As if it's not bad enough listening to the usual suspects moaning about Prince Andrew all day, things are getting out of hand at home as well.
I'm hovering in the kitchen talking to Max about the changes to pensions, while he makes *pancakes and tries to ignore our resident pensioner, aka Dad. Who is, as usual, shouting updates on something sports-related and terminally boring from the comfort of the sofa in the living room.
I may have to kill him if he doesn't hand the remote control over before the start of tonight's Channel 4 News. He's behaving as if he is the Slightly Overweight Controller of TV viewing and it's driving everybody nuts.
Josh got so fed up with it yesterday that he decided he'd go and stay at Holly's, just so that he could watch a programme all the way through for once. He didn't say when he'd be coming back, either.
That was the worst bit, actually. It's bad enough Connie being away at university, let alone the baby of the family moving out - despite the fact that said baby is almost six feet tall. I feel utterly bereft.
I bet this is only the start, too. Before you know it, I'll be in the throes of full-on Empty Nest Syndrome - and I bet my hormones will go berserk at the same time. Just to add to the joy.
I groan at the thought of how fast the hairs on my chin will grow when that happens, and then I bang my forehead on the kitchen counter. Not too hard - just for effect. Or that was the intention, anyway.
"Ow," I say.
"Mol, you're getting in the way," says Max. "That last pancake would have landed on you if I hadn't caught it. And what's the matter, anyway?"
"My son is being driven out of his home by a sex-mad pensioner with ADHD, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it," I say. "And we've become the kind of people who talk about pensions, too. Before you know it, the kids will be grudgingly visiting us in our cabbage-scented care home, and having to remind us who they are."
"I don't think you need to worry about that just yet," says Max. "Listen!"
I've never been so relieved to hear the front door open, and Vans-clad footsteps clonking along the hallway. At least one of my children still lives at home!
"That you, Joshua-wa?" I say. (Nicknames are big in our family, except when you're in trouble.)
Josh stops short in the doorway, and looks me up and down. His expression is completely blank.
"No," he says. "It's Frank Stephens to you."
See? Exactly what I was worried about. Though I had no idea pre-senile dementia came before the empty nest.
*Pancakes - today is Pancake Day. Which is some sort of religious festival, though I can't recall the detail, other than it's about giving up something you like. Religious Studies was very, very boring when I was a child.
Showing posts with label Channel 4 News. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Channel 4 News. Show all posts
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Surrealism In Action....And Not A Moustache In Sight (Except Possibly Mine).
Honestly, has everyone gone mad? Even when you disregard the usual suspects, I still don't seem to have had a conversation with a sane person all day.
"Where do I stand on *AV?" says The Boss, upon his return from the Easemount Day Centre - where he's spent lunchtime terrifying the hell out of old people by warning that the Coalition is bound to cut the services on which they depend to shreds.
"I don't know, Andrew," I say. "You'll have to make your own decision on this one. Though it would help if you could hurry up about it, seeing as I've got lots of letters from constituents who want to know exactly that."
He scowls as me as if I've said something unreasonable, then turns towards Greg, who is trying his best to ignore him by staring out of the window.
"Gregory," he says. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me: AV - for or against?"
"It's a bloody stupid system," says Greg, with an air of finality.
Andrew shakes his head, sighs heavily and then starts walking round and round in circles until he finally veers off into the kitchen and comes to a halt. You can tell he's definitely not himself when he offers to make us all a coffee. Probably because Vicky's still so annoyed that he used her as a human shield that she's rung in sick today.
"We'll have coffee and a sit down in the Oprah Room - and discuss this properly," he says. "We could even have biscuits. Mrs Arthurton gave me some Garibaldis before I left the day centre. She said she thought I still looked a bit hungry after my lunch."
So, ten minutes later, Greg and I are sitting on the sofa, sipping at the worst coffee we've ever tasted, wondering what's happened to the biscuits and wishing we were elsewhere. Meanwhile, Andrew sits in the armchair, brushes the crumbs from his beard, and looks at us both expectantly.
No-one seems to want to start the ball rolling but, as usual, I crack first. No resilience, that's my trouble - I'd make an utterly useless spy.
"I'm most bothered about the fact that AV seems to have been the only deal-breaker for the LibDems," I say. "Unlike tuition fees, or cuts to Housing Benefit, or any of the other things they've rolled over on."
"That's just bloody typical," says Greg. "They've been driven by self-interest all along."
"Yes, well," says Andrew, fidgeting a bit and looking down at the floor. "Talking of which, what do you think the effect of AV would be on me?"
"You? Total buggeration, I should think," says Greg. "Seeing as half your constituents are completely mad. Can you imagine the Beales brothers managing to comprehend how the AV system works? They'd end up accidentally voting for everyone except you, even if they've usually voted for you in the past. Which I rather doubt."
Andrew looks aghast for a moment, and then seems to pull himself together. He stands up, and takes the cup out of my hand.
"Right - so I'm against AV, then," he says. "Now that's sorted, you two can get back to work. You can't just sit around here all day."
He's right for once, as I've got lots to do if I'm to be able to leave on time this evening. Which is important, as I'm supposed to be doing the cooking for once.
It's probably a measure of how depressed Max is, that's he's even considering eating something that I've prepared, seeing as he normally doesn't trust me in the kitchen at all. But he's got an important meeting after work - or so he claims.
So I'm standing in the kitchen stirring a rather lumpy-looking sauce for Macaroni Cheese when I realise that I haven't spoken to Dad for days. Or to Connie, either.
Never try to do two things at once when one of them involves cooking, that's all I can say. By the time I've spent half an hour listening to Dad moaning about Dinah's "devil child" and what the hell is wrong with the UK when we can't fly British citizens out of Libya like "even the bloody French" have managed to do, the sauce is looking even more dubious than before.
To make matters worse, I can't get seem to get hold of Connie at all, which always makes me fret like mad. She's not answering her phone, or responding to messages or texts.
"What's up, Mum?" says Josh. "You look even more of a stress-head than usual."
When I've explained that his sister seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, and that my concentration is therefore shot, Josh takes one look at the Macaroni Cheese, declares it ruined - "as predicted" - and suggests we go and watch Channel 4 News instead.
"We can have a mother and son bonding session while discussing world events," he says. "By which time Connie'll probably have finished showering or watching Eastenders or whatever she's doing while she's ignoring your calls, and then she'll get in touch with you."
This seems like a good plan but, although I stare dutifully at the screen, I don't really seem to be taking much in - so I haven't got a clue what leads to Josh's Big Idea to reduce the budget deficit.
"Mum," he says. "Are we still an Empire, or something?"
Sometimes I despair of comprehensive education. What sort of question is that for someone who's supposedly got GCSEs and an A-Level?
"Well, not exactly," I say. "Though there is the Commonwealth. And the Crown Territories. And -"
"Never mind about the detail. All I want to know is: do we own any other countries?"
Never mind the detail? Who does Josh think he is - an MP? I make allowances, though, on the basis that Film Studies probably isn't much use in situations such as this.
"Um, yes, I suppose so," I say. "In a manner of speaking. Why?"
"Problem solved, then," he says. "Why don't we sell one of them? We just phone up China and say, "Hey, China - do you want to buy Australia? I bet they'd jump at the chance."'
While I'm trying to think of an answer to that, my mobile beeps and - finally - there's a text from Connie. Not that it's very informative, considering I've heard nothing from her for ages.
"Mum, I'm fine," it says. "But I can't do a pull-up."
There's nothing for it but to go for a very long lie-down, until people start making sense again.
*AV - The Alternative Vote, which I have trouble understanding unless I am concentrating very hard. Which means that it'll be completely beyond the grasp of certain people I could mention...
"Where do I stand on *AV?" says The Boss, upon his return from the Easemount Day Centre - where he's spent lunchtime terrifying the hell out of old people by warning that the Coalition is bound to cut the services on which they depend to shreds.
"I don't know, Andrew," I say. "You'll have to make your own decision on this one. Though it would help if you could hurry up about it, seeing as I've got lots of letters from constituents who want to know exactly that."
He scowls as me as if I've said something unreasonable, then turns towards Greg, who is trying his best to ignore him by staring out of the window.
"Gregory," he says. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me: AV - for or against?"
"It's a bloody stupid system," says Greg, with an air of finality.
Andrew shakes his head, sighs heavily and then starts walking round and round in circles until he finally veers off into the kitchen and comes to a halt. You can tell he's definitely not himself when he offers to make us all a coffee. Probably because Vicky's still so annoyed that he used her as a human shield that she's rung in sick today.
"We'll have coffee and a sit down in the Oprah Room - and discuss this properly," he says. "We could even have biscuits. Mrs Arthurton gave me some Garibaldis before I left the day centre. She said she thought I still looked a bit hungry after my lunch."
So, ten minutes later, Greg and I are sitting on the sofa, sipping at the worst coffee we've ever tasted, wondering what's happened to the biscuits and wishing we were elsewhere. Meanwhile, Andrew sits in the armchair, brushes the crumbs from his beard, and looks at us both expectantly.
No-one seems to want to start the ball rolling but, as usual, I crack first. No resilience, that's my trouble - I'd make an utterly useless spy.
"I'm most bothered about the fact that AV seems to have been the only deal-breaker for the LibDems," I say. "Unlike tuition fees, or cuts to Housing Benefit, or any of the other things they've rolled over on."
"That's just bloody typical," says Greg. "They've been driven by self-interest all along."
"Yes, well," says Andrew, fidgeting a bit and looking down at the floor. "Talking of which, what do you think the effect of AV would be on me?"
"You? Total buggeration, I should think," says Greg. "Seeing as half your constituents are completely mad. Can you imagine the Beales brothers managing to comprehend how the AV system works? They'd end up accidentally voting for everyone except you, even if they've usually voted for you in the past. Which I rather doubt."
Andrew looks aghast for a moment, and then seems to pull himself together. He stands up, and takes the cup out of my hand.
"Right - so I'm against AV, then," he says. "Now that's sorted, you two can get back to work. You can't just sit around here all day."
He's right for once, as I've got lots to do if I'm to be able to leave on time this evening. Which is important, as I'm supposed to be doing the cooking for once.
It's probably a measure of how depressed Max is, that's he's even considering eating something that I've prepared, seeing as he normally doesn't trust me in the kitchen at all. But he's got an important meeting after work - or so he claims.
So I'm standing in the kitchen stirring a rather lumpy-looking sauce for Macaroni Cheese when I realise that I haven't spoken to Dad for days. Or to Connie, either.
Never try to do two things at once when one of them involves cooking, that's all I can say. By the time I've spent half an hour listening to Dad moaning about Dinah's "devil child" and what the hell is wrong with the UK when we can't fly British citizens out of Libya like "even the bloody French" have managed to do, the sauce is looking even more dubious than before.
To make matters worse, I can't get seem to get hold of Connie at all, which always makes me fret like mad. She's not answering her phone, or responding to messages or texts.
"What's up, Mum?" says Josh. "You look even more of a stress-head than usual."
When I've explained that his sister seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, and that my concentration is therefore shot, Josh takes one look at the Macaroni Cheese, declares it ruined - "as predicted" - and suggests we go and watch Channel 4 News instead.
"We can have a mother and son bonding session while discussing world events," he says. "By which time Connie'll probably have finished showering or watching Eastenders or whatever she's doing while she's ignoring your calls, and then she'll get in touch with you."
This seems like a good plan but, although I stare dutifully at the screen, I don't really seem to be taking much in - so I haven't got a clue what leads to Josh's Big Idea to reduce the budget deficit.
"Mum," he says. "Are we still an Empire, or something?"
Sometimes I despair of comprehensive education. What sort of question is that for someone who's supposedly got GCSEs and an A-Level?
"Well, not exactly," I say. "Though there is the Commonwealth. And the Crown Territories. And -"
"Never mind about the detail. All I want to know is: do we own any other countries?"
Never mind the detail? Who does Josh think he is - an MP? I make allowances, though, on the basis that Film Studies probably isn't much use in situations such as this.
"Um, yes, I suppose so," I say. "In a manner of speaking. Why?"
"Problem solved, then," he says. "Why don't we sell one of them? We just phone up China and say, "Hey, China - do you want to buy Australia? I bet they'd jump at the chance."'
While I'm trying to think of an answer to that, my mobile beeps and - finally - there's a text from Connie. Not that it's very informative, considering I've heard nothing from her for ages.
"Mum, I'm fine," it says. "But I can't do a pull-up."
There's nothing for it but to go for a very long lie-down, until people start making sense again.
*AV - The Alternative Vote, which I have trouble understanding unless I am concentrating very hard. Which means that it'll be completely beyond the grasp of certain people I could mention...
Friday, 19 November 2010
A Strategy To Produce Better MPs, By Molly Bennett, Aka The Mother Teresa Of Northwick
While I've been pole-axed by swirling rooms and trying to think philosophical thoughts, I've been mulling over the state of our politicians. Especially the one who ate my bloody sandwich this lunchtime.
It's occurred to me that MPs should be made to take sabbaticals, particularly as more and more of them seem to be becoming professional politicians before they've had any work or even life experience outside politics. Six to eight weeks a year ought to do it.
I know MPs already get months off when Parliament's in recess, but that's not what I mean. I'd make them take the same (i.e. much shorter) holidays as the rest of us (except for teachers like Ellen), then spend the rest of each Recess working at the sharp end. Under assumed identities, so they don't just get to see the bits that have been pre-gilded to impress them.
If The Boss had to spend a week or two in a hospital ward as an orderly, and then another few as a debt adviser, for example, he'd have a much better idea of the real situations his constituents face. And of the obstacles and possible solutions to their problems. Any attempt he made to influence policy formation as a result would at least have the virtue of being genuinely informed.
Andrew used to get some real-life input from constituents during surgeries, of course, but that was in the days when he was really listening. I don't know what's happened to him lately - whether he's burned-out, chronically tired, or just distracted by whatever is going on with Vicky - but he doesn't really seem to absorb what he's being told any more.
The only exception to this was the Leylandii business the other day, which is what got me started thinking about this, actually. I know his solution was completely impractical - as well as probably illegal - but at least he saw Mr and Mrs Parker's situation and really understood it, for once. And he brought it up afterwards, too. You could have knocked me down with a feather.
Maybe The Boss doesn't usually worry about the outcomes of constituents' cases because he's started to believe that his almighty power as an MP will override everything, whether it be social security regulations, or waiting lists, or even the housing shortage. Even so, it's depressing that, the longer he's been an MP, the less interest he seems to take in what happens to the people he promises we'll try to help.
I mean, it's nice that Greg and I are trusted to do a good job without any oversight, but I can't understand how Andrew can just forget about most of the constituents once they leave surgery. You'd think curiosity would kick in sometimes, if nothing else. Unless he just has a short attention span, like Dad. (And look where that's got him, not to mention me and Dinah.)
Greg and I have completely different attitudes. Even when we take annual leave, the first thing we do upon returning to work is to check what's been happening with our cases while we've been absent. That's if we haven't already phoned in during our holiday, especially if a significant deadline's been scheduled to occur while we're away.
We don't do it because it's our job - but because these people are real to us. (Too real in the case of the usual suspects, but that's a different issue.) At the risk of sounding like Mother Teresa, I wish that Andrew still seemed to care as much as we do. He was a much better MP when he did.
Anyway, I'm going off on a bit of a tangent, so I need to re-focus on the main argument - I really hope Mum's rambling Kevin Turvey thing isn't hereditary - and explain why my sabbaticals suggestion would be good for MPs in other ways, too.
When Michael Portillo spent a week living with that single mother on benefits, it didn't do him any harm, did it? Even though he didn't go undercover, it did bring him good publicity. I've had a sneaking affection for him ever since, and I bet I'm not the only one.
It also helped that, although Portillo did look completely out of his depth, he did at least seem aware that he was in deep water. I'm starting to wonder if Andrew thinks he can bloody walk on it. And as far as his political philosophy goes, well - there's more to that than smoking a pipe and wandering around trying to look like Jean-Paul Sartre, isn't there?
So, to sum up - quick, before Channel 4 News starts - if MPs really want to help anyone, and to make policies with a chance of achieving their aims, then a regular reality check would be A Bloody Good Thing.
There endeth the sermon as delivered by Molly Bennett in uncharacteristically dictatorial mode. This may be due to vertigo, but hopefully normal service will be resumed tomorrow.
It's occurred to me that MPs should be made to take sabbaticals, particularly as more and more of them seem to be becoming professional politicians before they've had any work or even life experience outside politics. Six to eight weeks a year ought to do it.
I know MPs already get months off when Parliament's in recess, but that's not what I mean. I'd make them take the same (i.e. much shorter) holidays as the rest of us (except for teachers like Ellen), then spend the rest of each Recess working at the sharp end. Under assumed identities, so they don't just get to see the bits that have been pre-gilded to impress them.
If The Boss had to spend a week or two in a hospital ward as an orderly, and then another few as a debt adviser, for example, he'd have a much better idea of the real situations his constituents face. And of the obstacles and possible solutions to their problems. Any attempt he made to influence policy formation as a result would at least have the virtue of being genuinely informed.
Andrew used to get some real-life input from constituents during surgeries, of course, but that was in the days when he was really listening. I don't know what's happened to him lately - whether he's burned-out, chronically tired, or just distracted by whatever is going on with Vicky - but he doesn't really seem to absorb what he's being told any more.
The only exception to this was the Leylandii business the other day, which is what got me started thinking about this, actually. I know his solution was completely impractical - as well as probably illegal - but at least he saw Mr and Mrs Parker's situation and really understood it, for once. And he brought it up afterwards, too. You could have knocked me down with a feather.
Maybe The Boss doesn't usually worry about the outcomes of constituents' cases because he's started to believe that his almighty power as an MP will override everything, whether it be social security regulations, or waiting lists, or even the housing shortage. Even so, it's depressing that, the longer he's been an MP, the less interest he seems to take in what happens to the people he promises we'll try to help.
I mean, it's nice that Greg and I are trusted to do a good job without any oversight, but I can't understand how Andrew can just forget about most of the constituents once they leave surgery. You'd think curiosity would kick in sometimes, if nothing else. Unless he just has a short attention span, like Dad. (And look where that's got him, not to mention me and Dinah.)
Greg and I have completely different attitudes. Even when we take annual leave, the first thing we do upon returning to work is to check what's been happening with our cases while we've been absent. That's if we haven't already phoned in during our holiday, especially if a significant deadline's been scheduled to occur while we're away.
We don't do it because it's our job - but because these people are real to us. (Too real in the case of the usual suspects, but that's a different issue.) At the risk of sounding like Mother Teresa, I wish that Andrew still seemed to care as much as we do. He was a much better MP when he did.
Anyway, I'm going off on a bit of a tangent, so I need to re-focus on the main argument - I really hope Mum's rambling Kevin Turvey thing isn't hereditary - and explain why my sabbaticals suggestion would be good for MPs in other ways, too.
When Michael Portillo spent a week living with that single mother on benefits, it didn't do him any harm, did it? Even though he didn't go undercover, it did bring him good publicity. I've had a sneaking affection for him ever since, and I bet I'm not the only one.
It also helped that, although Portillo did look completely out of his depth, he did at least seem aware that he was in deep water. I'm starting to wonder if Andrew thinks he can bloody walk on it. And as far as his political philosophy goes, well - there's more to that than smoking a pipe and wandering around trying to look like Jean-Paul Sartre, isn't there?
So, to sum up - quick, before Channel 4 News starts - if MPs really want to help anyone, and to make policies with a chance of achieving their aims, then a regular reality check would be A Bloody Good Thing.
There endeth the sermon as delivered by Molly Bennett in uncharacteristically dictatorial mode. This may be due to vertigo, but hopefully normal service will be resumed tomorrow.
Friday, 14 May 2010
Deja Vu and Raging Hypocrisy
Back to work and The Boss is still hanging around in the office. I wish he'd bugger off to Westminster and annoy the London staff for a change. Thanks to the election, he's been here constantly for the last month, using my computer and causing havoc.
When I switch it on today, up comes a notification - 79 print jobs pending. He just can't seem to grasp that we connect to the Parliamentary system by remote access, stupid man. All you have to do is accept that there's often a delay between issuing a command and its implementation, but no - that's beyond his comprehension. He just keeps on clicking away - swearing furiously - until the system crashes, at which point he stomps off, leaving me to sort it out. And his is one of the brains we rely on to run the country!
Then Mr Dougan phones to demand an "emergency" appointment at today's constituency surgery. As he's moved, and is no longer one of Andrew's constituents, Greg has to refuse, and tell him to see his own MP instead. Greg didn't mention that, even if that wasn't the case, Mr D is a dangerous loony that we don't want anything more to do with.
As a result, surgery is blissfully nutter-free and, when The Boss goes off for a meeting at the Council as soon as its finished, it looks as if the rest of the day is going to be quite peaceful.
Famous last words. I am just getting all my notes together and straightening the chairs when who should walk in but Mr Dougan!
"Where's your boss?" he says. "No more bloody excuses - I need to see him. Now."
"He isn't here," I say. "Surgery has finished and, anyway, you aren't a constituent any longer - so you need to see your own MP. As my colleague has already explained."
Rational argument is sometimes grossly overrated, and ineffective. When Mr D finally accepts that The Boss isn't in the building, he gets me by the throat and backs me against the wall - again. That's the third time he's done it this year.
I just have to stand very still, look calm and try to talk him down - not easy when you can hardly breathe - until Greg finally appears to see where I've got to, surprises Mr D and causes him to loosen his grip. I run out of the room and through the security doors, closely followed by Greg. We only just get the doors closed before Mr D starts banging on the glass and shouting.
Greg and I stagger upstairs to the office and both collapse at our desks. I don't know which of us is the more freaked out - but Greg's voice has definitely gone up a couple of octaves. Eventually I phone The Boss to tell him what Mr D has done, to which Andrew says,
"You must have said something to upset him."
Greg looks as if he's going to have an apoplectic fit when I report this back. He doesn't look any better when news comes through that the MP Stephen Timms has been stabbed during his constituency surgery this afternoon. Stephen's such a nice guy! I can't imagine him upsetting anyone. There but for the grace of God and all that.
It takes me ages to get home from work, as I have to walk sideways to make sure that Mr Dougan isn't sneaking up on me from behind. When I finally arrive, I try to explain to Max about what happened, but he interrupted to tell me all about a "bunk bed emergency" he had at work, and so I never get to finish my story.
I make myself a cup of very strong tea and am looking forward to watching the end of the Channel 4 News to find out how the great Con-Dem romance is going, when the phone starts ringing. It's Greg.
"Have you heard what that idiot Harriet Harman is saying about the Timms attack?" he says.
"No," I say. "What?"
"That MPs run terrible risks and that something has to be done to make them safer!"
"True."
"Yes, but what about us?" says Greg. He's really shrieking now. "It's ten years since a caseworker was killed by a constituent, but no-one did anything about that! We run the gauntlet of these loonies every day, get threatened, get assaulted, but that's all okay - because we're just the little people. Molly, we're dispensable!"
"It's worse than that, Greg," I say. "It's our fault we upset the nutters in the first place - according to The Boss."
There is a noise as if Greg is being strangled, and then the phone goes dead. I call him every half hour for the next two hours, but don't get any reply until eventually he sends me a text:
"Molly, I am so filled with hatred that I am dangerous. I am therefore getting drunk enough to post dog poo through the letterboxes of every mad constituent I can find on my way home from the pub. I may save the biggest piece for The Boss's house."
I've been trying to phone him ever since then, but he still won't answer. Now it's nearly midnight and God knows what he's done. There have to be easier jobs than this.
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