say something when the phone rings so, instead, he picks up the receiver with one hand, and scribbles something on a piece of paper with the other. Then he holds the note up for me to read.

"Total f*ckers," it says. Sometimes brevity is all it takes.

Greg's analysis makes me feel a lot better, so I'm much calmer by the time The Boss walks up to my desk. He doesn't speak to me, but just holds out his hand, presumably expecting the letter of apology. I wish a number of unpleasant health conditions upon him as I dump it into his palm.

"Right," he says, once he's read it. "Get it in the next post - I don't want this hanging around 'til the end of the day. Let's just hope it does the trick. I can't be doing with a posse of bloody GPs fomenting trouble in Northwick at the moment. They're far too damned articulate at the best of times."

"Oh, I should think they'll be too busy to worry about you," I say. "Seeing as they're going to be running the entire NHS if Andrew Lansley gets his way."

"They're going to find that a bit of a challenge, aren't they?" says Greg. "Seeing as they can't even handle justifying their diagnoses to their patients."

I don't know what Andrew says in reply, as I decide that now would be a very good time to go to the loo. And then to smoke three cigarettes in quick succession.

You'd think I'd want to avoid anything that might make me ill after today's experience - but every unhealthy drag feels like sweet revenge.

Smokers' logic is seriously warped. A bit like that of some GPs.