Impending Horror and the Caring Buddhist Approach to Life and Death.

I am too depressed to even think about work. I have just realised that there are only twenty-one days left until Recess. Twenty-one days! I can't even be bothered to explain the significance and true horror that Recess signifies to constituency staff now, though no doubt I'll revisit the subject nearer the time. If I haven't thrown myself off a tall building. (I could join Mr Ellis, invite The Boss and make it a media event.)

I am also feeling riddled with guilt about my attitude to Mum - if not quite so bad about Dad. Turns out that idiot brother Robin bought Mum a book on preparing for death for her birthday. Is he quite mad? As if that isn't bad enough, she phones tonight to tell me that he has suggested that he and she go to Paris together this summer, so that Robin - and I quote - "will have something to remember [her] by." No wonder she's been so obsessed with her buttocks and eyelids. I must try to be more sympathetic - as long as I don't make the mistake of carrying that over into my working life. (That way lies madness.) And I must kill "caring Buddhist" Robin. Why are supposedly sensitive people so unbelievably crass when it comes to other people's feelings?

Talking of other people's feelings, I am still feeling horribly guilty about Johnny and the arse photo, especially as his emails have become a lot more frequent this last few days. Think it's 'cause I still haven't agreed to make arrangements for him to see my arse in the flesh. He can't possibly be concentrating on his job very well - so we'll probably hear about a giant oil spill in Russia soon, if this keeps up. Then I'll be to blame, when all those poor Russian fish die and the fishermen starve. Mind you, it is nice to be treated as someone attractive, instead of just a wife, mother and - worst of all - a very poor substitute for an MP. I rather like that last phrase. It is open to a number of different interpretations, which of course suggests that I have learned more from my years at the dull end of politics than I had previously thought. Robin could learn a lot from me, if he stopped chanting and preparing Mum for death and started listening.

Post-PC Family Planning, Bribery & The Royal Mail.

The quality of the letters sent to The Boss is not getting any better. Today's contender for F*ckwit of the Week reads as follows:

Dear Mister Sincler

Tony Blair kept on about wanting people to have lots of kids. I done what he wanted and me and the wife have 5, but we don't get NO HELP. I work 16 hours a week and we have to live on benefits and tax credits but the goverment won't pay for someone to take my 3 oldest kids to and from school. My wife can't do it with the 2 little uns at home. What I want to know is what you and your party are going to do to stand up for hardworking parents now Dave Cameron's in charge. I'm disgusted your lot told me to have all these kids and now look at the mess I'm in. 

Disgusted
Mark Betts

PS I'm so disgusted I've sent copy of this letter to the local paper and I'm gonna deliver 300 more round town.


Greg and I work out what Mr Betts' total income would be - assuming minimum wage for 16 hours a week - and it's more than mine. Quite a lot more, if you take his Housing and Council Tax Benefits into account. Now I'm positive that Greg's earning more than me, as he isn't half as pissed off as I am, though he does say some awfully politically-incorrect things about the people he's keeping with his taxes.

At lunchtime, he buys a packet of five condoms, and puts them into a House of Commons envelope with a compliment slip. He marks it "FAO Mr Betts, Father of the Nation. Try these and do us all a favour." Sometimes I think constituency staff working for Labour MPs are becoming more reactionary with every day that passes. (Maybe those who work for Tory MPs are too, but they're supposed to be!) I am starting to sound like my grandfather, let alone Dad.

The rest of the day is more of the same, though I actually manage to finish work on time. I get halfway home when I realise that Greg and I have forgotten to remove the "letter" to Mr Betts from the post tray. It has therefore been posted, with all the other mail. Oh sh*t, sh*t, SH*T!!! Total panic. I have to run all the way back to the office and stand in wait next to the post box outside. Then I have to humiliate myself again - wasn't the arse photo enough? - by begging the postman to give me the letter back. Well, actually, I have to slip him a fiver and, even then, he won't give me the bloody thing back until I've shown him my business card and pointed out the House of Commons crest. Bloody, bloody Greg.