Trained monkeys, Dr Snuffleopagus and the Drama Queen.

Things are really looking up. Today's the last day of Recess, and The Boss still isn't speaking to me, so Greg has to do surgery again. The usual suspects seem to be otherwise occupied, and work is thoroughly uneventful - which is just how I like it.

To add to my joy, Josh phones at lunchtime to tell me he's got an interview at the cinema on Monday. Bloody hell. So all my worrying about his unemployability may have been for nothing.

I'm not used to everything going so well, so I get a bit nervous - with reason, as it turns out. My whole evening is interrupted by various members of my family. First Connie phones.

"I hate my new job," she says. "I wish I hadn't applied for this bloody internship now."

"Why?" I say. Doesn't she realise what an honour it was to be selected? There aren't many internships as prestigious as this, nor that are as well-paid. Connie's earning almost as much as Max - though I haven't told him that.

"A trained monkey could do what I'm doing," says Connie, hiccuping with outrage. "Or a robot. And my boss is awful."

"Oh, well - join the club on that one," I say. I am still working on the principle that, if it isn't cancer, shut up about it.

"He hates women, and only speaks to me when he has to, Mum." God, this is like deja-vu. My maternal sympathy finally kicks in.

"Oh, poor you, Connie," I say. "I know all about that one. Give it another week, and then speak to him about it if it doesn't get any better."

"I would, Mum," she says, "But I can't pronounce his name properly. I can't call him Dr Snuffleopagus, which is what it sounds like, can I?"

This might appear to be a minor problem, but Connie takes such things very seriously indeed. She was once reduced to tears of embarrassment when she phoned the kebab shop to place an order, and couldn't understand what the man who answered was saying. She couldn't handle asking him to repeat what he'd said more than twice, in case he thought she was taking the piss - so, instead, she lost the plot and had to pass the phone to Josh - who presumably reminded them that his father was dead, and negotiated a discount.

I finally calm Connie down a bit, and am looking forward to an early night, when I get a text from Dinah.

"I've had bad news," she says.

This doesn't sound like something to discuss by text message so I try to phone her, but she doesn't answer. Instead she texts again:

"I don't want to talk about it." Oh, for God's sake. I text back:

"Then why bloody well text me in the first place FFS*?" I am definitely becoming more impatient by the day.

There is a lull, and then three texts arrive in quick succession. In them, Dinah spells out her distress at being diagnosed with a serious illness when she saw her GP this morning. Now I feel terrible.

"God, I'm sorry, sis," I type. "What is it?"

Back comes the reply, as quick as a flash.

"HPD."

What the hell is that? I didn't even know Dinah was feeling ill. Or not any more than usual, anyway. Hypochondria runs in the family.

"Dinah, I've never heard of HPD, I'm sorry. What is it?"

"Histrionic Personality Disorder."

I almost collapse laughing. Max thinks I'm choking and starts trying to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on me, until I fight him off.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" he says. "Are you hysterical or something?"

"Probably," I say. "Dinah's just been diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder."

"How did it take them so long to work that one out?" Max says. "That's just another word for Drama Queen-itis."

Later, I go onto Facebook to try to work out where Josh has gone for the evening, and notice that Dinah has updated her status. It now reads, "Dinah is finding it very hard to cope with her HPD diagnosis." I resist the temptation to leave a sarcastic comment, but the effort nearly kills me, and now I need a lie-down. Attention-seeking Facebook statuses always stress me out, even though I make it a matter of principle to ignore them. It's never a good idea to encourage nutters, whether at work or in your private life.

*FFS - for those of you over the age of thirty-five or who do not have teenage children to keep you abreast of what's hip and happening in text-speak, FFS means "for f*ck's sake."

Fault Lines Opening Up All Around

It's time to talk to Josh about what next. This takes far less time than Max and I anticipate. Josh says he is not going back to school to re-sit his A-levels, nor is he going to go to the local FE college to do so.

"It's not as if I even want to go to university," he says. "I'm not cut out for academic crap, I have no patience with stupid teachers, and anyway you and Dad can't afford it. Plus I don't want all that debt."

Connie is infuriated, and keeps saying,"Crap? Crap?" while I try to reassure Josh that, however broke Max and I might be, we'd still manage it somehow, just like we've done for Connie. This sets Connie off again about why she has had to spend all summer working, just to raise the money she needs for next year.

Max keeps completely quiet throughout the whole discussion and all of a sudden it feels like the girls against the boys, or the university-educated against those who are of the University of Life school of thought.

It's not as if I'm actually in favour of everyone going to university anyway, despite what the boys may think. When I was at university, I was amongst only 6% of the population who went, and although I'm not suggesting that that was fair, I do seriously doubt that there's been a 44% increase in the number of truly academic kids who will either enjoy or get the best out of studying.

I'm not at all in favour of this stupid 50% target for university attendance as a result - I'd rather we also valued the contributions of engineers, carpenters and other skilled tradesmen. If Josh wanted to learn a trade skill, it is entirely possible that he might find this both more satisfying and lucrative than getting what could easily be - knowing Josh's lack of tolerance for academia - a poor degree in a made-up subject; after which he'd have to spend years trying to pay off his loans, while probably delivering pizzas for a living.

And yes, I know that was a non-PC thing to say, but I don't care. It's not as if sending so many more kids to university seems to have increased social mobility. No bloody wonder, when you take into account tuition fees and student loans. I am absolutely positive that they put off bright kids from poorer backgrounds, who are often quite terrified by the prospect of debt, in my experience.

I'm still cross about the reply I got from the Secretary of State when I wrote to him about this. In it, he claimed that no-one was that debt-averse these days, as everyone had mortgages. I wanted to suggest he ask his poorer constituents exactly how many of them had mortgages before he started jumping to conclusions like that, but I wimped out. He wasn't going to "get" it, no matter how many times I tried to explain to him - any more than most MPs would, especially those who make it to a seat in Cabinet.

If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that the concept of being broke is a very moveable feast. For some people it means not being able to afford a second holiday, or to buy the Mulberry handbag they've fallen in love with, while for others it means that they've cleaned out all their pockets, searched down the back of the sofa, and still can't come up with enough money for a pint of milk. It's those in the latter group who are freaked out by even a hundred pounds of debt, let alone tens of thousands of pounds.

Anyway, getting back to the 50% target: my old college tutor occasionally takes me out to dinner, and spends the entire time moaning about how his smallest seminar group comprises 25 students, when there used to be a 3:1 ratio of students to staff in the good old days. He also says that he now has to teach to the lowest common denominator in the class - much to his frustration and that of the brighter members of the group.

In fact, he reckons that half of his students can't even spell when they arrive, and he rants on for hours about why the hell they've chosen to study English Literature, if they're so unfamiliar with the written word. Josh was once given detention for pointing out his English teacher's poor spelling, which she had clearly demonstrated in a short passage she had written on the board, so I find this all too easy to believe. (She's a friend of Annoying Ellen's, so spelling probably comes low down on her list of priorities, certainly behind getting laid and shoving coke up her nose.)

I'm getting sidetracked, and sounding like Mr Beales again - though hopefully slightly more rational. Back to the Bennett household. When I tell Josh that I think that academic study is not the be-all and end-all, and that we'll support him in whatever he decides to do, Connie goes ballistic, and reminds me that she still has another two years at university to go. Honestly, it's like walking on eggshells around here - or across the San Andreas fault.

In the end, the whole conversation becomes impossible to continue while both kids are in the same room. I am wriggling like a fish on a line, and Josh seems to take pity on me. He goes upstairs to indulge in hideous X-Box violence, probably virtually murdering a posse of sisters, or university students - while Connie stays downstairs with Max and me, looking through details of houses to rent.

She starts her internship next month, so time's getting short for her to sign the contracts on somewhere to live. Back in the Spring, Connie was one of only five interns - chosen from an international field of candidates - to be awarded a paid internship at a world-renowned research centre for the next academic year.

That's where her ability has got her, but now hard cash is coming into the equation. The interns have agreed to share a house, if they can find one in time - but whereas the others only seem worried about whether the houses have Sky or Virginmedia, and whether they're near a pub and a gym, Connie is desperately worried about how she's going to pay the deposit and first month's rent.

"Mum," she says. "Do you think I'm wasting my time with all this study, then?"

"No, of course I don't, Con," I say. "I am very proud of you."

"So why is it right for me, but a waste of time for Josh?" she says. "It's not as if he's stupid. Though he is a tosser. He did score two points higher than me on that bloody Big Intelligence Test, after all."

"Well, Con - I don't know," I say. "Max, you explain it."

There's no reply. Max has dozed off. Honestly, how can you sleep with family fault lines opening up in every direction? That's obviously a skill gleaned via the University of Life.