Wanted: Soulmate

Sam arrives for the weekend, and brings a girl with him. He met her via Guardian Soulmates. He says he wants her to meet Max and me so that she can see that he does know "some married people." She's six feet tall, wears trainers and says nothing. Really. Nothing.

After dinner, Sam suggests that we all go to the pub for a drink, but I can't face it - the idea of a whole evening with a woman who's taken a vow of silence is too much for me, so I claim I have an urgent report to write for work, and send Max off with the lovers. He's much more tolerant than me, as well as being far closer to the girlfriend's height. I have a crick in my neck already.

As soon as they leave, I make a cup of tea and curl up in front of the TV to watch "Buy yourself a home either in this country or somewhere much nicer for far less money." Well, it's legitimate research - The Boss is considering bringing in a bill to restrain estate agents, though I don't think he knows exactly what he means by that.

Anyway, there seem to be more estate agents on TV than anywhere else, and I am in the vanguard of spotting the trend, which used to be what New Labour was all about. As a result, I decide that a glass of wine would be far more Westminster and less constituency than tea, so I switch to Cotes du Rhone.

After one glass, I fall asleep in a neck-paralysing position on the couch, only waking when Max, Sam and the Tall Enigma come in and catch me drooling all down the front of my TV-watching fleece. Max is roaring drunk, and the lovers are eager to get to bed - so I wait 'til they've gone upstairs, then say,

"So, how did it go?"

"Never been so bored in my life," says Max.

"Did she speak at all?" I say. They've been gone for four hours...

"Well, she told a few rude jokes and then they spent the rest of the night talking about rugby. It was like a night out with your Dad."

"Oh God, That's it!" All has become clear.

"What's it?" says Max or, rather, "Whasht-it?"

"What Sam sees in her," I say. "She shares his interests."

"Too true," says Max, and passes out attractively on the couch.

I wait 'til he starts drooling, then cover him with a blanket and go to bed. At least our house is going to bear witness to some sex tonight, I suppose - though I hope the Tall Enigma doesn't bring rugby moves to the bedroom. The spare bed has a really wobbly headboard.

Greg Narrowly Avoids a Boris Johnson Moment

Greg spends the day holding forth about how badly we are paid. (Some of us more than others, actually.) He has a theory that every pound he pays in taxes goes direct to Liverpool to be spent on shell-suits, but when I suggest he tests this on George Osborne at the Treasury, he doesn't seem to want to take it that far. Maybe he does retain at least a vestige of political-correctness, unless he's just worried about creating a Boris-type storm by insulting the Scousers in writing.

Honestly, if all Labour MPs' staffers are becoming reactionaries like Greg and I, what on earth are the Tory ones like? Are they even worse than us, spending their days wishing they could hang or flog everyone who makes contact with them? Or maybe they're our mirror-images, and nurture secret fantasies of becoming social workers while wearing cardigans knitted from lentils.

It'd be funny if all Tory staff were secret socialists and all New Labour's were covert Tories - although I guess the latter wouldn't really be that surprising post-Blair. Maybe I should work for a Conservative MP, but that would mean that my decades of Labour Party membership would have been wasted. Oh, but I forgot - I'm not a member any more. The world's my lobster.

Sometimes the knowledge that you have other options is very comforting, especially when you have to deal with someone like Mr Beales. He phones just before the office closes for the day, to ask whether The Boss has written his reference for the court yet.

"What reference?" I ask.

I wish I hadn't. It turns out that The Boss has agreed to write to the judge, confirming Mr Beales' excellence as a photographer. Andrew knows even less than Mr Beales about photography - but then lack of knowledge on any subject has never prevented him from voicing an opinion on it, preferably as publicly as possible.