A Radical Use For iPhones, And An Occasion Of Great Joy.

There's bad news and good news this morning, which is an improvement on the usual wholly-negative situation.

The phone rings almost as soon as we enter the office, and Greg loses at our version of rock, paper, scissors* so he has to answer it. Within seconds he's banging his head on the desk.

"Who is it?" I say.

Greg puts his finger to his lips, and then mouths something that looks like, "Mea mrmnghn."

Then he says,

"Well, there's nothing we can do for you now - but I do hope you're happy in your new home."

Then he slams the phone down without waiting for a reply, jumps to his feet and does a weird tribal-style dance around the office. Several times, and accompanied by a grunting chorus, which seems to involve the words, "oh yes, yes, yes."

Vicky looks appalled when she walks in and catches him at it. I think she raises her eyebrows at me but, given how exaggerated they normally look, it's rather hard to tell.

"Don't ask me what's wrong with him," I say. "He hasn't stopped whooping and dancing for the last five minutes. Though I shall trip him up when he next goes past. He's making me feel dizzy."

Greg comes to a halt, pauses for effect, and then says,

"That, my dear Molly, was our favourite constituent."

"Who?" I say. "Mr Bradley?"

"No, you idiot,"  says Greg. "Can't you spot irony when it's staring you in the face? It was the marvellous Mr Meeeurghn, the most demanding man in Northwick. As well as quite possibly the most dangerously insane."

Now it's my turn to bang my head on the desk, while making moaning noises.

"No-o-o," I say. "I was hoping he'd died. Well, maybe not died exactly, but I did think there was a chance he'd got amnesia since his accident, and had forgotten all about us. But now he's back, and I think I may be going to cry."

"Stop being so melodramatic," says Greg, who's a fine one to talk. "He's not back - that's the whole beauty of it."

I look puzzled, while Vicky just contemplates her nails. I have no idea why she finds them perennially interesting.

"The Council agreed it was too dangerous for Mr Meeeurghn to move back into his flat when he got out of hospital - seeing as it was his neighbour who ran him over."

Greg really doesn't need to speak as slowly as he is, for goodness' sake. I am not an idiot, whatever the general consensus may be.

"With me so far?" he says, adding insult to injury.

I stick two fingers up in the air, at which Vicky tuts and starts brushing her hair.

"So Mr Meeeurghn has been moved to a new flat," says Greg.

"Which is worthy of all that terrible dancing because?"

"It's not in our constituency!" says Greg. "Even better, he's moved to Northwick West, so now he's become that LibDem's problem. Couldn't happen to a nicer person."

Greg starts dancing again and, once I've stopped laughing, I join in too. Things are definitely looking up around here. One loony down, and only another 2,500 to go.

I tell Johnny the good news when I email him after lunch to discuss the arrangements for our rendezvous next week.

"You'll be pleased to hear that my half of Northwick has just become a much safer place to visit," I say.

"No, I won't," says Johnny. "I'm afraid it's irrelevant."

Oh, honestly, is he going to chicken out of our date now? I know it's usually me who does that but, at the rate we're going, we won't manage to get into bed until we're eighty, when we'll probably have to spend most of the time re-adjusting our artificial hips and re-bandaging our ulcers.

"Why?" I say. "Has your trip to the UK been cancelled?"

"No," says Johnny. "But I can't come to Northwick. You're going to have to meet me at Heathrow this time."

"We've already been through that," I say.

Honestly, talk about Mr M's amnesia - has Johnny forgotten that I haven't got a good reason to be anywhere near an airport if anyone should spot me there? Whereas he can go where he likes, as no-one has a clue who he is in the UK, anyway. Unless they mistake him for Putin - in which case they'd probably decide to keep quiet about it.

"But why?" I say. "It isn't as if anyone keeps tabs on you, seeing as you spend half your life travelling the world."

"That's where you're wrong," says Johnny. "My wife bought me an iPhone for Christmas."

He follows this sentence with one of those emoticons. I think his kids have just taught him how to use them, as his emails have been peppered with stupid faces ever since Christmas. This one's sad, but I figure they all are really.

"Nice for some," I say. "I was given a block of cheese."

A smiley face indicates that Johnny thinks I'm joking. He has no idea how the other half live.

"Very funny," he says. "But she's made me get that 4Square app for it, so that she can tell where I am at any given time. Anywhere in the bloody world."

I don't think Johnny's very happy with my reply, given that it merely asks how he thinks I could get hold of a cheap iPhone for Max. And how to persuade the Government to issue them to Mr Meeeurghn and the rest of the usual suspects too.

It would cost a lot, admittedly - but just think of the peace of mind it might bring. Unless you're Alan Johnson, of course, and you've already got Ed Balls keeping one of his (rather scary) eyes on you.



*Rock, Paper, Scissors - this is a link to the usual version, but Greg and I don't have time for that when we're deciding who has to answer the phone. So we just pump our hands once, then go for it. I always win because, unlike Greg, I listen to my instincts.

University of Life and Other Irritations

Sam arrives first thing to stay the weekend. We haven't seen him since my ghastly birthday party, and of course Max hasn't phoned him at all since.

How can you call someone your best friend when you never bother to contact them? That doesn't stop Max acting as if he's delighted to see Sam, and slapping him on the shoulder in that weirdly repressed male way.

I reckon Sam only puts up with Max's neglect because he still hasn't got a girlfriend. Now he's joined an internet-dating site and wants me to check his profile for its woman-appeal.

It's hilarious. He's claiming to be a non-smoker (!); a moderate drinker (only true if compared to Annoying Ellen), and he's put University in the education section. In response to my raised eyebrow, he mutters, "University of Life."

His photo is terrible too - he looks like a middle-aged woman with a really bad haircut. Why do so many middle-aged men insist on growing their hair? Thank God Max wouldn't dare - I'd wield the scissors while he slept if necessary.

For some unaccountable reason, Sam's also swathed in a scarf that could almost be one of those hideous pashmina things that everyone but me seems to be wearing. (Everyone female and of my age, that is.)  In the About Me section, he's written a load of pseudo-sensitive stuff that completely belies the fact that he's about as unreconstructed as you can get.

I'm still trying to find a subtle way to tell him that his profile and photo are rubbish, and that he's doomed to permanent bachelorhood, when he announces that fifteen women have already contacted him in the three days since he registered. Fifteen! Why do I find that so depressing? (And am I a middle-aged woman since my bloody birthday?)

In the evening, Dinah calls to say that she thinks Dad's taken up internet dating. She says he seems to be sending emails very late at night and sounds "suspiciously cheerful." She says it's either that, or he's becoming obsessed with online porn. Why is everyone else having sex except me - even if only virtually?

It's not as if Max and I lead exciting lives - not like Ed Balls and Yvette Cooper, who've got three kids and self-satisfied smirks. Greg and I once looked up Yvette's CVs in Dods*, and we couldn't see how she'd managed to fit all her qualifications and experience into such a short time, let alone all those kids.

Oh well, I suppose they say power is an aphrodisiac - though I'm pretty sure that's not what all these women see in Sam. Maybe they just want to borrow his pashmina?

* Dods: Dods Parliamentary Companion. Invaluable reference book for those involved in politics. Unfortunately, it's annual, and so expensive that most constituency offices are using copies that are terribly out of date. Ours dates from 1997, when The Boss was first elected, and was only too happy to pay for everything his staff needed to do a great job for the constituents. Like some of us, that original copy of Dods is looking pretty dog-eared now.

Families for Dummies

Good God. When I was watching Tv last night, there was a clip of Ed Balls before he got contact lenses. He was unrecognisable. Maybe I should get some?

I wonder how many other candidates there'll be for the Leadership by the end of the week, all pretending that they're part of one big happy family and will support whoever wins. I like Andy Burnham's eyelashes, but I'm not sure they qualify him to lead the Party.

Not that I'll get a vote anyway since I refused to renew my membership over the stupid Iraq dossier debacle. When I wrote to Millbank to express my disgust, I received a Direct Debit form in response, telling me that this was the most effective way to pay.

In the same envelope was a flyer describing the new policy of "listening." Obviously this does not include reading letters from disgruntled constituency staff - or even the general public, hence the election result.

Talking of happy families, the Press keep bemoaning the death of the extended family, but what they don't say is that it's just become over-extended due to divorce, so that people like me have to spend all their time phoning various parental figures.

You feel guilty for not phoning them, then you phone one and immediately feel guilty that you haven't phoned the other. Before you know it, that's the whole evening gone. I sometimes think it would be much easier to be an orphan. Then that makes me feel guilty too.

When your job involves spending all day taking calls from a collection of often-abusive nutcases and whingers, you don't perceive having a "nice long chat on the phone" in your leisure time as a good thing, no matter who it's with. However, today's been a bit quieter than usual - mainly due to a cunning plan I cooked up with Marie-Louise, The Boss's Diary Secretary.

She's crammed his diary chock-full of (largely pointless) meetings for the rest of this week. So Greg and I get a much-needed break from Andrew's phone calls today. We're all sick to death of listening to him moaning about why it is that no-one has approached him to stand for the leadership.

So, by the time I get home from work, I am less horrified by the sight of a phone than usual, so I decide I'd better call Mum and capitalise on this rare state of affairs. Then I remember it's Dad's turn, so I try him first.

"I went to B&Q today," he says. "Never going there again on a Thursday. Bloody awful."

"Why?' I say, somewhat bemused.

"Full of bloody wrinklies," he says. He is seventy-five, for God's sake.

After he has explained to me exactly what is wrong with the country - and asked me a hundred incomprehensible questions about the apparent foibles of his new computer - I finally manage to get him off the phone. One hour and forty-five minutes exactly.

I need three consecutive cigarettes before I can handle phoning Mum. She is unavailable - something to do with the painful buttock - so Ted chats to me for 5 minutes exactly and that's it. Result!

It's only 10:45pm. If I put off calling Stepmother Mark I until tomorrow night, I might catch the end of Question Time and be able to vent the day's aggression by shouting at the TV.

Best-laid plans and all that. I miss QT, when Dad phones back with "a quick computer question." Two hours later, I go onto Amazon and buy a copy of PCs for Dummies. I arrange for it to be sent directly to Dad, labelled: a gift from a well-wisher.