Cruising, Insulation, And How To Make The Big Society Work

It's still bloody freezing, and I'm thinking about giving up shaving my legs. I need all the warmth I can get and it's not as if anyone's likely to notice, is it? Not unless I ever have to be decontaminated again. (Thank God that didn't happen during cold weather.)

It turns out that George's so-called boiler repair was a temporary fix at best, as the damned thing isn't working again today. Now he says it'll be days before the problem is solved as he needs to order a part. Greg is even more annoyed than I am.

"How do these idiots get jobs?" he says. "We need to find out, before Vicky manages to get rid of us."

"God knows," I say. "I have no idea what we could do instead. Hurry up and think of something."

Greg spends the rest of the morning trying to type while wearing insulated gloves. I can't bear to check the results, but he says it's far easier to hit all the keys at once and then delete the letters you don't want, than it is to try to hit one letter at a time.

Making coffee proves rather more of a challenge, though. There's a lot of crashing and swearing from the kitchen, before Greg comes back into the office and puts a half-empty mug on my desk.

"Sorted," he says.

"Arguable," I say. "There's hardly any coffee in here, and you've forgotten the milk."

"Couldn't risk spilling that as well," he says. "Too smelly. And, anyway, I'm not talking about the coffee. How d'you fancy cruising for a living?"

"Wouldn't be much of a living," I say. "I don't think money usually changes hands. The sex is seen as payment in itself."

This seems a reasonable assumption given that I have a less than fulfilling sex life, but Greg disregards it:

"Not that sort of cruising, Molly, you dingbat. The seafaring kind. Apparently we can do that while claiming Jobseeker's."

I look blank, until Greg starts searching through the pages of the weekend's newspapers, completely decimating them in the process. Licking the fingers of his gloves doesn't work half as well as those damp sponges they used to have in Post Offices.

Eventually he passes me a copy of this.

"I thought we could be the on-board entertainment," he says. "I could rap and you could be the joke act."

"Actually," I say, "Your rapping would cover both bases. I'd be redundant before I'd even started."

You don't always have to take insults lying down, after all.

At least the subject of cruising makes a change from talking about snow, which isn't half as interesting a topic of conversation as the Media would have you believe. Not that this stops constituents from phoning up to complain about it.

"My bloody road still hasn't been gritted," says Mr Beales. "No-one's taking any notice of what Andrew said in the paper."

He has no idea what a relief that is, but he carries on without waiting for me to respond:

"And keeping an eye on that traffic policeman's bloody impossible in this weather. I can't even get my car out of the drive."

"In some countries it's apparently the law to clear the frontage of your property yourself," I say. "Though not in the UK, of course."

This may seem irrelevant, but I do know what I'm doing. At least when I'm at work.

"Well, those Health & Safety nutters wouldn't allow that here, would they?" says Mr Beales. "But you've given me an idea - I'll do the whole cul de sac myself and let the buggers prosecute me if they dare."

Then - thank God - he rings off, very pleased with himself. I'm quite pleased with myself, too: I know I shouldn't blow my own trumpet, but sometimes I am a genius.

Mr Beales - rebel without a cause - has just proved the effectiveness of the technique I used to use on Josh and Connie when they were younger: making something unappealing seem forbidden. David Cameron should try it, if he really wants the usual suspects to become part of The Big Society.

Though if that ever happens, I think the rest of us will have to leave the country. By cruise ship if necessary.

The Medusa of Northwick, Or Why One Can't Always Be Expected To Rise Above Gossip

Joan stops me in the corridor this morning. I suppose it's preferable to her usual tactic of cornering me in the loo, but not by much.

"Molly, what's going on with Andrew and Trish?" she says.

"What d'you mean? " I say.

"She picked him up from GC* on Friday night. Didn't look like he was too happy about it, either."

Joan fixes me with that look. No wonder it terrorised the kids in South Park.

"Ah," I say.

"Exactly," says Joan.

After I've dredged up several acceptable reasons why Trish might have insisted on collecting Andrew rather than leaving him to find his own way home - such as cold weather, or that she just happened to be passing - Joan gives me the look again. It really makes your bowels clench.

"Come on, Molly," she says. "There was more to it than that. I overheard them arguing in the car park."

"Ooh, did you?" I say. "What about?" One can't rise above curiosity indefinitely, after all.

"I don't know for sure. First Andrew refused to get in to the car, because he said he had another engagement to go to, and then Trish said 'The fuck you have.'"

Blimey. Trish doesn't share Andrew's penchant for swearing, so her using that sort of language is unheard-of. I wonder who the "other engagement" was with? I bet it was bloody Vicky.

"What happened then?" I say.

I know I should rise above office gossip, but I might as well get the full story - as it's not as if everyone else won't already know the gory details, after all. Joan's not known as the bush telegraph of Northwick Labour Party for nothing.

"Trish leant over, and grabbed Andrew's new pipe out of his mouth. Then she snapped it in half and threw it at him. Really hard."

I don't quite manage to hide my laugh, as Joan continues:

"He noticed me when he jumped out of the way, so then I had to get into my car and drive off. Oh, sorry - hang on, Molly." Joan's mobile is ringing.

Thank God for that. I am saved from having to comment on what she's told me by the bell. Or by her phone's massively annoying ring-tone, anyway. I make a break for it, while Joan starts a heated argument with the photocopier engineer.

When I get back to my desk, I find that Trish and I aren't the only ones whose relationships are in trouble. There are three letters from people whose "partners" have cheated on them in today's post.

They all want Andrew to report their cheating ex-loves to the DWP* for benefit fraud, and their letters provide comprehensive and detailed information - such as National Insurance numbers, places of work and car boot locations - to facilitate the process.

The Boss will never have any truck with this sort of thing, so I have to write back and make vague references to our inability to use third party data due to the Data Protection Act. No doubt I'll eventually get replies asking why the Benefits Agency's Fraud Hotline doesn't share the same scruples.

All this stuff does make you think, though - doesn't it? I may have to revise my position on talking to Max about what is going on with Ellen.

In fact, I've decided I'm going to take a leaf out of Trish's book and tackle him when I get home tonight. Perhaps Joan would like to come along and back me up with some more of her looks.


*DWP - Department for Work and Pensions, for those of you lucky enough to still have jobs.
*GC - General Committee Meeting of the local Party, as before. For those of you lucky enough never to have to go to them.

Brothers in Arms, Creative Darts, and Connie's Take On Statistics

Igor comes in to the office first thing. Again. He wants The Boss to get him a job as a postman, and brings bribes - sorry, I mean gifts. Three bottles of Vodka, and a fedora hat the same as his own. The Boss is vocal in his thanks for the alcohol, but seems less sure about the hat. He sneaks it onto my desk behind a pile of filing when Igor suggests they go and have "breakfast-lunch" together. I wait until Andrew thinks he's got away with it, and is about to go out of the door, then I run after him and say,

"Don't forget your hat!"

"Oh, don't worry, Molly. I'll be back to get it later." The Boss tries to walk on, but Igor's having none of it. He takes the hat from my hand, crams it onto Andrew's head, and says,

"There, my friend. Now we look like the brothers we are - in our hearts."

"You look more like the bloody Chuckle Brothers to me," says Greg, but they've already gone.

I hang out of the window to watch them walk along the street below. They look ridiculous. Igor simply because he's Igor, and The Boss because he's in his usual crumpled outfit of mismatched trousers and jacket, topped with the ludicrous hat. He seems to be trying to lag behind Igor, and keeps taking sneaky sidelong glances into the shop windows, as if to confirm what he already knows: that he looks a total prat. This is going to be a good day.

And so it proves to be. Only an average number of abusive phone-calls, just one threatening message left on the answer-phone, and less than the usual number of spam emails too. Greg and I power through our work, and even manage a game of darts at lunchtime. Greg gets a bullseye several times, so we have to replace the photo of Andrew with a new one, as his nose has been obliterated by the holes. I am more artistic than Greg, and manage to position a feather dart earring on each of Andrew's ears. They'd look great with the hat.

Now I come to think of it, Igor could prove to be a real bonus during the rest of Recess. Mid-afternoon, The Boss phones and says,

"Everything okay there?" He sounds knackered.

"Yes, thanks," I say. "Where are you? You've got that meeting here in an hour."

"Is there any way we could cancel it? I feel rather worn out and think I might work from home for the rest of the day. Igor was a bit much."

"Well, the chairman of the Mental Health Trust will no doubt be distraught to miss the sight of you in your lovely new hat," I say. "But I suppose I can cancel, if you insist."

"Do that, then," Andrew says. "If you can manage without me, that is."

"Oh, I think we can," I say."So you won't be back at all today?"

"No," says The Boss, almost in a whimper. "Bye, then. See you tomorrow."

I put the phone down and punch the air, while Greg whoops and does his version of Igor's Russian dance. This reminds me of my nightmare so I make him stop.

I actually finish work on time, and am really glad to get home. Connie arrives shortly after I do - now that she has finally grasped the concept of flexi-time, this happens more often. We sit down to watch the news together, then she says,

"Mum?"

"Yes, Con?"

"Political question."

"Con, it's very nice of you to take an interest, but you really don't have to."

"No, I am interested. It's about these benefit fraud figures they keep quoting on the news."

"Oh, yes?"

"Well, if they know exactly how much money benefit fraud costs the taxpayer, then doesn't that mean that they must know who's committing the frauds and how much they're each getting away with?"

"Er - I have no idea. I've never thought of it like that before." I say. Good point. How do they know?

"Well, either they know about it, in which case why don't they just do something about it - and tax fraud too - or they don't know. In which case they must just be guessing and pretending they aren't. Mustn't they?" Sometimes it takes Connie's highly-literal brain to see what normal people's don't.

But I'm too relaxed after today to be capable of deep thought. Or even the shallow kind.

"Well, then they must be guessing, Con. After all, they've pretty much had to do that about the size of the population for the last God knows how many years."

"Well, they shouldn't present it as fact, then - should they?" says Connie. "They should call it a guesstimate."

I must get her a copy of that brilliant old book on how to lie with statistics. In case she ever wants to go into politics.