Just Because You're Paranoid, Doesn't Mean The Bastards Aren't Out To Get You.

Well, I wish I could say it's nice to be back at work, but it isn't. Mainly because Vicky the mad hair-flicker is still covering for Marie-Louise, though I can't say I can see much sign of her doing any actual work.

Greg and I can't even manage to have a proper conversation as, every time we start talking, she seems to appear from nowhere. What sort of woman can move silently in four inch heels?

He resorts to passing me notes after an hour or so, all labelled "Eat this once read." He draws a skull and crossbones on each one, too - just in case I haven't already got the message.

By lunchtime, I can't stand the taste of paper any longer, so we go to the pub for a secret emergency meeting.

"How's it been?" I say. "Any sign of Marie-Louise coming back to work any time soon?"

"No," says Greg. "Would help if Andrew would apologise for whatever it was he did to upset her so much, but he seems quite happy with the status quo. He wouldn't even sign the 'get well' card that I sent her."

"What 'get well' card?" I say. "What about me?"

"Oh, don't worry. I forged your signature. It's a lot easier than Andrew's - I practised first, but his was impossible, so I had to give up."

"That's not what I meant! You didn't send me a card."

"Well, you were just malingering. And it's not your job that Vicky's after - or at least, I don't think it is."

Then he shows me a print-out of an article about Jim Devine MP, and what he allegedly did to his office manager to get rid of her.

"Bloody hell," I say. "They think they're a law unto themselves, don't they?"

"I told you to keep up with the outside world while you were ill," says Greg. "I'm thinking of sending it anonymously to The Boss, just to get him to stop acting like such an idiot."

"Do you think it'll work?"

"Probably not, but it's worth a try, isn't it?"

"I don't know. It might just give him the idea of getting rid of me instead," I say. "Marion Kinley was doing my job, after all - not the diary."

"Hmm," says Greg. I really don't like the way he says that.

"Hmm, what? Now what's he up to?"

"Well, he did mention that I could find Vicky some casework to do, while you were away. I didn't, but he seemed awfully keen."

Bloody, bloody hell. It seems I should have spent less time dreaming about Martin Shaw and watching the miner's rescue while I was ill, and more thinking about how to protect myself from the Vicky threat.

I might be good at watching The Boss' back, but I'm not very good at watching my own, as the Ellen situation demonstrates only too clearly. I just hope I don't end up needing a judge or a Manuel Gonzalez to save my bacon.

Patient's Chart: No Change.

Still dying. Still don't care. And where has Martin got to? I want to wear his wig.

Creative Car Parking, Minus An Eye For Detail.

Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned the German biscuits to Josh. Today I get a call from Ellen. First thing in the bloody morning. She doesn't sound at all happy, but then I'm not impressed at being woken from a rather nice dream about Judge John Deed either, especially not by her. Martin Shaw is very flexible for his age.

"Molly, is Josh there?" she says.

"Um, I don't know," I say. "He's probably still asleep. Why?"

I haven't seen Josh since he left the house to go clubbing with Robbie and the other boys last night. Honestly, these young ones don't even go out until the rest of us are off to bed - not since the Labour government had the bright idea to allow 24-hour drinking.

I used to wait up for Josh to come home, but the sleep deprivation did nothing for the bags under my eyes. Or my patience - though it's Ellen who's sounding impatient this morning.

"Well, have you seen what he's done?"

Does she need to sound quite so snotty? I'm the injured party, after all - or I might be, anyway. It depends on who she was with when she bought those bloody Lebkuchen. I haven't quite worked out how I'm going to find that out yet, without making a complete idiot of myself if I'm wrong.

"Molly, are you listening? Have you seen what Josh has done?"

"No," I say. "At least, I don't think so. What do you mean?"

"The thing with the cars," she says, as if I am a halfwit, rather than someone who is only half-awake.

"No, sorry - I don't know what you're talking about."

"He's turned all the neighbours' cars round ninety degrees, so they're all facing the pavement," she says. "Including mine."

I snort, then pull myself together.

"It isn't funny, Molly. You need to deal with that boy."

"Well, when is this supposed to have happened?" I ask.

"In the early hours, I should think - while we were all asleep."

Honestly, that woman. I sit up in bed, and ready myself for being politely and forensically rude. It's just like being at work, but on a bloody Sunday. With the added bonus of having to deal with the woman my husband might be having an affair with. I just hope she can hear him snoring - that'd put anyone off.

"So, Ellen, let me get this straight. Someone has moved all the cars around, and you blame Josh, even though you didn't see him do it?" I say. "How does that work, exactly? I thought people were innocent until proven guilty in this country. It could have been anyone with a warped sense of humour." Like whoever is running my life at the moment.

"Your car is the only one still facing the right way," says Ellen, as if that proves her point. Which I suppose it probably does. Now I don't know whether to bollock Josh, or hug him.