Hello, Hello, It's Good To Be Back* - But Only If Your Name Is Gary Glitter.

Well, I wish I could say it's nice to be back, but it isn't. It's bloody horrible. Can someone please remind me why I work for an MP?

On second thoughts, don't bother. I probably wouldn't remember the answer for more than five seconds - seeing as I seem to have developed pre-senile dementia over the last fortnight. I can't believe I forgot it was Recess this week. 

"Oh, my God," I say, as I walk into the office this morning to find The Boss sitting with his feet propped up on my desk.

"Nice to see you too, Molly," he says. "How's your Dad?"

"Fantasising about the first thing he's going to do as soon as he gets back to Thailand and sees his beloved Porn-Poon," I say. "While unfortunately choosing to share that information with his daughters in rather more detail than is strictly necessary."

"And who can blame him?" says Andrew. "Any man would feel like that about seeing a hot young girlfriend - if he was lucky enough to have one."

I turn my head to look at Greg, who is clutching his throat and making retching motions, but not before I've spotted what I think is Andrew winking at Vicky. Honestly, how has it taken me all these years to work out who The Boss reminds me of? I might just as well be working for my father, the two of them are so alike.

Talking of Dad, it's a good job Dinah agreed to take over nursemaiding duties during half-term. At least I haven't got a murder charge to worry about on top of having to cope with The Boss being around all week. If she hadn't arrived when she did yesterday, I can't promise that today's Dorset Examiner wouldn't be carrying the headline, "MP's caseworker commits frenzied act of patricide."

Which would have been justifiable homicide, as far as I'm concerned, given that Dad had driven me to the verge of insanity by then. Let's just say that having a triple bypass didn't seem to have affected his ability to shout incessant orders for food and drink at full volume, or to complain that the resulting meal wasn't a patch on those prepared by Porn-Poon, which she no doubt usually serves on a bed of lettuce artfully arranged on her naked stomach.

Seeing as I was hardly going to emulate that, I was doomed to fail in the meal provision department despite putting handfuls of chillies and lime leaves into everything I cooked; and I didn't do any better when I disappointed Dad further by what he described as my typically-female lack of appreciation for Sky Sports.

It might not have been tactful to say that I'd prefer to be disinherited rather than ever to be made to watch another Rugby Sevens match, but I thought I was being cruel to be kind - on the basis that, if I annoyed Dad enough, he'd be pleased to see the back of me and wouldn't make a big fuss when the time came for me to leave. So much for best-laid plans.

Dad took one look at Dinah's kids, and started crossing himself while muttering about The Omen again. Then he refused to let me kiss him goodbye.

"Go ahead and abandon your old father, then, Molly," he said, turning his cheek away. "You rush back to your busy life, and your important job. God knows if you'll even find time to phone me this week. Not like my mate Charlie's son, who phones him every day. Every single day. But then he really loves his dad."

"That's because he's a Billy No Mates," said Dinah. "Who doesn't have any kids, or anything approaching what you'd call a life. Unlike some of us, who just have to juggle a load of balls as best we can."

I'd have been a lot more thankful for this undeniably accurate intervention, if Dinah hadn't then felt compelled to add:

"And, anyway, Molly's job isn't at all important."

Which is pretty much how I feel about it, too - once I've finished going through the supposedly-urgent messages that are waiting on my desk. Unless you count managing a bunch of lunatic constituents and a boss with an unerring instinct for saying the wrong thing as being of vital significance to the nation, that is.


*Hello, hello, it's good to be back - an unsubtle reference to Gary Glitter, which I blame on having spent the last fortnight listening to Dad going on about his Thai girlfriend.

Out Of Office - Molly Bennett, Constituency Office of Andrew Sinclair MP.

Thank you for your email addressed to Molly Bennett, Senior Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

Molly is currently on leave, and will respond to your email upon her return to the office on Monday 14 February 2011. However, should your enquiry be urgent, please telephone her colleague, Gregory Duke, who will be less than happy to help you.

Mr Duke wishes to point out that being short-staffed may lead to a delay in this office's usual ability to respond swiftly to enquiries, and therefore asks that constituents take simple steps to minimise those problems which may lead them to feel that they have no option but to contact their MP.

The list below gives several suggestions as to how this might be achieved, but is by no means exhaustive:

1. Avoid reading newspapers, particularly The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mail and The Sun. 
2. Avoid watching Question Time; *PMQs, Panorama and Dispatches.
3. Avoid reading LibDem campaign materials from the General Election 2010, especially those containing the word, "pledge."
4. Avoid unnecessary criminal activity.
5. If you are on prescribed medication, please take it - for once.

*PMQs - Prime Ministers Questions. 

The trials of Mr Meeeeurghn (whose name is bloody hard to spell consistently).

The working day is largely consumed by constituents phoning with their reactions to the Budget, with one notable exception. Mr Meeeurghn phones and starts screaming that he is being mis-treated and that we have to protect him - now - as he is a refugee. Then he puts me onto someone else, who identifies herself as a member of staff at Primark. It turns out that Mr Meeeurghn is trying to claim a refund on a pair of jeans that he insists have never been worn.

The weary-sounding girl says that the jeans are covered in bleach, and that Mr Meeeurghn is threatening to kill them all, or at least most of them - a bit like the Iraqi Information Minister - if they do not give him his money back. He apparently told them that he would phone his MP who would make them do it. Meanwhile, they have a queue of customers that reaches down the stairs and out of the shop, none of whom can be served until Mr Meeeeurghn has been dealt with. (Primark sales obviously aren't suffering due to the recession.)

I tell her to put the screeching Mr Meeeeurghn back on the phone, tell him that I cannot help him, and then go and check that the new office door is double-locked. Primark have security staff. We don't, and nor do we have bullet-proof glass, as Greg is at pains to point out - yet again. 

Calendar Girls

Monday morning, oh joy. God knows why the public think working for an MP is glamorous.

When I arrive at work, I'm greeted by the sight of an hideous new office-calendar bearing the logo: Andrew Sinclair MP: Working Hard for Hardworking People. It features The Boss grinning inanely in front of a block of flats in Easemount.

You can't see the other block which got burnt out just before Christmas by our regular nutter, Steve Ellington, on the basis that, if he was going to have a miserable festive season, then so were all his neighbours.

Greg has Photo-shopped the picture to show a bevy of obese, naked women standing behind The Boss. They are also grinning inanely, and improve the photo no end. At least Andrew's gone back to the House today so I won't have to cope with him in the flesh. There's quite enough of that on the calendar.

Greg won't discuss what he got up to at the weekend, just says he's planning our next move. Our next move? It doesn't bear thinking about.


The first letter I open sets the tone for the day:

Dear Mr Sinclair,

I am writing to you because there is a serious problem on Broad Street. I walk down there every day to my job at Economyland, (a girl needs her pin-money, after all), and what should I see at the side of the road today but a dead rat! This is bad enough, but what I want to know, Mr Sinclair, is what would happen if, when I was walking past one day, the rat were to be struck by a car, be hurled up in the air, and then strike me in the face? Something needs to be done before this happens.

Thanks for all you do for hardworking people.

Yours etc
Pauline Harpenden (Miss)

Greg thinks it's funny. I despair - what the hell am I supposed to reply to that?

There are only three women in the Coalition Cabinet so far - apart from a Lord - and I bet they're only there to act as nursemaids to the men, who are probably all just like The Boss. He phones this afternoon to ask whether we need him for anything. We never do but, as usual, I pretend there's something I need his advice on.

Then he asks, "Am I for or against cycle helmets?"

Honestly, no wonder the country's in such a mess when MPs can't even remember where they stand on the simplest issue. Mind you, I bet the Tories and LibDems have no idea where they're supposed to stand on anything now, given all the horse-trading that's gone in over the last few days.

They're probably even more stressed than The Boss, who sounds a bit frazzled. I ask him what's the matter, though I don't really care since he blamed me for upsetting Mr Dougan.

"I'm thinking we may need to do something to tighten up security," he says.

"Oh good," I say. "Any particular reason?"

"Someone put dog shit through my letterbox on Saturday night."

"Oh, vital we do something about that, then," I say. I don't tell Greg - he'd be far too triumphant.

In the evening, the house feels funny without Connie, who went back to university this morning. I am left in testosterone hell, which I think must be contagious. I look closely in the mirror for the first time in days, and see hairs sprouting from my chin. God - now, I'm turning into the bearded lady.

I start plucking them out, but seem to grow another two for every one I remove, and I can't even see the damn things properly, despite the 25x magnifying mirror. I suppose I'll be able to work as a circus freak when Max notices them and leaves me.

Since Ellen's comments at my birthday party, he's taken to doing sit-ups every night - much to Josh's amusement. I think it'll take more than sit-ups, but wisely say nothing, as I am endeavouring to become an enigma.

Just before I go to bed, Mum phones to announce her latest affliction - something to do with a painful buttock. She certainly gives me one. I endure an hour of whingeing and then instruct Josh to shoot me if I ever become like my mother. He just raises an eyebrow meaningfully and returns to the important business of doing nothing.

Deja Vu and Raging Hypocrisy

Back to work and The Boss is still hanging around in the office. I wish he'd bugger off to Westminster and annoy the London staff for a change. Thanks to the election, he's been here constantly for the last month, using my computer and causing havoc. 

When I switch it on today, up comes a notification - 79 print jobs pending. He just can't seem to grasp that we connect to the Parliamentary system by remote access, stupid man. All you have to do is accept that there's often a delay between issuing a command and its implementation, but no - that's beyond his comprehension. He just keeps on clicking away - swearing furiously - until the system crashes, at which point he stomps off, leaving me to sort it out. And his is one of the brains we rely on to run the country!

Then Mr Dougan phones to demand an "emergency" appointment at today's constituency surgery. As he's moved, and is no longer one of Andrew's constituents, Greg has to refuse, and tell him to see his own MP instead. Greg didn't mention that, even if that wasn't the case, Mr D is a dangerous loony that we don't want anything more to do with.

As a result, surgery is blissfully nutter-free and, when The Boss goes off for a meeting at the Council as soon as its finished, it looks as if the rest of the day is going to be quite peaceful.

Famous last words. I am just getting all my notes together and straightening the chairs when who should walk in but Mr Dougan!

"Where's your boss?" he says. "No more bloody excuses - I need to see him. Now."

"He isn't here," I say. "Surgery has finished and, anyway, you aren't a constituent any longer - so you need to see your own MP. As my colleague has already explained."

Rational argument is sometimes grossly overrated, and ineffective. When Mr D finally accepts that The Boss isn't in the building, he gets me by the throat and backs me against the wall - again. That's the third time he's done it this year.

I just have to stand very still, look calm and try to talk him down - not easy when you can hardly breathe - until Greg finally appears to see where I've got to, surprises Mr D and causes him to loosen his grip. I run out of the room and through the security doors, closely followed by Greg. We only just get the doors closed before Mr D starts banging on the glass and shouting.

Greg and I stagger upstairs to the office and both collapse at our desks. I don't know which of us is the more freaked out - but Greg's voice has definitely gone up a couple of octaves. Eventually I phone The Boss to tell him what Mr D has done, to which Andrew says,

"You must have said something to upset him."

Greg looks as if he's going to have an apoplectic fit when I report this back. He doesn't look any better when news comes through that the MP Stephen Timms has been stabbed during his constituency surgery this afternoon. Stephen's such a nice guy! I can't imagine him upsetting anyone. There but for the grace of God and all that.

It takes me ages to get home from work, as I have to walk sideways to make sure that Mr Dougan isn't sneaking up on me from behind. When I finally arrive, I try to explain to Max about what happened, but he interrupted to tell me all about a "bunk bed emergency" he had at work, and so I never get to finish my story.

I make myself a cup of very strong tea and am looking forward to watching the end of the Channel 4 News to find out how the great Con-Dem romance is going, when the phone starts ringing. It's Greg.

"Have you heard what that idiot Harriet Harman is saying about the Timms attack?" he says.

"No," I say. "What?"

"That MPs run terrible risks and that something has to be done to make them safer!"

"True."

"Yes, but what about us?" says Greg. He's really shrieking now. "It's ten years since a caseworker was killed by a constituent, but no-one did anything about that! We run the gauntlet of these loonies every day, get threatened, get assaulted, but that's all okay - because we're just the little people. Molly, we're dispensable!"

"It's worse than that, Greg," I say. "It's our fault we upset the nutters in the first place - according to The Boss."

There is a noise as if Greg is being strangled, and then the phone goes dead. I call him every half hour for the next two hours, but don't get any reply until eventually he sends me a text:

"Molly, I am so filled with hatred that I am dangerous. I am therefore getting drunk enough to post dog poo through the letterboxes of every mad constituent I can find on my way home from the pub. I may save the biggest piece for The Boss's house."

I've been trying to phone him ever since then, but he still won't answer.  Now it's nearly midnight and God knows what he's done. There have to be easier jobs than this.

Maybe the hung Parliament didn't go far enough...

I'd quite like to have hung a few MPs, starting with The Boss. He's driving Greg and I nuts, moaning about being in opposition, and shouting about why "that idiot" Gordy didn't resign sooner to save the situation.

We can't see what difference it'll make, anyway - given that he's been voting against the Government at every opportunity for the last 13 years. We're just relieved we still have jobs (for what they're worth). Anyway, I have far too many other things to worry about with this damned "big" birthday coming up tonight.

I can't believe Max thought it would be a good idea to give me a "surprise" party. Or to tell me about it in advance. I'd prefer to start the next decade as I mean to go on, gradually deteriorating in front of the TV, and celebrating the official onset of the downhill trajectory by throwing away my 25x magnifying mirror, on the grounds that it has become dangerous to my mental health.

Now I shall have to try and render myself presentable and look cheerful instead, while avoiding too much facial expression to minimize the formation of new wrinkles. I just hope Max has had the sense not to invite anyone younger than me.....