Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot. And Then Not, Not, Not.

Bloody hell, I've got to do something about Max's snoring. He woke me up God knows how many times last night. By 5:00am I was plotting to kill him, and I wasn't intending it to be quick and painless, either.

Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.

"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."

"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."

I look at him in disbelief.

"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."

"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."

Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.

Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.

Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?

"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."

"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."

Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got  the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.

"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"

"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."

"Oh," says Greg. "Her."

It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.

Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.

"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."

"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."

I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.

Just Because You're Paranoid, Doesn't Mean The Bastards Aren't Out To Get You.

Well, I wish I could say it's nice to be back at work, but it isn't. Mainly because Vicky the mad hair-flicker is still covering for Marie-Louise, though I can't say I can see much sign of her doing any actual work.

Greg and I can't even manage to have a proper conversation as, every time we start talking, she seems to appear from nowhere. What sort of woman can move silently in four inch heels?

He resorts to passing me notes after an hour or so, all labelled "Eat this once read." He draws a skull and crossbones on each one, too - just in case I haven't already got the message.

By lunchtime, I can't stand the taste of paper any longer, so we go to the pub for a secret emergency meeting.

"How's it been?" I say. "Any sign of Marie-Louise coming back to work any time soon?"

"No," says Greg. "Would help if Andrew would apologise for whatever it was he did to upset her so much, but he seems quite happy with the status quo. He wouldn't even sign the 'get well' card that I sent her."

"What 'get well' card?" I say. "What about me?"

"Oh, don't worry. I forged your signature. It's a lot easier than Andrew's - I practised first, but his was impossible, so I had to give up."

"That's not what I meant! You didn't send me a card."

"Well, you were just malingering. And it's not your job that Vicky's after - or at least, I don't think it is."

Then he shows me a print-out of an article about Jim Devine MP, and what he allegedly did to his office manager to get rid of her.

"Bloody hell," I say. "They think they're a law unto themselves, don't they?"

"I told you to keep up with the outside world while you were ill," says Greg. "I'm thinking of sending it anonymously to The Boss, just to get him to stop acting like such an idiot."

"Do you think it'll work?"

"Probably not, but it's worth a try, isn't it?"

"I don't know. It might just give him the idea of getting rid of me instead," I say. "Marion Kinley was doing my job, after all - not the diary."

"Hmm," says Greg. I really don't like the way he says that.

"Hmm, what? Now what's he up to?"

"Well, he did mention that I could find Vicky some casework to do, while you were away. I didn't, but he seemed awfully keen."

Bloody, bloody hell. It seems I should have spent less time dreaming about Martin Shaw and watching the miner's rescue while I was ill, and more thinking about how to protect myself from the Vicky threat.

I might be good at watching The Boss' back, but I'm not very good at watching my own, as the Ellen situation demonstrates only too clearly. I just hope I don't end up needing a judge or a Manuel Gonzalez to save my bacon.