Bloody Men, Again - And The Dangers Of Apple-Bobbing.

Is it any wonder I occasionally have a less than favourable opinion of men? As if it's not bad enough having to put up with The Boss and a grumpy, James Blunt-adoring husband on a daily basis, then there are the constituents as well.

Today's surgery is ghastly. First Mr Beales turns up bearing more photos of the policeman who gave him his speeding ticket.

"See?" he says. "He's not wearing his luminous jacket again."

"Ah," says Andrew. "Yes, I do see." He passes the pictures to me.

"He's also not wearing his uniform," I say. "And is that a pub garden?"

"Might've been. Can't quite recall now." Mr Beales shuffles about a bit as he says this - always a dead giveaway that he's up to something.

"Well, was the policeman even on duty when you photographed him? I don't think they're required to wear high-vis clothing in their leisure time, you know."

"Molly does have a point there," says Andrew. "Good photos, though."

"Well, the policeman has a head," I say. "Which is always a bonus. Though I do think Mr Beales should check the anti-stalking legislation, don't you?"

"Hmm," says Andrew, while Mr Beales glares at me through his paedophile glasses. I will keep forgetting about his shotgun licence. And that bloody dog.

Next up is Angie Osman. I haven't seen her since early May, when she brought me a bunch of flowers for sorting out her husband Mehmet's Indefinite Leave to Remain.

This case was a small triumph, actually, as the couple's marriage had initially been treated as being a marriage of convenience, purely because Angie was ten years older than Mehmet.

It's funny how that's so rarely claimed when a male British pensioner marries a twenty-five year old Thai girl. Or it would be funny, if I wasn't expecting Dad to do much the same thing any time soon.

Angie doesn't look very happy today, though.

"Are you okay?" I ask. Bad move - as she promptly bursts into tears.

Andrew looks horribly uncomfortable but does produce some (cleanish) tissues from one of his many pockets, while I try to calm Angie down. Finally she's capable of speech.

"Mehmet's left me," she says, in between sporadic sobs.

Neither Andrew or I can believe it, and we don't really know how to handle the situation - though we blunder our way through various expressions of sympathy. Both of us are unprepared for what Angie says next, though:

"So I want you to do something about him. Urgently."

"Well, have you tried Relate?" I say. We can hardly kidnap Mehmet and drag him back, after all.

"No, that's no good," she says. "I want you to write to the Border Agency and get his Leave to Remain revoked. That'll teach the bastard to play me for a fool."

Andrew finally manages to persuade Angie to go home and think about it, on the basis that retaliation of this sort might not be the best thing for her, though I think it'd do her a power of good - if it were feasible.

I suppose there's no hurry, anyway - revenge is a dish best eaten cold, or so Greg says when I ask him if he's come up with a way of dealing with Vicky yet. As soon as surgery is over, Andrew takes her for lunch and we don't see either of them for the rest of the day.

I'm not sure if they'll even deign to turn up to this evening's Labour Party Bonfire Night do. Somehow I can't quite see toffee apples and pints of beer being Vicky's thing, and The Boss still seems to think that everyone in the Party's ready to oust him at the first opportunity, so it might be better if they both stay away.

I just wish I could get out of it, too - but Josh is so determined to win the apple bobbing this year, that I've got no choice but to go - especially as Max isn't coming with us.

He's not yet confident enough of his recent conversion to a non-smoker to risk attending a social occasion, or that's what he claims, anyway. He's going to pick Connie up from the station instead, and take her straight home as she says she'll be too tired to be sociable.

At least Greg has promised to help me pull Josh's head out of the bucket if it gets stuck again. After the day I've had, a repeat of that is the last thing I need. Though I can think of someone Turkish whose head I'd gladly shove under water at the drop of a hat.

Bloody Guy Fawkes. And Not For The Reason You Might Suppose.

God, I hate Guy Fawkes. Not because he wanted to blow up a load of MPs - I can understand that sentiment only too well - but because of bloody fireworks. It's not even the end of October yet, but here we go again.

Just like every other year, the phones are red-hot with constituents complaining about the effect of the damned things on Rover, or little Tiddles - and going into mind-numbing detail about exactly what said pet does in response to something going bang outside. (Usually a bit of whimpering, followed by hiding under the stairs, in case you're interested.)

I mean, I like animals as much as the next person, and don't like to see them distressed - but I wish these people would get a grip. They never phone up or write in when a neglected elderly person has lain dead in their home for weeks on end, or in response to reports that a child has been horrifically-abused. As for the poor people of Haiti, Pakistan, or anywhere else facing problems beyond our comprehension - well, they might as well not exist.

For some constituents, none of these things are sufficient to cause outrage. All's well with the world, as long as hamsters aren't being distressed by Catherine Wheels. And don't even get me started on rockets' potential for causing PTSD* in Guinea pigs. According to Miss Bloody Emms.

After a whole morning of complaints, I moan about it to Greg. Now I wish I hadn't.

"Well, it's simple," he says. "Just ask 'em if they eat meat when they call."

Honestly, has he learned nothing from the cat in the bin incident? You can't be too careful these days. In fact, I may have to talk to Joan about cancelling the Labour Party fireworks display, too. We can't afford to alienate any more voters, after all.

It looks like grinning and bearing it is the order of the day. Roll on November 6th. It can't come soon enough.

*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Generally triggered by experiencing a traumatic event outside the experience of most people, and which causes immense psychological distress. I'm not sure if Miss Emms has read the definition recently.