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.

An Intellectual Voice In The Wilderness, And The Shortcomings Of Marriage Guidance.

I've had a brainwave. Maybe Max and I could go to Relate. I mean, that's what they're for, isn't it? Propping up the marriages that are the foundation of social stability. I decide to phone them at lunchtime, while Vicky and Greg are out.

In the meantime, I'm going to think about ways to make myself more interesting, in between dealing with the usual suspects. I think I've turned into Mrs Dull and Boring, as well as a headless child. I used to be an intellectual!

Someone mentioned Plato the other day, and I was shocked to realise that the only thing I can remember about him is that thing in the Crito about Sophocles not standing up for himself when he was wrongly accused.

I only recalled that because it came up in a discussion I had with Connie while she was studying Philosophy and Ethics at A-level. I had a terrible time convincing her of the validity of Sophocles' claim that, if you believe in the rule of law, then - logically - you should accept your sentence even if it is unjust.

"Sod the rule of law if it means I get punished for the stuff Josh has done," she said. "I'd rather have anarchy any day."

I doubt she would, actually - Josh would be bound to come off best in that situation, but Connie got even more annoyed when I said so. I had to change the subject and ask her when R.E. became Philosophy and Ethics. I might even have been tempted to have studied it if it had been called that in my day.

Whatever, it occurs to me that the way we fight cases on behalf of constituents is quite similar to old Soph's approach: force small admissions, and build on them until we've indisputably won the whole argument. (When there is an actual argument to be won, of course. I'm not talking about Miss Bloody Chambers and Edmund Beales here.)

I mention my new theory to Greg and Vicky when they get back from lunch. They look at me as if I am mad.

"What the hell are you on about, Mol?" Greg says. "Greek philosophy has absolutely nothing to do with what we have to take from this circus of freaks."

Vicky just says, "Who's Sopholololes?"

I am a rose amongst thorns. I shall put aside Henning Mankell and start reading something intellectual as soon as I get home. I might even give Perec another go.

I need something to give me hope, as it turns out that Relate's service isn't free. Can you believe it? I have no idea what I've been donating my clothes for all these years for. Big Society, my arse.

Warning: The Unseen Hazards Of The Big Society.

What an awful night that was! I've never had such a terrible night's sleep. I hate staying at other people's houses, especially older people's.

Why on earth are they so attached to the concept of sheets and blankets? It's fatally flawed. And bloody dangerous, too.

First I had a  nightmare in which I was being made to wear a straight-jacket. (Keep your thoughts to yourselves.) Then I thought I heard Mum calling and, when I went to climb out of bed, I got horribly tangled in the sheet and ended up falling on the floor.

Mum heard the crash, and came to see whether I was okay, so our roles got a bit muddled, to say the least.

There's a bloody great lump on her head by the morning, poor thing - and all because she was trying to do her bit for the Big Society.

It turns out that the reason she stinks of gin - did I mention that last night? - is because she was carrying a bottle of the stuff when she fell. It smashed and the contents went all over her. This is a relief, as I'd been wondering whether she'd taken to drinking in secret. (She was married to Dad, after all - so no-one could blame her.)

The gin was for an elderly neighbour, who has persuaded Mum to do her shopping and deliver it to her house. (Given that some might consider Mum to be fairly elderly herself, I think she should be given credit for her community-mindedness.)

The contents of the neighbour's weekly order never vary: gin, gin and cigarettes. She'd make a perfect date for Greg if she wasn't in her nineties. Anyway, it was while crossing the road to deliver the goodies that Mum buggered over her skirt.

Not that the neighbour seems particularly grateful. When I pop over this morning to tell her about Mum's accident, all she asks is whether the cigarettes are still dry - and when Mum will be well enough to go and buy another bottle.

Honestly, the woman's as much of a party animal as Annoying Ellen, albeit in a rather solitary fashion. That's probably why she keeps passing out in the bath and having to be rescued by Ted.

Bugger, now I've lost my thread. It's probably due to spending too much time with Mum, who could give Kevin Turvey a run for his money any day of the week. Or to sheet and blanket-related sleep deprivation. Now where was I?

Oh yes, keeping tabs on the elderly. When I finally arrive home this evening, after Ted's got back from his fishing trip, Dinah rings.

"Heard from Dad?" she says. Oh, for Pete's sake. Does it never end?

"No," I say. "I've been on Mum duty. What's up?"

"Thought I'd better check on him, but I can't get any answer again."

"Well, when you find him, let me know," I say. "I can only monitor one parent at a time. Our family forms far too big a chunk of the Big Society all by itself."

Now I could really use a gin - but my bottle turns out to be empty too. I bet bloody Josh has drunk the last of it. Maybe I'll go back to Mum's and try licking up what's left on the pavement.