Creative Thinking in the Face of an Emergency.

It's that hellish time of year again - Parliamentary Recess, when MPs return to their constituencies, and wander around like lost souls, irritating the hell out of constituency staff and making work for its own sake. The Boss is worse than most. He thinks he's so indispensable that he cannot take even a single day off, and that we need him to open the mail and answer the phones, despite the fact that these things get done every day whilst he's at Westminster - as if by magic.

I wouldn't mind so much if he'd just go and sit in a coffee bar somewhere and take his laptop with him, but he says he likes to be "in the thick of it", and takes over my desk and my computer instead. Then he decides that I need him to dictate incoherent replies to all the letters he has already opened, or at least, those that he hasn't already misplaced.

This means that I am forced to waste time writing down notes that I have absolutely no intention of making any reference to in the replies that I will eventually write, once he's not looking. To make matters even worse, he seems compulsively driven to start swearing whenever I am on the phone to a constituent - which is really embarrassing. I have to keep explaining it away by pretending that he's the boiler repair man, and has no sense of decorum.

The Boss has also adopted his usual Recess practice of sneaking into the office early so that, by the time Greg and I arrive, he's already rifled through our desk drawers, and the fridge. The most outrageous aspect of this - at least as far as Greg's concerned - is that Andrew has helped himself to Greg's entire secret stash of Twixes, and has used up all the milk.

Greg gestures for me to join him in the corridor for an emergency meeting.

"God almighty, haven't you arranged anything for him to do?" he says.

"I tried," I say, "But bloody Carlotta wouldn't play ball. She even cleared space in his diary so he could spend more time in the office with us."

"Bloody woman. Wasn't winning the sodding World Cup enough for her?"

Greg is pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal, and I am desperate for a cigarette. Already.

"Well, you've got to do something. I can't stand this. I may have to kill him if you don't get rid of him soon." Greg almost looks capable of murder. He has an unhealthy dependency on chocolate.

Far be it from me to boast, but I do have an extraordinary ability to think creatively in an emergency.

"Go and find yesterday's local paper, then search through it for mentions of local organisations that are complaining about something, like lack of funding," I say.

"And?" Greg looks unimpressed.

"Then phone them up, and say The Boss has read about their plight, and is very interested in the valuable work they are doing in his constituency.

"And?"

"Say that he would very much like to come and see it for himself, and could he pop over today?"

"Brilliant!" says Greg, and sneaks off into the Party office to use their phone for his vital secret mission.

Half an hour later, he comes back, gives me the thumbs up, and says,

"Andrew, aren't you supposed to be at your meeting now?"

"What meeting?" Andrew finishes my sandwich in one very over-ambitious mouthful.

"The Phoenix Project in Easemount," says Greg. "Molly, didn't you tell him?"

"God, no. I forgot. Greg has the details, Andrew. Shall I call you a taxi?"

"No, I can drive," he says. "Just put their number into my mobile in case I get lost."

Whether The Boss can drive is a moot point, but the fact that he has the option must mean that he has finally talked Trish into letting him have the car keys back. (She is a very creative individual herself. You probably have to be to survive being married to Andrew.) A few weeks ago, she developed a well-founded fear that Andrew was going to get caught drink-driving and, mindful of the negative Press coverage that would ensue, she decided to take direct action.

While he was engaged in a medicinal drinking session after a particularly hostile GC*, she sneaked into the car park, and drove his car away. She texted me to tell me what she'd done, but I didn't tell him as I wanted to see what would happen when he went to drive home after the meeting. I expected him to come roaring back into the bar, shouting that his car had been stolen. But he didn't.

It turned out that he just looked around the car park for a bit, then gave up and took a taxi home. He obviously assumed that he was just too drunk to recall where he'd left the car, and that he'd remember once he sobered up. The whole story came out the next morning when, staggering downstairs on a quest for coffee and ibuprofen, he spotted the car parked in the driveway of his house. At that moment, he really didn't have a leg to stand on when Trish refused to give him the keys back. God knows how he's persuaded her to reinstate his driving privileges now.

So, due to my low cunning, we are blissfully Andrew-free for the next few hours, which means that I can finally get round to writing proper replies to today's letters, and Greg can spend his time arranging visits to other local organisations. By the end of the afternoon,The Boss is booked up for a good chunk of the rest of this week, and half of the next one too - thank God.

Just before I leave the office, Mrs Cowan phones to apologise that her husband hasn't yet got round to signing his Data Protection form. She says she'll make sure he does it tonight, and that she'll drop it off to me tomorrow morning. Then she bursts into tears, and says that they are now being chased for mortgage arrears, as it appears that their bank hasn't even been honouring those payments.

Honestly, those bankers are such shits.  Not that I'm in any position to criticise - spending all my time fretting about not being able to afford a hotel room for a dirty weekend. I need a slap.

*GC - General Committee meeting, as usual.

Questions of Identity, and Other Thorny Issues.

God, people really aren't careful enough about protecting their identities. Today I get a visit from Mrs Cowan, who is completely distraught, the poor woman. She has no access to money, can't pay her mortgage, and her bank are doing nothing to help. Her husband has been a victim of identity fraud but, instead of closing down their joint account and letting the couple start afresh, Mrs Cowan says that the bank are simply refusing to help at all, and are only interested in making charges for the unauthorised borrowing. This really fires me up - especially having spent the last three days being lectured about capitalism. Bloody banks. I am ready to fight to the death over this case.

Mrs Cowan signs the Data Protection forms, and authorises me to apply for a credit report on her behalf. She takes another set of forms home for her husband to sign, so that I can then obtain a copy of his credit report too. In the meantime, I write a terse note to the bank, advising them that The Boss has been asked to take up the case, and that he would appreciate a full explanation as to why it is that nothing appears to be being done to help Mr & Mrs Cowan. I enclose a copy of Mrs C's Data Protection form, and say that I will fax Mr C's through, as soon as he has signed and returned it to me.

I phone Mum, Connie and Josh, and lecture them all on the necessity to shred all their old letters and bank statements. I don't think they'll take any notice, but I for one am going to spend tonight shredding everything in sight. I also delete all Johnny's emails, except for today's.

I am still agitated about his suggestion that we spend a night together at the Marriott County Hall. How could I have forgotten how hideous last weekend was? After the bill for that, I can't afford to stay in a bloody Premier Inn, let alone in a five star hotel at over £300 a night. And even if I could, how would I explain the entry on the bank statement to Max? Maybe only having a joint account wasn't such a good idea - though I've always thought that a commitment to that degree of trust is a necessary part of marriage.

All our divorced friends insisted on keeping their own bank accounts throughout their marriages - as an insurance policy, I suppose. I've always taken the view that the opposite is the case, i.e. that a joint bank account is the most effective way to insure your marriage. Now I suppose I am actually proving my point, much to my frustration. Being right all the time isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I email Johnny, and say that I'd love to meet up with him, but that I just can't get away with it, as there is no way to hide the bill from Max. I can only assume that Johnny will have no such difficulty with his spouse - even if he hasn't killed her off, though I don't say this to him. Having a job as an International Director of a Global Oil Company, and being required to travel all the time, seems to offer the chance to shag your way round the world on expenses, as far as I can see. Though Johnny has never cheated on his wife before. Or so he says.

He emails me straight back and says,

"For God's sake, woman - it's my treat! Yes or no?"

Christ. This is even worse. Does he intend to book one room, or two? And even if he books two, what if he's repulsive in the flesh? (I know there must have been something about him which persuaded me to to get up to what we did behind the Science block, but I'd probably had one too many Babychams at the time.) If he's paying all that money for my room, all because he wants to get me into bed, how easy is it going to be to say, "Thanks, but no thanks," if I can't go through with it?

The answer is obvious. It's going to be impossible, and I shall end up effectively acting like a prostitute. Only worse, because I will be cheating on my husband, and encouraging Johnny to cheat on his wife as well. God knows what Dinah would say. She's quite rude enough on the subject of Thai brides. I need to go home and have a quiet lie-down on the sofa. Sod the shredding.