*Turning Japanese, Oh Yes, I'm Turning Japanese, I Really Think So.

Honestly, no wonder Max says I've got a memory like an elephant. I'm still in a foul mood about the monkey business when I wake up this morning, and things don't get any better when I arrive at work.

"Nice outfit, Molly," says Vicky, in a very sarcastic tone.

Greg looks up from his desk, winces and looks back down again.

"Oversleep, did you?" he says.

"No," I say, although I did. "I am trying to look more Danish. Sarah Lund takes no shit."

I glare at both of them in what I hope is a suitably-intimidating fashion, storm into my office and slam the door behind me. I don't get any further forward, though, as I seem to have trapped the belt of my coat in the process.

I've got a feeling Greg notices my attempt to open the door again as quietly as I can, but I fall back on my political skills and act as if nothing at all has happened. Which I suppose it hasn't - if you don't count Connie getting sick, my being officially a monkey, and Max losing his job.

I can't even bear to think about that - not since Max added up all our bills last night while I was dozing on the sofa, just before I made an idiot of myself in front of the boys. I finally lost the will to live when he showed me how he'd set the bills against my salary, and had factored in the Budget changes, too. He's turning into a one-man IFS.

"We'll have to turn the heating off altogether," he said. "These fuel bills are way too high."

"We can't, " I said. "Not with Connie here all day, and sick in bed."

"Well, then," he said. "In that case, you'd better write to Ofgem, and persuade them to kick the power companies' arses a little bit harder."

I don't think they're likely to take any notice of me, but I didn't get the chance to say so. Max was on a roll. His next step was to inform me that we won't starve - until four weeks after his final pay cheque arrives at the end of this month.

"But there'll be nothing left in our budget for food every single month after that," he said. "Not once all the bills have been paid."

"Oh, well," I said. "I'm sure you'll find a new job before then, and everything will be all right again."

I don't believe this for a second, considering the state of the furniture retail sector - but I'm also trying to improve my acting skills. And anyway, I've still got a few job applications I'm waiting to hear about myself. In exotic places like Easemount and Silverhill. I can hardly wait.

Nor can Johnny, who emails me this lunchtime to say that he's just heard where his next posting is to be. He's off to Dubai in May, and sends photos of the houses that he and his wife are intending to view. I don't know what to say to those - apart from "Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!"

"Never mind about me - how are things with you?" he says.

No-one ever asks me that, so he catches me by surprise. Before I know it, I've told him everything that is happening in my life; and then immediately wish I hadn't. Talk about sounding like a usual suspect: I'm feeling far more sorry for myself than should be allowed.

"Christ," he says, in his reply. "You can't live hand to mouth like that, Molly. It's ridiculous, especially when I could take you away from it all."

"I think your wife might have something to say about that," I say. "And my husband certainly would. Anyway, you don't marry someone on the basis of what they can provide you with. Not materially, anyway."

Johnny sends a very brief reply:

"LOL."

I wish he'd never learned that bloody awful acronym, and anyway, I am being serious. In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer - I'm pretty sure that those are still the rules. And, if they're not, then they bloody well should be.

"I don't think my wife would agree with you," he says, when I point this out. "She'd be off like a shot if I were to become poor overnight."

"Well, I'm not her," I say.

Profound, I know, but nonetheless undeniably true.

I bet she is being massaged in a luxury spa right this minute, before going to Chanel to pick out a new dress for tonight's Charity Fundraising event. (I live a far more interesting fantasy life as her, than I do as myself. Though do they actually have a Chanel shop in Moscow? And do you call it a shop - or an atelier?)

I'm still mulling over this important question when Johnny signs off for the day:

"Think what our lives could be like together," he says. "Neither of us is getting any younger, and that husband of yours is never going to amount to anything, after all."

What a horrible thing to say! And it's all my fault. I've been such a pathetic whinger that now Johnny's feeling sorry for me. And criticising Max, when no-one but me is allowed to do that.

I need to get a grip, somehow. And start making up for being so bloody self-indulgent.

"Do you guys want a coffee?" I say, to Vicky and Greg.

I might as well start as I mean to go on, even if I still don't feel very charitable towards a certain intern.

"Ja, Kaffe," says Greg, staring hard at Google Translate. "Tak."

"I'm not being Danish any more," I say. "I think being Japanese is the thing to aim for, don't you? They could teach us all a thing or two about being uncomplaining. In the face of such adversity that we can't even begin to imagine it."

That's better - isn't it? I'm getting my sense of proportion back.

"But you speak even less Japanese than you do Danish," says Greg.

That may be true, but it's hardly an obstacle that can't be overcome with a bit of effort. Honour and dignity, that's what counts - and I'll aim to chuck in some stoicism too.

"I'm going to pop home during my lunch-break," I say. "I'll have a Pot Noodle and see how Connie is. Oh, and I think I might change out of this jumper, too."

"Tak and double tak for that," says Greg. "You were beginning to hurt my eyes."

I bet Johnny would think that too - though Max just says I look nice and snuggly.



*Turning Japanese - which would be no bad thing, if it taught me (and some others I could mention) to behave like the people of Japan.

The Birth And Death Of The Joshua Bennett Economic Think-Tank, And The Burial Of My Self-Respect

Bloody hell, MPs' staff should be given the day off on Budget Day. How are we supposed to comment on something when we haven't had any time to read it? Let alone work out whether it's going to be worth our own while to turn up for work tomorrow morning?

I might be feeling a bit brain-dead this week, but I suppose I know the answer to that question already, now I come to think of it. I still haven't got over that whole monkeys earning peanuts thing.

"Try not to spend all your money down the pub tonight," I say to Josh, as he gets ready to go out for a drink with Robbie and the rest of the boys. "Don't forget I'm relying on you and Connie to keep me, in the style to which I'd rather like to become accustomed."

"Don't hold your breath," says Max, who is sorting through the bills again, while watching the news at the same time.

I think he's making notes of the main changes announced in George Osborne's Budget, and trying to work out what the effects on ours will be. I don't think I want to know.

"You look as if you mean business," I say, lying down on the sofa and pulling a blanket over my legs.

Max glances at me over the top of his glasses, then looks down at the calculator he's holding in his hand. He taps in some numbers, and makes a wincing noise when he sees the result.

"I do mean business" he says. "Unlike you."

There's no call for that, seeing as I'm not actually asleep. I'm just resting my eyes for a minute, that's all. Just like Ken Clarke during today's Budget speech in the House.

When I wake up again, I'm even more confused than usual. There's no sign of Troels Hartmann, and the room is full of teenage boys, all smelling strongly of after-shave, along with something else that I can't quite identify.

"Wha -?" I say, trying to sit up and look alert.

"Ssh, Mum!" says Josh. "Me and the boys are having a discussion. High finance, so you wouldn't understand."

"Why are you here, though?" I say. "I thought you were going out."

"We're economising - as per your advice."

Josh raises a can of Red Bull in a toast, as do all the other boys. Oh, and Robbie's holding a bottle of Jagermeister, too. So that's what I can smell.

"Oh, God," I say. "Do you have to do it here? I was hoping for an early night."

"Yes," says Josh. "We do. Staying in is the new going out. Now go back to sleep and don't interrupt. We're trying to sort out what to do with approximately thirty million pounds."

I'm so pleased to hear that the younger generation are taking fiscal matters seriously, that I feel it's safe to relax and close my eyes again. Then I try very hard to recapture my dream, though this proves wholly unsuccessful. Troels seems to have been replaced by a sniggering George Osborne, who is brandishing a sheaf of unpaid bills.

It's all right, though, because the boys are still working hard to restore the public finances by promoting all kinds of growth:

"I'd buy the moon," says Josh. "And make it lavishly hospitable."

"Hmm," says Robbie, approvingly. "Not a bad idea, that."

I'm quite impressed by my son's entrepreneurial thinking myself. I open my eyes, and start taking more of an interest. I could be raising the next Chancellor of the Exchequer, for all I know.

"What about an island?" says Robbie. "That'd be even better than the moon."

"Yes," I say. "Richard Branson's got one of those."

I am clearly witnessing the birth of a new entrepreneurial think-tank, with innovative ideas on how to ensure the recovery of the UK economy. I feel quite moved.

"What would you give me?" says Josh to Robbie, which confuses me a bit. "Could I have a cove all to myself?"

"Yes," says Robbie. "Though it wouldn't be as nice a one as mine."

Cove? I'm about to ask the boys for an explanation, but then Max walks into the room, so I gesture for him to sit next to me. Then I can pick his brains on the sly. All this economics jargon is leaving me behind.

"And we could have a monorail, too," says Josh. "I love a good monorail, don't you?"

"Yes - and one of those Flying Dolphins like the Russians have got," says Robbie, pouring another Jagerbomb.

"So, is this going to be some sort of tourist-based economy, then?" I say, trying to get a handle on things. "Only I think you'd need a manufacturing base to spread the risk."

All the boys look at me as if I am barking mad, which is something I'm becoming increasingly used to this week.

"Mum," says Josh, very slowly, as if speaking to a child. "What exactly do you think we're talking about?"

"A plan for economic recovery," I say. "Or to reduce the deficit and encourage growth. Or something like that, anyway."

My voice tails off as I realise that no-one has any idea what I'm going on about. Including Max.

"Mol," he says, and his voice is strangely gentle. "I think you need to go to bed and get a decent night's sleep. The boys are discussing what they'd do if -"

"If they were in charge of the country," I say. "I know that. I'm not an idiot, thank you very much. Or a monkey - even if I am paid peanuts."

"No," says Josh. "Sorry. We're deciding what we'd do if we won Euro-Millions. You know - that lottery thing?"

I nod, then shake my head and cringe. I think Josh must feel sorry for me, because he pats me on the arm and says:

"Don't worry, Mum. I've already decided I'd give half of it to you and Dad if I win."

"Only half?" says Max.

I assume he's being ironic, but Josh doesn't take it that way. I'm not the only one whose feelings are all too easily hurt.

"That's more than you'd get from Connie, Dad," he says. "She said she'd buy you and Mum a house and clear your debts, but there wasn't any point in giving you any more than that, because you're both so bloody rubbish with money."

It's lucky for Connie that she's ill in bed, though next time she wants a hot drink, she can get it herself. I'm retiring to the monkey enclosure, to curl up in a ball and dream about Troels.

A Certain Phrase It Would Behove A So-Called Socialist Not To Use, And Why Economists Never Take Any Notice Of Me

"You saw that we voted for our own pay-freeze last night, I assume?" says The Boss, when he phones first thing.

"I should think so, too," I say. "Seeing as we're all supposedly in this together."

"Well, there was some muttering behind the scenes," he says. "About how, if you pay peanuts, you're bound to get monkeys."

There are so many answers just begging to be given to this stupid remark - all of them sarcastic - that I hardly know where to begin.

It's probably safer not say anything at all so, as a precaution, I hang up on Andrew, though I make it look like an accident, of course. Thus disproving the peanuts/monkeys analogy rather neatly, as far as I'm concerned.

The private line rings again straight away, so I signal to Greg that it's his turn to answer it this time. I am otherwise occupied, climbing on to the top of my desk.

"What, Andrew?" says Greg. "Oh, yes - Molly said that you'd been cut off. What can I do for you, anyway?"

He turns his back on me for the rest of the conversation, though I can't for the life of me think why. All I'm doing is jumping up and down while scratching my armpits, after all. Though why does Vicky always arrive at the worst possible moment?

"Molly?" she says, taking a step backwards and raising her eyebrows at me. Which is the look she usually reserves for constituents she hasn't met before, while she waits for me or Greg to whisper, "sane" or "barking" in her ear.

"Sane," I say. "Just underpaid - which apparently automatically renders me rather more closely related to gorillas than even Dian Fossey believed."

"I see," says Vicky, who quite clearly doesn't. Which you wouldn't expect her to, when Mummy and Daddy pay her such a generous allowance.

Oh, yes - allowances. That's where I was meant to be going with this from the start: talking about the bloody, bloody, buggery Budget.

Excuse the language, but half this morning's calls are from constituents worried about what the changes will mean for them. I haven't a clue, as I dozed off when they were giving examples of the Budget's likely effects on the news last night.

Not through boredom, just exhaustion - though why do pundits never mention families with grown-up children who have failed to launch, when they show you what the Budget changes will do to the incomes of different groups? Max and I can't possibly be the only ones in this position. Or I bloody well hope we're not. Where on earth did we go wrong with Josh?

"Bloody hell, Mol," says Greg. "I wonder how many sole traders we're going to have left in this country by the time the recession is over."

"What d'you mean?" I say. "Oh, that late payment thing? Or whether they can pass their increased costs on to their customers without losing them to bigger competitors who can afford to absorb the losses themselves?"

"Both of those, of course," he says. "But I'd also forgotten about the penalties for filing your tax returns late. That last caller said that he can't afford to employ an accountant any longer, and he's really worried about doing it himself."

So would I be, if I were him. It's bad enough dealing with Andrew's expenses, let alone handling tax returns. I really hope Max will decide to reconsider the plan he thought up last night, which was to go self-employed.

I'm about to mention this very bad idea to Greg when the phone rings yet again, and he answers it.

"Who?" he says. "Oh, Connie - sorry, I didn't recognise your voice. Do you want to speak to your Mum?"

Cue instantaneous panic - which I had rather hoped I would have grown out of by now. Do you ever stop worrying about your kids? (I've got a horrible feeling the answer is "no.")

Greg's about to put the call through to my phone, but there's no need. I'm already half-way across the room, so I grab the receiver from his hand.

"What's the matter, Con?" I say. "Why are you calling me at work?"

"Mum," she says, though croaks might be a better word. "You know this bad throat I've had? And how I've been feeling really tired?"

"Yes," I say, wishing she didn't always have to make everything into a question. "Hurry up, Con! Just tell me what on earth is wrong. What did the doctor say? Has he got the blood tests back?"

"Yes," she says. "You were right. It is Glandular Fever, just like you thought. The doctor said he was surprised you'd realised what it was so fast."

Never underestimate the power of the internet, that's all I can say. Even though I try my level best to stop anyone else using it to self-diagnose, I am a researcher, not a hypochondriac, so I have a perfectly legitimate reason to do so - or that's what I say to Greg when he accuses me of hypocrisy, anyway.

"All right, then," he says. "If you reckon you can't be a hypochondriac because you only looked up what might be wrong with someone other than you, check out Munchausen Syndrome by proxy instead."

"I haven't got time," I say. "I have to hurry and finish work - seeing as I've got to go and pick Connie up after that. She's coming home while she's so unwell."

And I am seriously going to have words with the TV economists when I get back. I want to see exactly how much worse off I am going to be with two adult kids back at home, a redundant husband and an employer who thinks I can live on bananas. While paying me legumes.

Of course, if I had any kind of business brain, I'd take the hint my life is giving me and grasp the opportunity offered by the NHS reforms: to set up a money-making convalescent home.

The trials of Mr Meeeeurghn (whose name is bloody hard to spell consistently).

The working day is largely consumed by constituents phoning with their reactions to the Budget, with one notable exception. Mr Meeeurghn phones and starts screaming that he is being mis-treated and that we have to protect him - now - as he is a refugee. Then he puts me onto someone else, who identifies herself as a member of staff at Primark. It turns out that Mr Meeeurghn is trying to claim a refund on a pair of jeans that he insists have never been worn.

The weary-sounding girl says that the jeans are covered in bleach, and that Mr Meeeurghn is threatening to kill them all, or at least most of them - a bit like the Iraqi Information Minister - if they do not give him his money back. He apparently told them that he would phone his MP who would make them do it. Meanwhile, they have a queue of customers that reaches down the stairs and out of the shop, none of whom can be served until Mr Meeeeurghn has been dealt with. (Primark sales obviously aren't suffering due to the recession.)

I tell her to put the screeching Mr Meeeeurghn back on the phone, tell him that I cannot help him, and then go and check that the new office door is double-locked. Primark have security staff. We don't, and nor do we have bullet-proof glass, as Greg is at pains to point out - yet again.