An SOS From Skye, And Some Biscuits Whose Provenance I'd Prefer Not To Consider.

Sam's not having a very good time on his sex trip to Skye. Just after breakfast, Max gets a text from him. It says,

"Help! Incompatible in bed and nothing to talk about. Supposed to be here another two days :-S"

So much for sexy underwear, I want to say - but then I remember my new pants and decide against it. Max looks vaguely disappointed. I think he quite fancied Shona too.

"What should he do?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "He's your friend, and anyway, he always ignores my advice. I told him to start reading the women's bloody profiles instead of just looking at their pictures on the websites."

"And to ignore the shared interests," says Max. "Bearing in mind the Park Warden and the Tall Enigma."

"Anyway, I'm leaving him to you," I say. "I've got to go for coffee at Ellen's. Are you okay?"

Max looks awfully pale. "Ellen's?" he says. "I thought you hated her after the bin incident and, well, you know - "

"When you snogged her at the party?" I say. Amazing how much of your sense of humour you can get back when you have been sent hundreds of red roses. 'Oh well, I've taken your word for it that there's nothing going on. Is there?"

Now I've said this, I feel guilty about the roses, so I don't make Max answer and instead take pity on him. Or on Sam, anyway.

"Send him a text saying his cousin's in hospital and he needs to come home immediately in case he needs to give blood," I say. "Then she'll think he's a good guy with a rare blood group, and she won't feel rejected either."

"God, you're cunning," says Max. "Sometimes I forget you work for a politician."

I tap my nose and wink at him, then head to Ellen's. I have no idea why she's invited me round, unless it's to apologise for the exhibitionism with the bins the other night. I'm in a forgiving mood, so I shall wait and see what she says.

Ellen's fully-clothed, I'm pleased to report and, although she still looks like a blonde James Blunt who's been shot full of Botox, she makes me welcome and doesn't do any of that one-upmanship thing that she usually does. Or at least, she doesn't do it for at least ten minutes.

She makes the tea, then sits down and says, "How's Max?"

"Um, oh, he's okay, thanks."

"Oh, good,"  says Ellen. Her tone's a bit funny, so I raise my eyebrows and say, "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," she says, and then, "Well, it's just -"

"Just what?" I say.

"He's always so friendly whenever I see him. So friendly. Know what I mean?" She giggles. (God, I hate gigglers.)

"Not really," I say. "Not to Mormons, anyway. These biscuits are great, by the way. What are they?"

"Lebkuchen," says Ellen. "I got them on my trip to Germany a couple of months ago."

Ouf. I can't say I recommend them, after all - they suddenly taste like sawdust in my mouth. Or maybe that's just all the questions I'm biting down on, like: "When were you in Germany? Who were you with? Was it my husband and is that why he claimed he didn't know the name of his hotel?"

I am bloody well not going to make a fool of myself. I am not, or not yet, anyway. Not 'til I find out exactly what is going on. But I am wondering if it's time to wake up and smell the roses. Low cunning may not be the sole preserve of those of us who work for politicians, after all.

Cousins Reincarnated, Duty Calls and Paranoia.

I'm quite glad there isn't a supermarket surgery again this week, as it allows me a lie-in, and postpones the moment when I have to talk to Max. When I do finally get up, he's weirdly attentive and jumps around making cups of tea and a cooked breakfast. He doesn't even mention Germany. I hate how he does that - makes me have to broach any subject that he knows is going to lead to an argument. Makes me look so confrontational.


I decide to get the parental phone calls over and done with instead. Mum and Ted aren't in - probably on the first of their twice-daily trips to Waitrose. Dad is at home, but says he hasn't got time to talk to me because he's about to leave on a trip  - he's going away for a few days to Cousin Mike's. I thought Cousin Mike was dead, but Dad assures me he's alive and well, and living near Heathrow with his second wife. Dad says he's at an age now when family becomes more important, and so he wants to spend time with his siblings and cousins while he can. I ask him for Mike's phone number and he gives it to me, though he says he thinks they'll be out and about most of the weekend.


The duty calls have taken a fraction of the time they usually take, and now the rest of the day is stretching ahead unappealingly. I ring Dinah.

"Dad's gone to visit Cousin Mike," I say.

"Thought he was dead," says Dinah. "We went to his funeral. Remember?"

"That's what I thought too, but Dad says that was Cousin Fred."

"Christ," says Dinah. "We have far too many bloody relatives, living or dead. Where's Mike live then?"

"Near Heathrow."

"Heathrow? Airport? You serious? Give me the phone number." Dinah is so bossy.

"Why?" I am completely confused.

"Well, how d'you get from Thailand to the UK?" says Dinah. "God, you're dim, given what you do for a living. No wonder the country's in such a mess."

I give her Mike's number. I don't want to know what's going to happen next.


I spend the rest of the day thinking about men and why women are automatically suspicious of them. Is it because we're genetically paranoid, or is it because of what they get up to? Max makes his inability to recall the name of his hotel for the 24 hours he was staying in it sound perfectly understandable when I finally crack and ask him about his trip. It was booked for him; the company guide had all the details; they were driven there from the airport by coach, and it was dark when they arrived. Then he couldn't read the name from the hotel signage or stationery because it was in a completely over-the-top Gothic script. When I still look a little dubious, he gets cross and falls back on the old chestnut:

"If you don't trust me after all these years, then what's the bloody point?"

 The after all these years bit is the point, but I'm now so confused that I drop the subject. I almost wish there had been a surgery today. I know exactly what to do to help constituents with their problems.