Insect-Induced Hypothermia - Which Could Only Happen To Connie.

Oh, my God. I am so fed up of wearing all my clothes at once, and even some of Max's. Including in bed. This may have something to do with my lack of a sex-life, but I can't help that. I haven't stopped shivering for weeks.

Connie has to go one better, though. She phones this afternoon and, when I ask how she is, simply says:

"Hypothermic."

"Don't exaggerate," I say. "You sound like Dinah."

"I'm not exaggerating," says Connie. "I nearly died of cold during the night."

Given that she made Max and I buy her a million-tog duvet before she left home, I somehow doubt that - and say so.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't use it, could I?" she says, as if I should have known.

Why do children always think their parents are psychic? When I ask Connie why she couldn't sleep under her quilt, things become absolutely no clearer.

"Because of the spider," she says. "On the bedroom ceiling."

Connie is terrified of spiders, due to some unspecified childhood trauma, which probably had something to do with Josh. Most things trace back to him, as far as she's concerned - but, even so, I'm still confused.

"What's that got to do with your duvet?" I say. "You usually just trap spiders under a glass and wait for someone else to get rid of them."

Connie explains that she couldn't get to sleep while the spider was walking around above her head, so she decided she had to get it down somehow. This was a challenge, as Connie has the same trouble with high ceilings as I do but, eventually, she managed it.

"I flicked it off the ceiling with a pair of tights," she says. "But then it landed on my bed."

"Well, why didn't you just flick it off that as well, then?" I say. "Job done."

"That's what I was going to do," says Connie. "But you know I don't like hurting anything - so I wrapped it up in the quilt and tried to shake it outside instead."

"Well, for God's sake, Connie, there was no reason why you couldn't use your bedding once the spider had gone. Even Gillian McKeith wouldn't have made that much fuss."

"She would have done if she'd dropped the f*cking quilt out of the window as well," says Connie. "Into a huge puddle."

Far Too Much Of Men Being Men.

I think I'm coming down with something. Unless it's an allergy to the roses. Or to Vicky. I keep sneezing and my temperature's going up and down like a yoyo. I wonder if this is what a hot flush is like?

It's bloody awful in the office today. Vicky's swanning around on those impossible heels, and referring to The Boss as Andy to everyone she speaks to on the phone. Even to Trish, who I don't think likes it much. She rings back later to quiz me.

"Molly, who is that awful woman I spoke to earlier?"

"Um, it's Vicky," I say. "You know, Andrew's old intern?"

"What, her?" says Trish, sounding incredulous. "What's she doing there? I thought she'd landed some plummy lobbying job."

"I don't exactly know. She was at conference, and then she arrived here. To help out with the diary while Marie-Louise is off sick."

God, this is awkward. Doesn't Andrew tell his wife anything? There's far too much of that sort of thing going around at the moment.

"I didn't even know that Marie-Louise was off sick," says Trish. "Let alone that Victoria was at conference."

"Ah," I say. That word does come in useful sometimes. I can see why The Boss relies on it so heavily.

I use it again, shortly afterwards, when Johnny emails me.

"Did you like the flowers?" he says. "Thought I'd make sure you were thinking about me while I was travelling over the last few days."

"Ah. Yes," I say. Dual purpose answer, too. I'm on a roll of tried and tested ways of being non-committal today, but I feel too shitty to care.

"I thought about you all the time. Especially when I was alone in my hotel room."

"Did I have a red nose and a stinking cold?" I say.

"I don't know," says Johnny. "I wasn't envisaging your face much."

God, there's nothing to choose between him and Max, is there? What with me having a great body - for my age - and a face that my so-called lover doesn't even bother to picture, I may as well go and put that Primark carrier over my head right now. Before Victoria suggests it.