An SOS From Skye, And Some Biscuits Whose Provenance I'd Prefer Not To Consider.

Sam's not having a very good time on his sex trip to Skye. Just after breakfast, Max gets a text from him. It says,

"Help! Incompatible in bed and nothing to talk about. Supposed to be here another two days :-S"

So much for sexy underwear, I want to say - but then I remember my new pants and decide against it. Max looks vaguely disappointed. I think he quite fancied Shona too.

"What should he do?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "He's your friend, and anyway, he always ignores my advice. I told him to start reading the women's bloody profiles instead of just looking at their pictures on the websites."

"And to ignore the shared interests," says Max. "Bearing in mind the Park Warden and the Tall Enigma."

"Anyway, I'm leaving him to you," I say. "I've got to go for coffee at Ellen's. Are you okay?"

Max looks awfully pale. "Ellen's?" he says. "I thought you hated her after the bin incident and, well, you know - "

"When you snogged her at the party?" I say. Amazing how much of your sense of humour you can get back when you have been sent hundreds of red roses. 'Oh well, I've taken your word for it that there's nothing going on. Is there?"

Now I've said this, I feel guilty about the roses, so I don't make Max answer and instead take pity on him. Or on Sam, anyway.

"Send him a text saying his cousin's in hospital and he needs to come home immediately in case he needs to give blood," I say. "Then she'll think he's a good guy with a rare blood group, and she won't feel rejected either."

"God, you're cunning," says Max. "Sometimes I forget you work for a politician."

I tap my nose and wink at him, then head to Ellen's. I have no idea why she's invited me round, unless it's to apologise for the exhibitionism with the bins the other night. I'm in a forgiving mood, so I shall wait and see what she says.

Ellen's fully-clothed, I'm pleased to report and, although she still looks like a blonde James Blunt who's been shot full of Botox, she makes me welcome and doesn't do any of that one-upmanship thing that she usually does. Or at least, she doesn't do it for at least ten minutes.

She makes the tea, then sits down and says, "How's Max?"

"Um, oh, he's okay, thanks."

"Oh, good,"  says Ellen. Her tone's a bit funny, so I raise my eyebrows and say, "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," she says, and then, "Well, it's just -"

"Just what?" I say.

"He's always so friendly whenever I see him. So friendly. Know what I mean?" She giggles. (God, I hate gigglers.)

"Not really," I say. "Not to Mormons, anyway. These biscuits are great, by the way. What are they?"

"Lebkuchen," says Ellen. "I got them on my trip to Germany a couple of months ago."

Ouf. I can't say I recommend them, after all - they suddenly taste like sawdust in my mouth. Or maybe that's just all the questions I'm biting down on, like: "When were you in Germany? Who were you with? Was it my husband and is that why he claimed he didn't know the name of his hotel?"

I am bloody well not going to make a fool of myself. I am not, or not yet, anyway. Not 'til I find out exactly what is going on. But I am wondering if it's time to wake up and smell the roses. Low cunning may not be the sole preserve of those of us who work for politicians, after all.

Max And The Mormons. A Demonstration Of How Not To Greet A Caller Bringing Allegedly Good News.

Bloody hell. The hospice refuses to accept donated flowers, even when I assure them that mine are definitely not contaminated. So much for my good deed for the day. I have no choice but to give one bunch to Greg (for his mum) and the other to Joan. Not Joan Collins - just Joan. Labour Party Joan, aka the bus driver from South Park.

She's almost as overwhelmed as I was, especially when I tell her that they are in recognition of her fantastic work on The Boss's behalf during the election. I just hope she doesn't try to thank Andrew for them when she sees him, or this is going to get really complicated.

It's amazing what red roses can achieve, though. I feel like a new woman, the sort of woman that men want to send flowers to - and in abundance. I get so carried away, that I buy some more fancy knickers in Primark at lunchtime, and manage to ignore the frisson of fear I feel when I notice that even their prices have gone up.

It probably isn't sensible to take the last bunch of the roses home with me after work, though - but I just can't bear to part with all of them. Max doesn't look very convinced when I say that The Boss told me I might as well keep them as they'd arrive too late to give to Joan Collins.

"Didn't Andrew want you to courier them back yesterday?" Max's eyebrow is doing that quizzical thing that he normally reserves for Josh's wilder explanations.

"Not when he heard the quote," I say.

"Hmm," says Max, but then the doorbell rings.

Max goes to answer it, while I peer out of the window. There are two men outside, both dressed in dark suits. Uh, oh - this can't be good news. They're either debt collectors, or Josh has been up to something. I walk into the hallway and stand behind Max for moral support.

"Hi," says one of the men. "I'm here to tell you about -" Ah, Mormons.

"Not interested, thanks,"  says Max, and goes to shut the door. That's not like him at all. He'll even listen to chuggers* droning on, way past the point at which I've lost patience and am tugging at his sleeve.

"Hang on," says the man. "Is there anyone else who would be interested?"

He must have spotted me. Maybe he thinks I need saving? I immediately look guilty, but don't respond.

"Not on this planet," says Max.

"I'm on this planet," says the man, who obviously doesn't know when to take a hint.

"Are you?" says Max, and shuts the door.

Good God - if that's not a rash comment in the circumstances. I have no idea what's got into Max - I've never heard him be so rude to anyone. I hope we're both not damned for this! (Being made to go to Sunday School as a child leaves you a bit prone to assuming the worst.)

Max doesn't seem to be worrying about hellfire and damnation, though - unless it's an aphrodisiac. He slaps my arse, and kisses me on the neck. Blimey. I foresee an interesting night ahead. Who knows, there may even be another gold star in the diary by the morning, although it might be wiser not to sneak upstairs right now to strew rose petals on the sheets.

*Chuggers: charity muggers, according to Josh, and especially to Connie, who is always being conned into giving them more money than she can afford. Probably our fault for choosing her name.