National Book Day. Or Not.

I am going to have to block outgoing calls on our home phone again. It's a pain in the arse, as last time I did it, Max and I both promptly forgot what the code was and ended up at least as inconvenienced as Josh. However, needs must.

Today, Connie loses her temper as she wants to phone her best friend to arrange to go to the cinema tonight, and Josh is hogging the phone. She comes stomping into the living room, and says,

"Mum, can you please get Josh off the bloody phone? Now!"

"Well, I'm sure he won't be long," I say. I am endeavouring to be more reasonable and less prone to hasty acts, since my email to Johnny after Annoying Ellen's party.

"He's been on it for hours already," says Connie. "Do something."

"Well, use your mobile, if it's so urgent," I say. I really can't be bothered to get off the sofa and trek upstairs to where Josh must be using the extension.

"I'm out of credit. Please, Mum. You're always telling him to keep the bills down, anyway."

Given my aversion to hypocrisy, and my uncaring response to Connie's complaints yesterday, I suppose I had better be seen to make some effort. I do wish Max wasn't able to sleep through everything, though. He hasn't stirred since dozing off straight after lunch.

I walk into the hall, and shout upstairs in the vague hope that I will be heard over the hideous sound of screamo. This so-called music is emanating from Josh's room, along with shouts of laughter from Josh, Robbie and God knows how many of the other lads. It's like Grand Central Station in our house these days.

"Josh? Josh!" No answer. Bloody hell. "Josh!" (This last was worthy of Miss Chambers.)

"What?"

"Get off the phone. Connie needs to use it."

"Okay, Mum. In a sec."

I return to the important business of doing nothing and am just reaching that attractive pre-snooze drooling state, when Connie comes back into the room, picks up the phone, then slams it down and glares at me.

"He's still on the bloody thing!"

Honestly, Josh would try the patience of a saint. I am not going upstairs again, so I just pick up the phone instead. Someone is speaking, but it isn't Josh. It's Robbie. I have no idea what makes me listen, instead of saying something - but I wish I hadn't.

"So, Sir, as I was saying," Robbie says. "With it being National Book Week, Bonjour Books will donate a pound to a charity of your choice for every minute that you listen to one of our authors reading from one of their best-selling works. "

"Sounds a good idea," says the man at the other end of the phone.

"Today, we have Joshua O'Nyon-Quavers reading from his book, Strange Things On The Shore. I will put him on now. Take it away, Joshua."

I am transfixed by curiosity. Isn't that shameful? Instead of yelling, I carry on listening. I am a very bad mother.

"Chapter One. As I walked slowly along the seashore, the shells crunching under my feet like crisps -" Josh sounds almost exactly like Robert Webb. It's unnerving.

Josh's odd story continues for quite some time until the crunchy snack metaphors become so excessive that I finally get a grip. I replace the handset, then sprint upstairs where I march into Josh's room, clamber over various skinny-jean clad legs and reach over to unplug the extension. Robbie and the others start giggling, while Josh misses the point, as always:

"But I remembered to put 141 in before I dialled this time!"

So this is what my inadequate parenting skills have achieved - a son whose notion of an excuse for his appalling behaviour is that he did everything he could to avoid being caught. My analogy with Grand Central Station was more apt than even I  - the Mystic Meg of Northwick - could have predicted: I certainly feel like sitting down and weeping now.

Another Attempt To Convert Me To Capitalism.

The day starts off okay, as at least The Boss has gone back to London. Then I get a call from the Jobcentre, saying that we may start getting complaints about access to their building later today, as they have been temporarily forced to close it to the public. Apparently Mr Meeurghn has kicked off again, and sent them into total lock-down mode. Something to do with him being turned down for a payment from the Social Fund. I wish someone would just pay for forged documents to get him back into his own country - especially now that I know that not even the combined might of the Jobcentre's security staff can manage him. Greg needs to get down the gym and bulk himself up asap - before Mr M turns up here to complain about being excluded from the Jobcentre.

Talking of the gym, I wish I could afford to join one. Johnny is pushing for a meeting in London during his next trip back to the UK. He suggests we meet here, for Godsake, on the basis that sipping cocktails in the London Marriott will serve as a form of therapy for me. He argues that it will enable me to contemplate the House of Commons at close quarters, while pretending that I am not just a poor relation from the constituencies, but instead someone at the heart of where the action is. In case this isn't enough to convince me, he says that the experience will also illustrate that capitalism is better than socialism by reminding me of the building's previous and less glamorous incarnation as County Hall. (Has he been talking to David?)

I am thrilled by the idea, despite its supposedly educational purpose, until I recall that Johnny does have a wife. I am turning into a bloody hypocrite, ranting about the crazed, sexual attention-seeking of single women like Annoying Ellen and their penchant for inappropriate flirting with married men - or with Max, anyway. And all the time, here I am doing the same thing with someone else's husband! I'm turning into that Boden-wearing, horse-faced woman from the other night. I can't look at myself in the mirror when I next go to the loo.

I blame Johnny, as I suddenly realise that he hasn't actually mentioned his wife for weeks. I'd forgotten all about her. I re-read his latest email, and discover that he has somehow managed to describe a night at the opera, the trip there and back in his chauffered car, and a meal afterwards - all without saying "we" once. She has ceased to exist - written out of his life without a trace. This starts me fretting about whether he really could be a serial killer. His glasses don't have the double bar, but they are metal-framed, after all....

I sit and stare at his photo. The resemblance to Vladimir Putin is unnerving, apart from the fact that Vlad doesn't wear glasses. Am I being doubly hypocrital? As if it's not bad enough to be considering having an affair with a married man, am I also turned on by power? I've always assumed that I am impervious to it, and mocked those who aren't - but then it's a bit of a stretch to think that The Boss actually has any power anyway.

I am going to have to think about this. Very carefully. Mind you, if Johnny gets sent to the States in return for Tony Hayward being sent to Russia, looking like Putin will probably cease to be advantageous, and he'll have to start trying to look like Obama instead. (This might be too challenging, even for a man of Johnny's undoubted abilities.)

In the evening, I finally get an email from Dad. From a new Hotmail account, and sent from Thailand. It's astonishing how adept he has become at using a computer in such a short time - though Dinah ascribes this purely to his having spent hours each day cruising porn sites. He certainly doesn't spend hours communicating with his daughters. The email simply contains one word: "Hot." I really hope this is referring to the weather, and not to any of his Thai Facebook "friends."