Bratz, Back-Stabbing, And Some Significant Omissions.

The Boss spends all day going on about how the Party needs to pull together to support Ed Miliband.

"Got to stop those bloody Blairites going behind his back," he says. "Unity, that's the thing."

"Have you had some sort of revelation?" says Greg. "Thought you believed in debate. You certainly seemed to when Blair was PM."

"Different times," says Andrew. "Loyalty's what counts now."

Honestly, that man is almost as shameless as Sarah Palin.

Talking of people going behind your back, I get a nasty surprise when I open the box of Christmas cards that has just arrived from the printer.

"What the hell?" I say, as I stare in disbelief at the most hideous card I have ever seen. "This isn't the one I chose."

"Oh, Vicky didn't like that," says Andrew. "Did you, Vicks? Said it wasn't pretty enough."

So much for the only perk of my job: choosing which entry wins in The Boss' annual "Design a Christmas card" competition. It's usually the highlight of my year. To add insult to injury, the new design stinks.

Instead of the quirky, imaginative one I chose, which was drawn by an autistic child in the special unit at Easemount First School, we now have a complete travesty of a card, courtesy of a twelve-year-old pupil at Northwick High School for Girls. Which is allegedly an Arts Academy. Let's just say that you wouldn't have to go further than the Bratz counter to spot her inspiration.

I'm so cross that I take revenge by giving Vicky the responsibility for handling the rest of the process, including updating the mailing list and printing the labels. She stops smirking pretty quickly at that point - and she hasn't even had the fun of trying to get Andrew to remember to sign all the cards in time to post them yet.

At least it's Josh's night off from the cinema, so that'll cheer me up. I don't seem to have seen him for weeks, so I'm looking forward to it but, when I get home, he's running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.

"I thought you were staying in tonight," I say.

"Nah," he says. "Don't be daft, Mum. I'm not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I'm taking Holly for a pizza and then we're going to see a film. Might as well get some use out of all these free tickets."

Then he goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which I contemplate the side of Max's head while he snores on the sofa. This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when Max's mobile starts ringing.

He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing. (I hate bloody Nokias and late-night phone-calls always make me nervous, and clumsy.)

"Mum," says Josh. "Where's Dad?"

"Asleep," I say. "Why? Are you okay? You sound funny."

"No, I'm not," he says. "Can you get him to come and pick me up? I can't walk."

"Why? Now what's happened?" I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.

"I think I've dislocated my knee. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it's bloody agony again. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me."

"Oh, for God's sake, Josh. Okay - but Dad won't be able to come. He's had too much wine to drive," I say. "Stay put 'til I get there."

Honestly, Josh is so accident-prone that we might as well get a season ticket for A&E. And it's going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That'll teach me to complain about doing nothing in the evenings.

I fish the keys out of Max's pocket, grab my coat and bag, and power walk to the car - but it isn't there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there's still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody hell.

There's nothing for it but to go back home.

"Max. Max! Wake up! The car's been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E," I say, while calling for a cab.

He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I'll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I've finished explaining that, the cab's outside.

"Max - you'll have to phone the Police and report the theft," I say. "I've got to go."

"Um," he says. "Yes, um."

"Yes, um, what? Hurry up - the meter's running!"

"Well, the car hasn't exactly been stolen," he says.

He won't meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He's still staring very hard at the floor when he answers:

"I may have lent it to someone for the weekend."

"Who?" I say, as the taxi driver beeps his horn for about the hundredth time.

"Ellen," he says.

I slam the door so hard on my way out that I think I may have shattered the glass.

So now here I am in the hospital cafe, typing on Holly's laptop and waiting for Josh to come out of X-Ray. Maybe I should ask the Radiologist to check if my heart is broken while she's at it.

Hotlines, Steaming Beverages And Other Less Attractive Things

The Boss allows me to do surgery with him today, as he's in a very good mood since finding out that Ken* has been chosen as Labour's candidate for Mayor of London.

Greg is otherwise engaged in frantically trying to make last minute changes to Andrew's diary, for which Marie-Louise has abdicated responsibility. Only temporarily - for the duration of conference, as she says that Greg will need to know where Andrew is supposed to be more than she will.

She's right, but what she obviously didn't make clear was that Greg should not, under any circumstances, have allowed The Boss to make entries in My Events* himself. Now it looks as if Andrew is triple-booked all over the place. Greg's conversation is limited to "shit!" and "f*cksake!" for most of the day.

Meanwhile, I get off quite lightly. Surgery's not too bad, for a change. Andrew is so distracted by anticipating the fun to be had at conference, that he keeps a check on his usual crazed promising of the impossible; and the cases are mainly stuff which I can handle via phone-calls to the many and various MPs' hotlines.

God knows how much money is spent on providing all these special departments for the sole purpose of answering MPs' queries. I can't help wondering if the money wouldn't be better spent on improving the standard of service given to the public in the first place, thus reducing the amount of constituents' complaints to their MPs. I'm quite surprised that, as far as I know, no enterprising investigative journalist has yet submitted FOI* requests to find out how much these things cost.

Mind you, I'm not complaining. At least calls to the MPs' hotlines get answered. I nearly had a heart attack in the days before I worked for an MP when I had to phone the public Family Credit line to find out where our family's payment book had got to. It took me about four days of constant dialling before I even got through. That's where push-button phones have such an advantage over the old fashioned kind. Your fingers don't get half so sore when all you have to do is to hit a re-dial button.

By the time we lock up, Greg's thoroughly over-excited about conference. So over-excited that he's decided to stay teetotal throughout so that he can keep his wits about him. I assume that this is because he wants to stand the best possible chance of keeping up his new politically-correct facade, but he says it's not.

"I don't want to put off the ladies by getting in a state," he says. "Not while I am in such great physical shape, thanks to my new exercise programme."

I've got a funny feeling that The Boss has been telling Greg that conference offers a lot of potential for shagging amidst the political cut and thrust - though I don't remember anyone offering me any sex the year that I was there. Perhaps my kiss of death reputation preceded me.

Anyway, I have advised Greg not to wear his special conference hat if he wishes to take advantage of anything that is on offer, and to try to avoid dressing like a Mormon. Not that he could look any worse than The Boss if he tried. I'm just hoping that Andrew's had his dinner suit cleaned since that food throwing incident.

When I get home, I decide to put my feet up and do a couch potato. I have decided that I'd better be careful not to over-exert myself, what with my newly-identified blood pressure problems. (Bother, I've forgotten to make an appointment with the GP. Note to self: phone up first thing Monday morning.)  I need to start taking responsibility for my health and well-being. I have a stressful job, after all.

Not as stressful a job as Josh's, as it turns out. Working at the cinema seems to be turning into something worthy of a horror film. His face is green when he finally comes in around midnight.

"Good God," I say. "What on earth's the matter, Josh? You look terrible."

"I feel terrible," he says. "You won't believe what I found when I was on clearing tonight."

"Clearing?"

"Cleaning up after all the punters have left," says Josh. "I can't believe it."

"Well, what was it?" I say. I am trying to avoid suspense. Blood pressure concerns.

"One of the large Coke cups," says Josh.

"What's so bad about that?" I say. "Am I missing something?"

"I wished I'd missed the bloody thing," says Josh. "There was an equally-large turd in it."

"Oh my God! What did your manager say?"

"She just told me to get rid of it," says Josh. "She didn't seem surprised, so f*ck knows how often this is going to happen."

I go to give him a sympathetic hug, but he shakes me off, and says, "'Night, Mum. I'm going to bed, as soon as I've had a shower. Probably with bleach or something."

Max wakes up at that point, so I tell him about Josh's discovery. He is less than sympathetic.

"Bet they didn't warn him about that in Film Studies," he says.

Honestly, how can a film be so exciting that it makes you shit yourself in a cup? And what is happening to the world when people think it's okay to leave things like that for other people to clean up? This is not at all what I wanted for my son. He might be annoying, but no-one deserves that.

I am going to write to the manager of the cinema and suggest that they allocate customer's names and addresses to specific seats, like the airlines do. Then, if customers leave anything behind when they leave, the cinema staff can post it back to them. Or Greg would probably agree to hand-deliver it. He is an expert in the field, after all.

*Ken - Ken Livingstone, see Lord Mayor of London (2000 - 2008), or anything about keeping newts.
*FOI request - Freedom of Information request, here.

Job Descriptions - Not Always What They Seem.

God, talk about cock-ups. It turns out that Marie-Louise hasn't actually booked The Boss into a hotel for conference. Apparently she thought I was doing it - as if I haven't had enough to do all summer, while she and Carlotta have been taking holidays, and swanning around Westminster as if they owned the place.

"Well, why didn't you tell me you hadn't booked Andrew's room?" she says.

"Because you are his Diary Secretary," I say. "And I have been otherwise occupied, minding him."

I'm not sure, but I think she says something abusive in French in reply. I try to recall the phrase my Dad once learned from a Breton fisherman, and which he used to shout at motorists when they drove too slowly, but it's hopeless. I can't remember it. My brain's still in a post-Recess fug.

I suppose I could phone and ask him, but he's probably busy learning the Thai for bring me my slippers* now, anyway, and will have abandoned any interest in French. There must be another way to deal with Marie-Louise, if I put my mind to it.

When I have found a copy of her contract and faxed it through to her, we finally reach agreement on whose job it is to make The Boss' hotel arrangements. Hers, of course. I think I manage to hide my satisfaction fairly well.

At lunchtime, Max phones to tell me that he's just spoken to David, and has mentioned that he's on leave next week. Apparently David says Max and I can have his holiday cottage for the whole time, if I can take some holiday too, so I check with Greg and then book the time off. Yeeha! Now Carlotta and Marie-Louise will have no option but to do their bloody jobs for a change.

Shortly afterwards, there's employment news of a different kind. Josh phones to say he has got the job at the cinema. I'm thrilled, but he doesn't sound very pleased.

'What's the matter?" I say. "You don't sound as chuffed as I thought you'd be."

"Well, I'm a bit pissed off, Mum," he says. "You know how they said it was a full-time job?"

"Yes. I thought that's what you wanted?" It's certainly what he needs if he's to stand any chance of succeeding in the important business of keeping me in luxury in my old age.

"Well, it sounds as if that was a bit of a con. They only give you a four hour contract."

"What?" I can't believe it. "And you're supposed to sign off Jobseeker's Allowance for that?"

"I suppose so," says Josh. "They say we'll all probably get more hours than that in practice, but they aren't guaranteeing any more."

Bloody hell. Is nothing ever as it appears? And what were the Jobcentre thinking, advertising these jobs as full-time? Josh is lucky he still lives at home. Though it's less certain that Max and I share his good fortune. It seems we may have to wait a bit longer for the freedom to have rampant sex all over the house. Josh isn't going to be able to rent anywhere on the salary from four hours' paid work a week, is he?

I am almost tempted to ring Marie-Louise back and ask her if she realises how lucky she is to have a full-time bloody job. Maybe then she'd start actually doing some work. Talking of which, I suppose I'd better get on with mine. Looks like it may take a bit longer before I can tell The Boss to shove his job where the sun don't shine.

*The Thai for "bring me my slippers" is, according to Google translate, "นำรองเท้าแตะของฉันฉัน" or, read phonetically: "Nả rxngthêā tæa k̄hxng c̄hạn c̄hạn." 

Call That An Interview? Abandon Your Dignity All Ye Who Enter Here.

Josh has his interview at the cinema today. I'm keeping everything crossed, which is a little uncomfortable, though maybe that'll compensate for my failure to do regular Kegel exercises. I suppose it's a bit late to start them now, seeing as I am meeting Johnny on Thursday.

Wouldn't it be fantastic if Josh got the job, though? Throughout the day, I keep drifting off into reveries in which Josh owns a chain of cinemas, and is able to keep his mother in the style to which she would like to become accustomed. Then I could tell The Boss where to stuff his job next time he makes me deal with a total lunatic without security. Or if he ever pretends that he has fallen asleep while I am speaking again.

This fantasy is so compelling that I almost manage to convince myself that I am just working out my notice, and so I even manage to stay calm in the face of Richard Levinson's demands that the Government "grows some balls like Sarkozy, and chucks out all those bloody gypsies" who are, apparently, the only reason that Richard and his fiancee aren't being given a three bedroomed council house all to themselves. I rise above all this, lost in my imaginary universe - and very nice it is too.

Reality makes its presence felt the moment I get home, though. Josh is back in ranting constituent mode as soon as I step through the front door. Can't say I blame him. What on earth has happened to interviews? When did they become about how much a candidate is prepared to humiliate him or herself?

Apparently, the Jobcentre sent about eighty young people for the interviews at the cinema - which rather undermined the impressiveness of Josh's achievement in being one of them. They were split into two groups, and then set some of the most stupid and demeaning tasks I can imagine.

These included being asked which fruit you are, and why. (What the hell kind of stupid question is that?) Then came an exercise in recalling and repeating everything the previous ten people had said in one of those "I went to the shops and I bought" tasks so beloved of 1980s TV improvisation shows - you know, the ones which starred Josie Lawrence and occasionally John Sessions (before he got fat and unrecognisable).

If the candidates hadn't already lost the will to live by this point, they then had to say what their favourite film was - to which Josh was, unsurprisingly, the only one to say "Mrs Doubtfire." Next, they were each paired up with another applicant to act out dialogue from film scripts.

I mean, I know this is a job in a cinema, and Josh did have high hopes for his Film Studies A-level, but really - does he actually need to be able to act and recite in order to sell tickets and over-priced popcorn? He reckons he's in with a chance of getting the job, though, as he says most of the other candidates were dead from the neck up and could barely remember their own names. Three of them apparently chose vegetables when they were asked what fruits they were - which Josh thought very appropriate.

He finds out sometime in the next two days if he's been successful. It'll be very worrying indeed if he hasn't been. In the meantime, maybe I should start asking constituents what sort of fruit they are - though the answer would be bound to be "cake."

Trained monkeys, Dr Snuffleopagus and the Drama Queen.

Things are really looking up. Today's the last day of Recess, and The Boss still isn't speaking to me, so Greg has to do surgery again. The usual suspects seem to be otherwise occupied, and work is thoroughly uneventful - which is just how I like it.

To add to my joy, Josh phones at lunchtime to tell me he's got an interview at the cinema on Monday. Bloody hell. So all my worrying about his unemployability may have been for nothing.

I'm not used to everything going so well, so I get a bit nervous - with reason, as it turns out. My whole evening is interrupted by various members of my family. First Connie phones.

"I hate my new job," she says. "I wish I hadn't applied for this bloody internship now."

"Why?" I say. Doesn't she realise what an honour it was to be selected? There aren't many internships as prestigious as this, nor that are as well-paid. Connie's earning almost as much as Max - though I haven't told him that.

"A trained monkey could do what I'm doing," says Connie, hiccuping with outrage. "Or a robot. And my boss is awful."

"Oh, well - join the club on that one," I say. I am still working on the principle that, if it isn't cancer, shut up about it.

"He hates women, and only speaks to me when he has to, Mum." God, this is like deja-vu. My maternal sympathy finally kicks in.

"Oh, poor you, Connie," I say. "I know all about that one. Give it another week, and then speak to him about it if it doesn't get any better."

"I would, Mum," she says, "But I can't pronounce his name properly. I can't call him Dr Snuffleopagus, which is what it sounds like, can I?"

This might appear to be a minor problem, but Connie takes such things very seriously indeed. She was once reduced to tears of embarrassment when she phoned the kebab shop to place an order, and couldn't understand what the man who answered was saying. She couldn't handle asking him to repeat what he'd said more than twice, in case he thought she was taking the piss - so, instead, she lost the plot and had to pass the phone to Josh - who presumably reminded them that his father was dead, and negotiated a discount.

I finally calm Connie down a bit, and am looking forward to an early night, when I get a text from Dinah.

"I've had bad news," she says.

This doesn't sound like something to discuss by text message so I try to phone her, but she doesn't answer. Instead she texts again:

"I don't want to talk about it." Oh, for God's sake. I text back:

"Then why bloody well text me in the first place FFS*?" I am definitely becoming more impatient by the day.

There is a lull, and then three texts arrive in quick succession. In them, Dinah spells out her distress at being diagnosed with a serious illness when she saw her GP this morning. Now I feel terrible.

"God, I'm sorry, sis," I type. "What is it?"

Back comes the reply, as quick as a flash.

"HPD."

What the hell is that? I didn't even know Dinah was feeling ill. Or not any more than usual, anyway. Hypochondria runs in the family.

"Dinah, I've never heard of HPD, I'm sorry. What is it?"

"Histrionic Personality Disorder."

I almost collapse laughing. Max thinks I'm choking and starts trying to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on me, until I fight him off.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" he says. "Are you hysterical or something?"

"Probably," I say. "Dinah's just been diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder."

"How did it take them so long to work that one out?" Max says. "That's just another word for Drama Queen-itis."

Later, I go onto Facebook to try to work out where Josh has gone for the evening, and notice that Dinah has updated her status. It now reads, "Dinah is finding it very hard to cope with her HPD diagnosis." I resist the temptation to leave a sarcastic comment, but the effort nearly kills me, and now I need a lie-down. Attention-seeking Facebook statuses always stress me out, even though I make it a matter of principle to ignore them. It's never a good idea to encourage nutters, whether at work or in your private life.

*FFS - for those of you over the age of thirty-five or who do not have teenage children to keep you abreast of what's hip and happening in text-speak, FFS means "for f*ck's sake."

Josh Finds a Real-Life Use for Film Studies.

Greg answers the phone first thing, and then imparts some wonderful news: The Boss has decided to take today and tomorrow off. Oh, the relief! Greg does some celebratory sit-ups, and I even attempt a few. Well, one - but it's a start. (I need to build up quite quickly though - there's only just over a week to go, until I meet Johnny.)

Even though this probably represents the shortest summer holiday ever known to man - apart from mine and Greg's, of course - Recess ends on Friday, so who cares? And, even though it is short notice, we don't need to re-schedule most of Andrew's appointments, as we only made them to give him something to do - so it'll hardly be a disaster if they never take place.

We're so elated that we zoom through today's work. There are none of The Boss' usual pointless interruptions, and my concentration is much improved by the absence of the cloud of his recent disapproval. I'm actually in quite a good mood by the time I get home.

Josh isn't. He's had to sign on for the first time today, and when I ask how he got on, he starts ranting like Mr Meeurghn.

"Why don't they tell you not to join the bloody queue in the entrance to the Jobcentre?" he yells. "Standing there like a muppet made me late to sign on, and then I got in trouble, even though I'd been in the building for ages."

"What happened?" I say. (Honestly, sometimes my home life resembles my working day in a very depressing manner.)

"The woman said that she was showing me a yellow card," says Josh.

"What?" I find this hard to believe. "Did she actually say that?"

"Yes," says Josh. "She seemed to think she was Alec Bloody Ferguson. And would it kill the staff to call people by their full names?"

"What do you mean?"

"When it's your turn to sign on, they only call you by your surname," says Josh. "It was worse then being at school. She just shouted, 'Bennett!' Talk about dehumanising."

I am amazed that my son knows the word, let alone uses it in normal conversation. Maybe I am not such a bad mother after all.

If I get a chance, I shall speak to the manager of the Jobcentre tomorrow, and check whether his staff are supposed to be talking to claimants like that. There's no call for it. After all, if they weren't lucky enough to have lots of unemployed people to deal with, they'd be out of work themselves. And if I can manage to be civil to the usual suspects - when they're all completely bonkers and abusive - then it doesn't seem too much to expect Jobcentre staff to bloody well be polite to sane, pleasant people. (Not to mention that I don't take well to people picking on my children, as Mr Thumb almost learned to his cost.)

Josh is so annoyed about the whole experience that he says he never wants to sign on again, and I start wondering whether the Jobcentre have a deliberate policy of being thoroughly unpleasant to people, in order to deter them from making claims? I don't mention this to Josh, as there's no point in winding him up, and anyway, it turns out that today's visit wasn't a complete waste of time. He must have compensated for the yellow card somehow, as he has been approved to apply for a job for which the Jobcentre are pre-selecting candidates. It's at the cinema.

"I told you Film Studies would come in handy," he says.

I think he's being a bit over-optimistic, but wisely keep quiet. You have to allow your kids to retain some comforting illusions, after all. And anyway, at least the job is full-time, so I am going to keep my fingers crossed Josh gets it. Maybe he'll even be moving out soon, once he has saved up enough money for the deposit on a rented flat. Then Max and I will be able to have rampant sex all over the house, hopefully before we get osteoporosis and can't take the risk, despite finally having the opportunity.

This thought makes me almost as keen to get things moving as Josh is, so I spend all evening helping him write a CV. This involves making a mountain out of the veritable molehill that is Josh's meagre work experience, and proves very challenging. Honestly, what chance do school-leavers have of finding work in this economic climate, when listing their skills and experience barely fills half a side of A4?

In the end, I agree to pad the CV out by trying to make Josh's hobbies sound far more productive than they actually are - though I refuse to add "National Skateboarding Champion" to his list of achievements.  You never know, he might be asked to give a demonstration at interview, and then where would he be? Though I suppose he could always use his (un)broken arm as an excuse. He'd probably claim it was a skateboarding accident, now I come to think of it - which occurred during a world record attempt. I do hope that he'll find a job where he can put all that imagination to good use.