Conflicting Interests All Over The Place

It's one of those days. First Mr Meeurghn phones, screeching about one of his neighbours picking on him. When I enquire a little further, it seems as if the neighbour objected to Mr Meeurghn ordering him to help carry a stereo and sofa up the stairs to Mr M's flat. Mr Meeurghn has no concept of the notion of asking someone nicely.

Now he says he can't go outside without the neighbour looking at him as if he wants to kill him.

"You write him and tell him," he yells.

"Tell him what?" I want to go home already. And it's only 10:30am.

"You tell him be nice to me, because I am refugee," says Mr Meeurghn.

I sometimes long for just a small part of the vast influence that Mr Meeurghn believes me to possess. I know who I'd use it on first - but that is just wishful thinking. In the absence of any meaningful super-powers, I spend ages trying to tell him that it is really up to him to improve his relationship with his neighbour, but he loses his temper and slams the phone down on me. I can't say I'm sorry.

Greg says, "He's on our list for the next DIY CRB check. Once bloody Recess is over."

I don't think we need to go and spy on Mr Meeurghn to know that he is a total nutter - not since the letter from the Home Office - but I suppose we could check out whether his neighbour looks like a reasonable person or not, just in case Mr M is telling the truth for once. You have to try to keep an open mind, after all. Though that's sometimes a bit of a tall order.

Then John Fuk-Yue phones. He tells me - for the umpteenth time - that the hospital have got his diagnosis wrong: that he has epilepsy, and not a personality disorder. He says that he needs an urgent meeting with me to discuss this in person, as he has to look into someone's eyes to trust them. I don't say that the problem with this idea is that I don't trust him, but I do agree to write to his doctor and express John's extreme disquiet.

"Remind me of the name of your GP?" I say. I can't remember everything off the top of my head, but John takes this as a personal affront.

"I've told you before," he says. "How many bloody times? I don't have a normal GP. I have that bastard that was allocated to me."

"Ah, yes - now I remember. Tell me again what reason they gave for that?"

"That I was too dangerous to be seen by anyone outside the secure medical centre," he says. "And all because I accidentally punched that nurse."

I take the name of the doctor, and agree to fax my letter to speed things up. I am instructed to include a long list of the specific symptoms which John believes signify epilepsy, and I am to point out that if he did have a personality disorder, his self-medication of paracetamol and alcohol wouldn't work. For Godsake - is everyone going to think they have the right to tell me how to do my job today?

I'm almost embarrassed to send the stupid letter, but John scares me more than a loss of dignity does, so I type it up quickly and fax it straight through. Half an hour later, I get a phone call from the medical centre. Doctor Granger would like to have an off-the-record conversation with me. I hate these - they are never good news.

"About our mutual acquaintance, Mr Fuk-Yue," he says. "If that's what he's still calling himself this week?"

"Yes," I say. "He hasn't changed his name for a while now."

"Well, you mentioned that he'd asked for a meeting with you. I'm phoning to tell you that I think that would be most inadvisable."

"Why's that?" I ask, though I have a horrible feeling that I already know the answer.

"Because he is an extremely dangerous, manipulative individual," says Doctor Granger. "You are aware of the special arrangements for his medical care?"

"Ye-es," I say. "He told me there was a misunderstanding when he punched a nurse by accident."

"Regrettably, there was a lot more to it than that, my dear. Suffice to say that, despite the guards at this facility, I myself will not see Mr Fuk-Yue without wearing a stab vest. I strongly advise that neither you nor your MP meet with him without security  - under any circumstances."

"Oh dear, I don't think Mr Sinclair will be happy about that. He refuses to have security, and doesn't believe that anyone should be denied access to their MP. Or to the MP's staff."

"Is Mr Sinclair there? I think I need to speak to him myself," says Dr Granger. God, he's masterful. I'd be quite turned on, if I wasn't so stressed. He reminds me of Johnny, apart from the Scottish accent. Or even Max, when he took control of the Josh situation yesterday. What is going on with my hormones?

The Boss is out of the office, trying to smooth over the situation with the St Helen's Road residents, so Dr Granger tells me to ask Andrew to call him when he comes back. I'm not very optimistic about the likely result of their conversation - realistically, as it turns out.

The Boss goes nuts when I explain what the GP wants. He yells at me, then phones Dr Granger and tells him that he has never had a problem with a constituent being violent, and that that is because of the way that he speaks to them - "soothingly and with respect."

I can only assume that Dr Granger demurs, because then Andrew says, "Unlike some people," in a rather offensive way.

There follows a lengthy argument, and then Andrew slams out of the office, glaring at me as he passes. I wait a few minutes, and then phone Dr Granger myself.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor - but I just wanted to thank you for your efforts to ensure my safety, and to apologise for Mr Sinclair's manner," I say. "He is under rather a lot of pressure today."

"Between you and me, lassie, I'd say he's not under enough pressure. The man needs a reality check. How many times have you been threatened or assaulted?" he asks.

"Um, quite a few," I say. "But then I see constituents rather more often than Mr Sinclair does."

"Exactly the point I made to him, before he hung up," says Dr Granger. "You be careful, my dear. And do not see that man alone."

Considering that John likes to "just pop in", and has frequently been found hanging around in the one corner of the lobby that is not visible from the security door, I'm not at all sure how I'm going to manage to avoid this. But it is nice to know that someone cares.

Greg decides to add John to the DIY CRB list before we go home. In the process of noting down the address, he realises that John lives in the same street as Mr Meeurghn. How did I miss that?

"Great," says Greg. "We can kill two birds with one stone and check 'em both out at the same time."

"That's if they haven't killed each other first," I say.

This leads to the uncomfortable realisation that, if Mr Meeurghn's neighbour is John Fuk-Yue, then Mr M may actually have a valid reason for his paranoia, for once in his life. And I am smack in the middle of a conflict of interest. That'll teach me to gloat about Andrew's cock-up with the St Helen's Road Hostel.

Mind you, I suppose that if Mr M and John did kill each other, that'd be two less scary people to contend with on a regular basis. Or maybe I could suggest that The Boss offers to arbitrate and pays them both a home visit. Then we'd soon see how effective his supposedly soothing voice really is.

I'd better not mention this idea to Greg. He's so cross with The Boss that he'd probably set up that appointment straight away. I wouldn't mind paying Dr Granger a home visit, though. I really need to get a grip on my hormones.

Annoying Ellen's Birthday Party. May She Rot In Hell.

Gah. It's Annoying Ellen's birthday party tonight. I don't know why I don't just find the courage to tell her that I can't stand her, and then refuse to go. I guess I'm probably afraid of falling out with her because I seem to spend half of my working life trying to stop the suffering caused by neighbour disputes. I don't want to find her kicking the side of our car in, or throwing dog poo over the garden wall.

So, as usual, I keep the peace, and now I'm in a state of total panic as to what to wear to compete with Ellen. Unless I wear a balaclava, this is an entirely unrealistic aim, as Ellen's blindingly high-shine forehead is a testament to what can only be achieved via repeated injections of Botox. I decide that I will just have to rely on finding something flattering to wear.

I feel as if I have hit the jackpot when Max spots me posing in front of the mirror in a dress that could be described as body-con - had it not been from the early 80s, before that phrase was even thought of.

"You still have a great body for a woman of your age," he says.

Wow. Wow! Did my husband really just say that? I am lost in transports of joy for all of five minutes, until I realise that he was being rather specific. Why didn't he just say, "You look great for a woman of your age?" Or even, "You look great?" I'll tell you why. Because my body might look good, but my face doesn't. Aargh. I need Botox, right now. Maybe if I put a bag over my head and blunder around the house wearing that, Max might actually fancy me enough to consider having sex with me more than twice a year.

So I am already feeling very low-spirited by the time we walk round to Ellen's, with Connie in tow. I have decided to take her with us, in the hope that she can poach one of Ellen's toyboys to fill the less than yawning gap left by Russ's departure. It doesn't really help. Connie thinks all the toyboys present look dead from the neck up, and insists on staying close to me instead. I almost mention that Russ was hardly a rocket scientist, but am distracted by trying to see what Max is up to.

Connie sticking to me like an Elastoplast has freed him to wander off unsupervised, which is never a good thing. He still hasn't accepted that he cannot keep up with Ellen and her friends' drinking habits. It doesn't matter how many times I tell him not to even bother trying - he always ignores that the reason that they can each drink a whole case of beer is because of the vast quantities of coke they are shoving up their noses. I'm sure Max has already had about six beers and a whole bottle of wine, and he's found a second bottle that he's carrying around with him. This is not going to end well.

I seem to be the only married woman Ellen knows. All the others here are divorced. They are highly-vocal about their sex-starved status - huh! - and are all wearing very shiny tops to match their shiny foreheads. What is it with women of our age? They seem to have a uniform for parties, which basically involves wearing jeans, paired with strappy tops which reveal too much low-slung cleavage. I bet all that bloody beaded decoration was stitched on by starving children in sweatshops. I feel like a visitor from another planet in my little black dress, and my alienation is not helped by the fact that, every time I spot Max, one or other of the shiny women is staring into his eyes, and giving a very good impression of hanging onto his every word.

Connie and I end up sitting in the garden for most of the evening - where I smoke fit to bust, and Connie nags me about my filthy habit. That's when she's not going on about her amazement at the behaviour of some of Ellen's friends - who turn out to be teachers at Josh's school. No wonder Josh is like he is. Then one of the toyboys suggests a game of poker and, after checking that we're not talking about strip poker, I persuade Connie that we should both join in. I am bored enough to play snap by then, so poker seems a much better option. I suddenly realise that Max is seated at the other end of the long table, next to Ellen. She has obviously just been upstairs for another snort, and is displaying an irritating amount of energy. I do hope she doesn't supply coke to her students. Or Josh, for that matter.

Unfortunately, Max is not displaying anything other than the fact that he is totally obliterated by now. I decide make him a coffee, but get a mouthful of abuse when I take it over to him, so I retire back to my place at the other end of the table, where I then have the dubious pleasure of watching my husband gradually slipping sideways on his chair. I'm just considering whether to ride to his rescue, when I realise that he is slipping towards Ellen, whilst wearing a beatific smile. As if in slow-motion, he moves in towards her neck, upon which he plants a long, slow kiss. Suddenly, the room falls quiet, and I feel as if I have been paralysed.

"What the hell are you doing, Dad?" Connie breaks the spell, thank God.

She stands and goes to pull Max off his chair, pushing past Ellen, who just sits there giggling. I am so angry and humiliated that I can't move, until Connie gestures at me to help her. Even with our combined efforts, we still can't get Max to his feet, so we have to draft in help - in the shape of two of the toyboys, who hoist Max up, and then half-carry, half-drag him back to our house. Connie walks behind, carrying Max's jacket, while I storm ahead wielding my keys as if they were a weapon.

In the hallway, Max shakes off the toyboys and lurches into the living room, laughing like a lunatic. Connie throws a blanket over him and then looks at me in disbelief. I have no words, which is most unlike me. As soon as Connie's gone to bed, I am going to email Johnny and say that I've changed my mind. Marriott County Hall, here I come. As soon as bloody possible.