The Hunchback Of Northwick Loses The Plot, And The Boss Rides Unexpectedly To The Rescue

"Something for you," says Max, when he sorts through the post this morning. There must be at least five days' worth in the pile.

"Oh, God," I say. "If it's another bill, just chuck it in the bin."

"Don't think it is," he says. "White envelope, not brown."

I take it from him, but haven't got time to open it, because I can't afford to be late for work again. Even if I haven't slept a wink all night.

Max's snoring was so bad, that I relocated to the sofa at about 4:00am, but then I was so busy worrying about how we're going to manage when his pay cheques stop arriving, that I couldn't get to sleep at all.

I'm making up for it this morning, though - seeing as I seem to be sleep-walking on my way to work. I'm probably lucky I don't get run over en route, although I'm not sure that I haven't been, when sirens start going off.

I pinch myself a few times to make sure I'm not dead, before I realise that there's a fire drill taking place. It takes ages before I can gain access to the office and, when I do, I find that Greg has been sitting at his desk throughout.

He's listening to music on his iPod and looks amazed when I pull his headphones off.

"What the hell are you playing at, Greg?" I say. "You'd have been burned to a crisp if it hadn't been a drill. And why are you already here?"

"I'm not playing at anything," he says. "Though I suppose I did have the music turned up a bit too loud. I think I've got a headache coming on. That might be a hangover, though - Pete Carew and I had a bit too much to drink last night, and I ended up sleeping on the couch in the Oprah Room."

Now why on earth didn't I think of doing that? Probably because my brain isn't functioning at the moment, and I can't keep anything in my head for more than thirty seconds at a time. I've even forgotten about the letter that arrived this morning - until Greg asks me if I've got any Paracetamol he can take.

I open my bag to look inside, and then I spot the envelope lying amidst all the other rubbish that I will insist on carrying around with me. It's no wonder I could give the Hunchback of Notre Dame a run for his money. Or a hobble, to be exact.

"What's that?" says Greg, watching me make a neat cut through the flap of the envelope, as well as right through the letter itself. Why can I never get that manoeuvre right?

"I don't know," I say, putting the two halves back together and taping them down. "Hang on. Oh, blimey. It's an interview for a job - that one at Northwick MultiMedia. And - oh, shit! - I've got to confirm if I'll be attending by the end of today."

Greg has just started trying to persuade me not to leave him to the mercy of the usual suspects when The Boss walks in, accompanied by Vicky - who's looking much more cheerful than she has for most of this week. I'd prefer not to think about what could be responsible for that.

"Ssh, Greg," I say. "Walls have ears. And so do interns. You can see them sticking out through her hair if you look. I'll tell you later when I get a chance."

It's such a manic day, though, that God knows when that'll happen. The Boss has so many radio and local TV interviews lined up that the Oprah Room's living up to its name for once, and we've also got a double surgery that's fully-booked.

I spend most of the morning running around like a headless chicken - rather than a monkey, please note - which probably accounts for why I forget to hide my letter from public view until after lunch. If Andrew or Vicky have spotted it, my "career" will soon be toast. Which is more than Mr Osborne can afford to eat.

Despite the similarity in the name, I'm not referring to our beloved Chancellor - though there'd be some justice if I was. Our Mr O has come to see The Boss for help in obtaining vouchers for use at Northwick's new food bank.

"I think you just have to take proof of receipt of benefit with you," I say. "Or a letter from your doctor or social worker, if you're unwell."

"I'm not getting any benefits at the moment," he says, looking down at his feet. "I've been depressed since I lost my job, but I've been turned down for sickness benefit and I'm still waiting for my appeal. My wife's working, though - but we can't manage on her wages, and there's nothing left for food once everything else has been paid."

The food bank. Oh, my God. It'll be Max and I queuing up there next, trying to get tins of soup to feed to Connie. If we can persuade someone to give us a voucher, that is. If not, what the hell are we going to do?

I'm getting a bit tearful now, what with worrying about whether The Boss might have seen my letter and imagining myself in Mr O's situation - but then I recall that I'm supposed to be emulating the Japanese, so I bite my lip and carry on making notes. Which look a bit like doodles, to be completely honest.

Mr Osborne's is the last appointment, thank God, so I go for a cigarette as soon as he leaves. Not that I'll be able to do that for much longer. I shall have to give up smoking as soon as Max is unemployed - and then I'm bound to become an axe-murderer in no time at all, or a constituent-killer, anyway.

I'm standing outside, making the most of the nicotine and sniffling like a very non-Japanese person, when I hear loud footsteps behind me.

"What on earth's the matter, Mol?" says The Boss, in the kindest voice I've heard in a while.

"Nothing," I say. "But thanks for asking. I've just got some ash in my eye."

"Good try," says Andrew, "but you don't fool me. Tell me everything - but hang on, I'll just light my pipe before you start."

You can tell I'm not myself because - for once - I do as he says. After I've finished, he gives me an awkward hug.

"You'll feel better after you've had next week off," he says.

"No, I won't," I say. "I'm on jury service - remember? I'll probably lose it completely and start demanding we bring back hanging and flogging."

Andrew gives me a worried look, and then pats me on the shoulder. Rather too hard, but I don't think it was intentional.

"Back in a minute," he says. "Just nipping to the shops. Hold the fort - and your nerve."

Which I do - until an hour later, when the intercom buzzes, and I'm the one who answers it.

"Delivery for a Mrs M. Bennett," says someone or other in a muffled voice.

Knowing my luck, it'll be a personalised bomb, though there's nothing for it but to go down and collect it anyway. The man says I have to sign for it myself.

"Here you are, Miss," he says, as he passes me a hand-tied posy of flowers. "These are for you."

The card says:

"Molly, thanks for all you do. I might be a miserable old bugger but that doesn't mean I'm an ungrateful one. A."

Now I'm bloody crying again. And I doubt I'll be going to that interview after all.

A Certain Phrase It Would Behove A So-Called Socialist Not To Use, And Why Economists Never Take Any Notice Of Me

"You saw that we voted for our own pay-freeze last night, I assume?" says The Boss, when he phones first thing.

"I should think so, too," I say. "Seeing as we're all supposedly in this together."

"Well, there was some muttering behind the scenes," he says. "About how, if you pay peanuts, you're bound to get monkeys."

There are so many answers just begging to be given to this stupid remark - all of them sarcastic - that I hardly know where to begin.

It's probably safer not say anything at all so, as a precaution, I hang up on Andrew, though I make it look like an accident, of course. Thus disproving the peanuts/monkeys analogy rather neatly, as far as I'm concerned.

The private line rings again straight away, so I signal to Greg that it's his turn to answer it this time. I am otherwise occupied, climbing on to the top of my desk.

"What, Andrew?" says Greg. "Oh, yes - Molly said that you'd been cut off. What can I do for you, anyway?"

He turns his back on me for the rest of the conversation, though I can't for the life of me think why. All I'm doing is jumping up and down while scratching my armpits, after all. Though why does Vicky always arrive at the worst possible moment?

"Molly?" she says, taking a step backwards and raising her eyebrows at me. Which is the look she usually reserves for constituents she hasn't met before, while she waits for me or Greg to whisper, "sane" or "barking" in her ear.

"Sane," I say. "Just underpaid - which apparently automatically renders me rather more closely related to gorillas than even Dian Fossey believed."

"I see," says Vicky, who quite clearly doesn't. Which you wouldn't expect her to, when Mummy and Daddy pay her such a generous allowance.

Oh, yes - allowances. That's where I was meant to be going with this from the start: talking about the bloody, bloody, buggery Budget.

Excuse the language, but half this morning's calls are from constituents worried about what the changes will mean for them. I haven't a clue, as I dozed off when they were giving examples of the Budget's likely effects on the news last night.

Not through boredom, just exhaustion - though why do pundits never mention families with grown-up children who have failed to launch, when they show you what the Budget changes will do to the incomes of different groups? Max and I can't possibly be the only ones in this position. Or I bloody well hope we're not. Where on earth did we go wrong with Josh?

"Bloody hell, Mol," says Greg. "I wonder how many sole traders we're going to have left in this country by the time the recession is over."

"What d'you mean?" I say. "Oh, that late payment thing? Or whether they can pass their increased costs on to their customers without losing them to bigger competitors who can afford to absorb the losses themselves?"

"Both of those, of course," he says. "But I'd also forgotten about the penalties for filing your tax returns late. That last caller said that he can't afford to employ an accountant any longer, and he's really worried about doing it himself."

So would I be, if I were him. It's bad enough dealing with Andrew's expenses, let alone handling tax returns. I really hope Max will decide to reconsider the plan he thought up last night, which was to go self-employed.

I'm about to mention this very bad idea to Greg when the phone rings yet again, and he answers it.

"Who?" he says. "Oh, Connie - sorry, I didn't recognise your voice. Do you want to speak to your Mum?"

Cue instantaneous panic - which I had rather hoped I would have grown out of by now. Do you ever stop worrying about your kids? (I've got a horrible feeling the answer is "no.")

Greg's about to put the call through to my phone, but there's no need. I'm already half-way across the room, so I grab the receiver from his hand.

"What's the matter, Con?" I say. "Why are you calling me at work?"

"Mum," she says, though croaks might be a better word. "You know this bad throat I've had? And how I've been feeling really tired?"

"Yes," I say, wishing she didn't always have to make everything into a question. "Hurry up, Con! Just tell me what on earth is wrong. What did the doctor say? Has he got the blood tests back?"

"Yes," she says. "You were right. It is Glandular Fever, just like you thought. The doctor said he was surprised you'd realised what it was so fast."

Never underestimate the power of the internet, that's all I can say. Even though I try my level best to stop anyone else using it to self-diagnose, I am a researcher, not a hypochondriac, so I have a perfectly legitimate reason to do so - or that's what I say to Greg when he accuses me of hypocrisy, anyway.

"All right, then," he says. "If you reckon you can't be a hypochondriac because you only looked up what might be wrong with someone other than you, check out Munchausen Syndrome by proxy instead."

"I haven't got time," I say. "I have to hurry and finish work - seeing as I've got to go and pick Connie up after that. She's coming home while she's so unwell."

And I am seriously going to have words with the TV economists when I get back. I want to see exactly how much worse off I am going to be with two adult kids back at home, a redundant husband and an employer who thinks I can live on bananas. While paying me legumes.

Of course, if I had any kind of business brain, I'd take the hint my life is giving me and grasp the opportunity offered by the NHS reforms: to set up a money-making convalescent home.