A Matter of Eggs And Death, And A Joke Turns Very Sour Indeed.

"Am I always right, or am I always right?" says Greg, as he walks into the office this morning.

"About what?" I say, though I'm not really paying attention.

I'm too busy trying to gauge whether the latest parcel sent by a local animal rights activist contains a bomb. (You wouldn't believe how many of them put their correct addresses on the packaging, though this is by no means a guarantee that the contents will prove to be innocuous.)

"Metal-framed glasses," says Greg. "Only ever worn by serial killers and paedophiles."

"Not always," I say, thinking of Johnny's eyewear and hoping Greg is wrong. "And anyway, you said they had to have a double bar across the nose to qualify. Now shut up for a minute - I'm trying to see if this makes a noise when I shake it."

Greg gives me a pitying look, then snatches the parcel from my hands, rushes to the doorway and says,

"Get under your desk!"

It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, before realising how unwise this is. As I stand back up, I see Greg throw the parcel - overarm - as far as he can down the corridor, where Vicky trips over it as she exits the lift. She jumps, but only from surprise.

"Safe," says Greg, retrieving the package and tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette. "Unlike people who wear those glasses. I knew that Tabak bloke had murdered Jo Yeates as soon as I saw his specs."

"You also knew that her landlord had done it when you saw his hair," I say. "So you'll forgive me if I don't always think you're right. Though thank God you were about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up."

"That's because he's an idiot," says Vicky, as she pushes past Greg on her way to the Oprah Room. He sticks his tongue out at her as she slams the door, then lowers his voice and says,

"You'd already ripped the corner of the paper, Mol - so I could see the plastic casing before I threw it."

He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. Wonders will never cease, and I'm about to make a sarcastic remark to that effect when an email pops into my in-box. From Johnny, wanting to confirm when we're meeting on Wednesday, and whether I've booked my rail ticket to London yet.

"Oh, shit," I say. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

"Expressive - but a bit repetitive," says Greg, putting a mug of coffee down on my desk. "Where's the thesaurus gone?"

"I told The Boss to take it with him," I say. "To find an alternative to saying he's had an 'interesting meeting' whenever he updates that wretched blog of his. Gave him the dictionary and a local map too - after he mis-spelled the names of half the parishes in his last post. And, anyway, shit is the only word that sums up what I've gone and done."

"Oh, shit," says Greg, when I've finished explaining that I've just realised that I don't have any money to get to London, or to pay for anything when I'm there. Which rather proves my point.

I bang my head on the desk several times, while Greg thinks aloud - which doesn't take long, and isn't very effective either.

"Well, Johnny's loaded," he says. "So just get him to pay for everything. He won't mind. He's maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look a mess."

"Thanks," I say. "And, anyway, I can't do that. What do you think I am?"

"Stupid," says Greg. "What's the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don't get any money out of it?"

"Or any sex," I say, before reverting to banging my head again. "Why aren't MPs' staff paid until the very last day of the bloody month?"

If I worked for Northwick Council, I'd have been paid days ago, and then this wouldn't have been such a problem. Except that actually it would, because Max has worked out we're not going to have any money even after we've both been paid. And the bank is hardly likely to lend me any, is it? Not when they've got all those bloody bonuses to pay.

"They like to make us suffer," says Greg. "And I'm broke 'til payday too, so I can't lend you any either - sorry, Mol. What are you going to do?"

"Lie," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. "I shall have to tell Johnny I've been struck down with a mystery illness at the last minute. Or, rather, you'll have to do it for me. I'm terrible at lying."

Thank God Johnny has to come to the UK this week anyway. I'd feel even more awful about the whole thing if he was only flying over to see me but, as he isn't, I'm hoping he'll forgive me. Not that this is very likely if Greg doesn't get a grip.

He says he hasn't had this much fun in ages, and spends the next few hours drafting a series of ever more unlikely explanations, finally settling upon one in which I am to be hospitalised after opening a parcel bomb containing non-free range eggs.

"And the beauty of this idea is that you won't be able to communicate with Johnny until you're released," he says. "Because you will be deaf from the blast, and won't be able to text or type due to the fragments of eggshell that have lodged behind your eyeballs."

I look at him in amazement, which he mis-reads as approval. (Which often happens with mad constituents, too.)

"This is where my expertise in horror films comes in useful," he says.

"Or your fondness for Wallace and Gromit," I say. "Sounds about as credible as A Matter of Loaf and Death."

Greg gives me a reproachful look.

"I thought you said it was," he says. "And beggars can't be choosers. Are we going with this idea or not?"

"No," I say. "Try and think of something a little more Gromit, and a little less Wallace. The man's a bumbling idiot."

Greg sighs, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed yet again, and run over to kick it back to life.

"You really should have more respect, Molly," he says. "Both for me, and for Wallace. He is our leader, after all."

I can't help laughing, but I stop as soon as I get an email from Johnny about events at Moscow's Domodedovo Airport.

"I only meant for you to get blown up, Mol," says Greg, who has gone a very funny shade of green.

I can't think of anything at all to say in response.

A Whole New Dimension to Putting the Bins Out, Thanks to Annoying Ellen the Sex-Pest. Oh, and Teacher..

God, I am getting as blind as a bat. How are you supposed to pluck your eyebrows (or anything else) when you can't see them without glasses - even in a 25x magnifying mirror? God knows how many stray chin hairs are escaping my notice.

I need to get a better-paid job, so that I can start going to a beauty salon, like everyone else seems to. I have no idea how I'm going to tidy myself up sufficiently to pass inspection by Johnny. Maybe I can steal his glasses, and solve the problem that way.

Max doesn't appear to be having any trouble with his eyesight, though I bloody well wish he was. Tonight, he's about to take the rubbish out, ready for tomorrow's refuse collection, when - amazingly - Josh decides to be helpful and offers to do it instead. Well, it is late and Max does look tired, but even so, I'm not used to Josh being considerate. Maybe this is how it's going to be now he's left school?

"No, don't worry, I'll do it," says Max.

"Max," I say. "Are you mad? Josh - Josh - is voluntarily offering to do a household task, and you are turning him down?"

"Well, he'll probably fall over something in the dark," says Max. "And what with his arm, and everything..."

Josh is about as contrary as the usual suspects. If you refuse him anything, even something he doesn't really want, it immediately becomes irresistible. He grabs the bin bag from Max's hand, and heads out of the back door. Max looks really annoyed for a minute, and almost goes out after him, but then he just sits down heavily on the couch, and starts doing a Sudoku puzzle.

Josh is gone for what seems like ages, and just as I am about to go out looking for him, I hear the back door slam, and his footsteps along the hallway. He's shouting,

"Dad. Dad!"

"What?" says Max, as Josh comes into the room.

"Now I see why you wanted to take the bins out yourself. Bloody hell!"

Max is suddenly very red in the face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says.

"You bloody well do," says Josh.

"Well, I definitely don't," I say. "So could someone please enlighten me?"

"Come with me," says Josh, and drags me outside, along the garden path, and out of the the back gate. It's pretty dark, and I can't see where I'm treading, so I get a bit anxious.

"What am I looking out for, Josh?" I say. "I can't see a thing."

"Sshh!" says Josh. "Look up."

'Oh, my God," I say. "Is that what I think it is? Or rather, who I think it is?"

"Ellen?" says Josh. "Yeah. I saw her face when she first put the light on. Before she pulled the curtains in front of it."

"But she's naked," I say. "And why's she pressed against the glass?"

"Oh, I think the answer to that is obvious," says Josh.

If I had any eggs left after the Yorkshire puddings, I'd throw them at that bloody woman's window. What the hell does she think she's doing? And is this (presumably regular) floor show only for Max's benefit, or is it aimed at any of the neighbours who might be putting out their rubbish?

"Max! How often has that f*cking woman done this?" I may be yelling a little too loudly, as suddenly Ellen jerks backwards, and shuts her curtains properly. I have startled her, unless she's just achieved what she wanted. Yuck.

"Hush," says Max. "Come inside. You're making a spectacle of yourself."

"I am making a spectacle of myself? I am? What about that bloody lunatic?" God, I'm angry. I wouldn't mind so much if Ellen didn't always pretend that it she is my friend, and that Max is merely tolerated as my husband. I'm so angry that I accidentally burst into tears - I have been doing far too much crying this week. Then I remember the girls with cancer, and I get a grip.

"Okay, tell me the whole story," I say. "How long has she been doing this, and how many times?"

"No more than four or five," says Max. "That I've noticed."

"Oh, I think you'd notice. How did it start?" I am starting to feel icily calm now.

"One night I was taking out the rubbish and I smacked the bin bag into the gate, so it made a noise. Then something caught my eye, and I saw Ellen naked at the window. I think she was trying to fasten it."

"Oh really? Did she dive out of the way once she spotted you?"

"Well, no - now you come to mention it." Max sounds genuinely surprised. "But I looked away really fast anyway, 'cause I was worried she'd think I'd been spying on her."

"Dad, she's been playing you," says Josh. "You are an idiot. You should've said something."

It comes to something when teenagers are smarter than their parents, doesn't it? I take a deep breath, think again about the girls with cancer, then say,

"Okay. So when were you going to tell me about it, if ever?"

"I kept hoping it'd stop. And the longer it went on, the more impossible it got to tell you, as I thought you'd flip out and go round and smash her door down or something."

Max might be right about this, actually. I'm feeling pretty tempted to take some sort of direct action. He continues,

"And anyway, I don't think she just does it to me. I reckon she lies in wait for any of the men around here on bin night."

Good God. And Ellen is a teacher. Maybe she should change her subject specialism and start teaching sex education. It seems as if that'd be right up her street. Though talking of streets, I wish she wouldn't give practical bloody demonstrations on ours. I have no idea what to do about this, so I am going to sleep on it. In the absence of any eggs.