Some Other Stuff I Bet Half Of You Didn't Know About Housing And Unemployment.

I know I go on about housing a lot, but honestly - there's such a lot to go on about. And it's no wonder more and more young people are needing The Boss' help.

How the hell any of them are supposed to leave home and become independent is quite beyond me - unless they come from the sort of background that Dave and Nick do, of course.

I'm sitting at my desk at lunchtime, still feeling awful about what happened in Moscow - even though it has got me off the hook about meeting Johnny tomorrow - when the intercom buzzes and a young woman called Rachel asks if she can talk to me about her housing situation.

When I go down to talk to her, it quickly becomes clear that her case is pretty complicated, so I assess whether her manner and appearance lead me to hear The Twilight Zone theme - which they don't - and then bring her back upstairs and into my office. (She isn't wearing metal-framed glasses, either.)

"I'm sorry to have to bother Mr Sinclair about this," she says, "But someone with influence really needs to understand how it is for young people, especially when more of us are unemployed than anyone else."

"Don't worry about bothering Andrew," I say. "He won't mind at all. That's what he's here for."

Honestly, sometimes I make myself feel nauseous with my blatant hypocrisy. What I should be saying is that The Boss won't even know of her existence and has bugger-all influence with anyone these days, anyway - but that wouldn't exactly be reassuring, would it?

So I carry on trying to find out about Rachel's situation - which is bloody grim, and turns out to represent yet another great big hurdle that those with permanent homes or jobs and sufficient income give no thought to whatsoever.

"So you're unemployed, then?" I say, to which Rachel shakes her head.

"Not yet, no," she says. "But my year's contract runs out in a month's time and there's no money for it to be renewed, and although I've applied for loads of jobs, and have got one interview, that isn't until a week before my existing contract ends. So even if I get the job, I'll still be unemployed for a few weeks at best."

"Oh, I do hope you will get the job," I say.

I've taken a liking to this girl - in fact, I'd employ her tomorrow - seeing as she already seems about ten times more competent than Vicky. Or The Boss, for that matter. But now I'm getting distracted, so it's back to housing. Or to the lack of it.

Rachel goes on to explain that being unemployed isn't actually her main concern. Because becoming homeless is.

"I moved to Northwick to take up my current job," she says, "so I took a lease on my flat for a year as soon as I started work. But that runs out a couple of days after my employment contract ends, and I haven't managed to find anywhere else to live yet."

"Ah, I see," I say - though when Rachel continues, it seems that actually I don't. Yet.

"I can't stay in the flat I'm living in, because it's slightly too expensive for Housing Benefit to cover the full cost of the rent while I'm still trying to get another job, but I can't find anywhere else through any of the agencies."

Rachel pauses, and corrects herself:

"Well, I have found one place that would just about be affordable," she says,"but now everything's going wrong and it looks like I'm still going to end up being homeless by the end of February."

It takes ages to get to the bottom of what is going on, partly because tears keep rolling down Rachel's face, and then she stops to apologise for crying as she scrabbles for tissues in her bag. I don't blame her, actually. If I was in her situation, I'd put my head on the desk and bawl like a baby.

It turns out that the flat Rachel's found through an agency is at a rent that is reasonable enough to be covered by Housing Benefit during the time that she's between jobs. But the trouble started when she didn't tell the agent that her current job was about to end, because she was scared that the owner of the flat wouldn't accept a tenant who might end up on benefit, for however short a period that might be.

"I asked the agent what questions they asked on the reference and credit check forms," she says. "And he said that they only want to know the start date of your current contract, and the name and address of your employer - so I thought the landlord wouldn't need to know that I might be unemployed - especially as I'm determined it won't be for long."

She looks apologetically up at me, as if she has something to be ashamed of.

"I'd probably have done the same myself," I say. "If I was in your position."

I'm not being polite either - I'd do whatever it took to avoid becoming homeless, though I'm not sure Rachel believes me. She does smile, though, and then continues with her story.

"So I decided to apply for the flat - as it was the only one I could find at such a low rent - and told the agent to start the process of checking me out to see whether I'd be approved. I had to give him £200.00 to pay for that, and then he gave me the forms to fill in and to give to my employer."

"So the £200.00 was your deposit then?" I say. "Or will you have to pay rent in advance on top of that?"

"Oh, God, yes," says Rachel. "And my bond, too. The £200.00 was only to cover the agency's fee for assessing whether I'd make a suitable tenant. I'll have to find the money for the bond and the rent in advance - before I can claim back the other bond I had to put down on my current flat. So that's one of my big problems. I only earn £13,500.00 a year anyway, so trying to find that kind of money when I first moved to Northwick was hard enough, but it's even worse having to find a second lot and more agency fees, while I'm still paying rent on the flat I'm in until the end of next month."

You can tell from the way that Rachel talks about her family that there is no chance that they can afford to help her out. She's apparently one of those bright kids who made good through working hard at school: born and brought up on a council estate, but now a graduate in one of Michael Gove's favoured academic subjects.

I bet her family thought their daughter's future would be brighter than theirs had been - until the bloody credit crunch blew that out of the water in the year she graduated. Instead of building a career, Rachel's already had one long period of unemployment since she left her Russell Group university, and she seems understandably anxious that she might be about to start another.

"I'm going on about it, aren't I?" she says. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to - but I'm just so angry that no-one in power seems to get what it's like for people in my situation, so I felt I had to come here to try and make my voice heard. I know you can't really do anything quickly enough to help me, but maybe Mr Sinclair could try and argue for changes to help other people in my situation - though I don't know what exactly. I'm having trouble thinking straight."

"Have you been approved for this new flat, then?" I say. "So at least you'll have somewhere to live by the end of next month?"

"No," says Rachel. "It turns out that the agent was wrong when he said that the application form only asked for the start date of my employment contract. It doesn't - so now I'm going to have to tell the truth: that I'll be out of a job in a month's time. And the agent thinks my application will be turned down because the landlord doesn't take tenants who are on benefit."

I don't know what to say to this. The tabloids make it sound like there are vast swathes of unscrupulous buy-to-let landlords out there, all desperately seeking the sick and unemployed as tenants, and only too happy to get their hands on Housing Benefit. Rachel's case paints a rather different picture.

I mean, let's not forget: this is a young graduate with a good degree - employed for the last year and desperate not to be unemployed again. She thinks and acts responsibly, by giving up the contract on where she lives because it's too expensive to be covered by Housing Benefit, and she knows she may have to make a short claim in between jobs.

Then she has to find hundreds of pounds for her bond and as rent in advance for the new flat, while she's still paying rent for the one she's living in, and she can't get her original deposit back in time to use it cover the one on the new flat. And to cap it all, she's made to pay £200.00 to an agent who has misinformed her about the landlord's requirements, so she may end up homeless anyway.

Given the bloody fuss that some of the usual suspects make about absolutely nothing, I'm amazed that Rachel isn't smashing the office up with frustration. But she just sits there, quietly, tearing bits of tissue between her fingers, while I try to make sense of the situation.

"So, if the worst comes to the worst, and the landlord and agent do say that you can't have the new flat because you might be on Housing Benefit for a while, you will get your £200.00 fee back, won't you?" I say.

"No," says Rachel. "It's non-refundable, so I've lost it if that happens."

I look at her in disbelief for a second, before I pull myself together and try a different tack.

"What about the Council's statutory duty to the homeless?" I say. "We could write to them on your behalf. Oh, but I suppose they say you don't fall into one of their priority groups, do they?"

"Yes," she says. "Seeing as I'm not a single parent, or anything. Or even an ex-con."

Gah. Sometimes I could bloody well scream. It's about time politicians - and probably oil barons too - started doing something to help people, especially those who want to bloody work. And preferably before I have a stroke with the rage that I feel on Rachel's behalf, which might have something to do with the fact that there but for the grace of God goes Connie, and probably me, too - if Max leaves me and I lose my job.

So now I'm going to contact everyone I can think of to see if there's anything we can do. But, if one thing's for sure, it's that Rachel  won't be the only young person in this situation.

Maybe we, Joe Public, could force those buy-to-let landlords who have mortgages through RBS or one of the other bloody banks we supposedly own, to accept responsible tenants like Rachel - without making them pay all these stupid upfront fees - even if they are forced by the economic situation to be unemployed for a while. And look again at the criteria we use for those who merit housing, too.

Perhaps I should suggest to Nick Clegg that, if his Party want to earn any credibility back with the 18-30 age group, then this is one of the issues they should focus on, if the LibDems don't want to be dead in the water at the next election? Or maybe David Cameron might like to prove that he does have a clue about what life's like for ordinary people even though Andy Coulson's no longer there to tell him about it.

Come to think of it, if Andy's got nothing on at the moment, he might fancy leading the campaign...

Why One Should Always Expect The Unexpected.

You learn something new every day, don't you? But I certainly wasn't expecting it to be that.

The Boss comes into the office quite early, ready for an appointment with someone called Brian Sadler, whom Andrew says he hasn't seen for years.

"He's not a constituent, then?" I ask. "The name doesn't ring any bells with me."

"No, he's not," says Andrew. "Just a very old friend, who wants me to do him a favour. I'll see him in private when he arrives. All you need to do is show him in and then bugger off and leave us alone."

The trouble with Andrew is that he can't sit still for a second, and he can't wait for anything either. So when Brian isn't here on the dot of 09:30am, Andrew gets bored and rings the local paper to offer them an interview. About the EU and herbal medicines, or something of equal concern to the population of the Easemount estate, who form the paper's main readership. He never takes his audience into account.

Anyway, he's still chuntering away on the phone when Brian arrives, so I have no option but to make a coffee and offer Brian a seat in my office while he waits for The Boss to finish.

"So how's my old mate, Andrew, then?" he says. "Still full of hot air, I see."

"Hmm," I say.

Non-committal is always best - seeing as Brian's question could all too easily be a trap. Just because Andy Coulson's finally decided to resign doesn't mean it's now safe to make unguarded comments, after all.

I wouldn't put anything past anyone these days, which is probably a very sad reflection of the world view of most MPs' staff - with the exception of Vince Cable's, of course. Who'd do well to learn from the cynics amongst us when booking their boss' surgery appointments in future.

"You'd never think Andrew used to be a Tory, would you?" says Brian.

He smiles as he waits for my reaction, but I don't say anything, as I'm too incredulous for speech. I just sit there, staring at him with my mouth wide open. (I must stop doing that: I know it makes me look gormless.)

"Don't believe me?" he says.

I shake my head, as the door to the Oprah Room opens, and The Boss comes out.

"Molly doesn't believe what?" says Andrew.

"Just some of the things you got up to when we were at college, dear boy," says Brian.

Andrew looks at his so-called friend as if he'd like to strangle him, then pulls himself together and makes some half-arsed laughing noises, though they're not exactly convincing. Then he puts his arm round Brian's shoulder and almost drags him into the Oprah Room.

As soon as Andrew slams the door, I hustle Greg into the corridor to tell him what Brian said. Away from Vicky's big ears. (This is not a metaphor: you can see them whenever she does that hair-flicking thing.)

Annoyingly, Greg isn't half as surprised by Brian's revelation as he damn well should be, which takes all the fun out of passing it on. I sulk, until he explains why he hasn't fainted with shock, as I'd been assuming he would.

"Always suspected something like that," he says. "The Boss tries far too hard to be more left-wing than anyone else. It's that 'protests too much' thing that gives it away."

"I didn't think of that," I say. "Very Shakespearean. Since when did you get to be so smart?"

"Since half the women I go to bed with try to pull the same trick," he says. "The minute they start making a racket, I always know they're putting it on."

Ha - I knew that Ellen was pretending! I must find a way to drop this pearl of wisdom into a conversation with Max - just in case he's fallen for all the yelling she does whenever she entertains, or whatever she calls it. Especially when her bloody bedroom window's open.

Mind you, even Ellen doesn't do as much yelling as The Boss does when he's in a mood, which he certainly seems to be once Brian has left. He even shouts at me a couple of times in front of constituents during surgery. I'm not sure who is more uncomfortable about it: me or them.

Andrew carries on in this vein for the rest of the day - except when he's ignoring me instead - but both options are almost equally wearing. I'm pretty fed up by 5:00pm and still have no idea why he's behaving like this, so I decide to tackle him about it before I miss my chance.

It's not easy get him in private, though, because Vicky's never far from his side; but I finally manage it by dint of following them both into the car park after work.

I hang back until they've said their goodbyes and Vicky has driven off, and then, as soon as Andrew gets into his own car, I sneak towards it under cover of some bushes. Rather like a panther, now I come to think of it.

I tap on the window, and The Boss opens it, rolling his eyes as he does so.

"Andrew, can I have a word?" I say. "It won't take long."

He says nothing, although he does pause in the act of starting the engine. Then he just glares at me and waits for me to speak.

"What on earth's the matter with you today?" I say. "You're like a bear with a sore head. And I wish you'd stop shouting at me in front of everyone. It's embarrassing, as well as not very professional."

"Let's just say I'm not comfortable with working with a fascist," says Andrew.

This seems like a non-sequitur, so I resort to the open-mouthed staring again, coupled with an excessively-raised eyebrow.

"Vicky told me what you said about Michael Gove," he says. "Seems like you're working for the wrong MP. We're supposed to be Socialists in this office, you know, Molly."

"Well, at least I've never been a member of the bloody Tory Party," I say. "Unlike you - or so I hear."

This must be the first time in my life that I've ever managed to come up with a cutting response while the person who deserved it was still present. Though, judging by The Boss' expression when he revs the engine before he drives off, I suspect it's going to cost me dear.