Chariots Of Fire, And Why Snow, MPs And Alcohol Don't Mix.

God, I'm knackered. I hardly slept a wink last night, because I woke up about an hour after I'd dozed off, and then I just could not get back to sleep. Bloody palpitations.

I think they were probably caused by the nightmare I'd been having just before I awoke. The Boss was driving a chariot through Northwick while dressed in a Roman centurion's outfit, and was making me pull the damn thing - on foot! It wouldn't have been so bad, if he hadn't kept whipping me every time I slowed down to catch my breath.

It definitely wasn't some sort of Freudian reference to my lack of a sex-life, as this was not the kind of whipping that anyone would enjoy, not even those people who apparently like hanging out in dungeons, while dressed in gimp suits. Mentioning no particular professions...

And I wasn't dressed in one of those pervy pony outfits, either, though I did have rather high heels on. It took bloody ages to pull the chariot past the market square, thanks to all the stupid cobbles. Architects never think when they decide on these silly "historic" road surfaces, do they?

After lunch, I realise what the nightmare probably signified: I must have been anticipating the inevitable blow-by-blow account of The Boss's journey back to Northwick after the *House rises for Christmas Recess. He always likes to make it as interactive as possible, and share the joy around.

Andrew's first call sets the scene:

"On my way to the station. Be back before the office closes."

"No need," I say. "There's nothing for you to do. Go straight home when you get off the train."

"Doesn't matter," he says. "I've got lots of stuff to give you to do. See you when I get there."

Greg groans when I recount the conversation, and decides to spend the next hour in the archive cupboard throwing darts at Andrew's photo. Then he returns to his desk, logs on to the Met Office's website and sits staring intently at the screen. For what feels like ages.

"What on earth are you doing?" I say. "You haven't even blinked for the last ten minutes."

 "Taking evasive action. I am willing it to snow as heavily as possible between London and Northwick," he says. "Right now."

I do a sceptical eyebrow raise, but Greg doesn't take any notice:

"Don't just sit there, Mol - help me! Visualise blizzard conditions and concentrate. We need to harness the power of our minds if tomorrow's Christmas lunch isn't to be cancelled because we've got too much work again."

I pretend to co-operate for a couple of seconds, but then I get bored and give up, so it seems that my mind may be rather short on power today. Greg keeps at it, though - and, eventually, it starts to snow again. Rather heavily - so maybe he genuinely possesses some of those telekinetic powers that Max accused me of having.

This is quite a scary thought, but seems to be confirmed when The Boss sends a text saying:

"Mayhem here. Next train cancelled."

Greg cheers loudly at this news, and then nips off to the pub for a celebratory gin. I start to wonder if he's telepathic as well as telekinetic when Andrew's next text makes clear that his thoughts have also turned to alcohol:

"No idea when next train's coming & it's too bloody cold to wait on station. Going for drink in bar."

Oh, dear. This won't end well. The Boss should never be allowed to combine alcohol and train travel but, when I try to phone him to remonstrate, he's turned his bloody mobile off. I don't hear anything more for a good few hours, and we are just about to lock up when the phone starts to ring.

"Leave it," says Greg, who has already put his coat on, and is waiting in the doorway.

"Can't," I say. "It's the bloody private line. Probably his Lordship. You go, and I'll lock up as soon as I've got him off the phone."

Greg waves goodbye, as I pick up the receiver.

"Molly," says Andrew, in a very loud voice. "I'm on the train."

"Ah, right," I say. "Don't shout, though. You sound like Dom Joly."

"I'm not shouting. And who's Don Jorrey?"

Oh, bloody hell. Doesn't Andrew get the simplest cultural reference? And, if that's not shouting, then my name's Igor and I am a singing postman. Which might actually help in situations where you know there's a rant coming, but you can't do anything to prevent it. If I started yodelling about brotherly love, that'd probably stop The Boss in his tracks.

But I don't know any Russian songs - except for this, which probably doesn't count - so I have no option but to sit silently while Andrew yells about the incompetence of Network Rail, the Travel Information Office, and Philip Hammond MP. He doesn't award Mr Hammond his *Rt. Hon, either.

When he finally pauses for breath - or for what sounds rather like a hiccup - I grab my opportunity.

"Andrew, is there anyone else in the compartment with you?" I say.

"Yes," he says. "A load of businessmen who look like bloody bankers and Jon Tiverton from the Northwick Daily Press."

"Well, then, for goodness' sake stop swearing," I say. "And lower your voice! They're probably all journos who are writing down everything you say. Think about what's just happened to Vince Cable."

"Can't hear you," yells Andrew, even louder than before. "But remind me tomorrow never to support this fucking train operator's application for the rail franchise again.

As I sigh and put the phone down, I'm sure I can still hear him shouting: "Bloody wankers."

Well, they say you can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Or even pull his own damned chariot, now I come to think of it.


*House - House of Commons, which rises for the Christmas Recess today, to the joy of constituency staff everywhere.
*Irony - see above statement.
*Rt. Hon - Right Honourable. See here for clarification, as I can't be bothered to explain after the day I've had.

Malingering, My Arse. Plus What Your Husband Doesn't Tell You About His Day At Work.

 Greg texts me this afternoon. "Molly, enough malingering. When are you coming back to work? Hopefully before Vicky gets your job as well as Marie-Louise's. On the subject of which, I hope you've been keeping an eye on the news."

Now what's he talking about? The only news I've bothered to watch since I went down with flu was the rescue of the Chilean miners. What a fantastic outcome, and an incredible bunch of guys. Though I do think the President should have made a lot more fuss of Manual Gonzalez. Imagine being the first person to have to ride in the Fenix 2!

I mention this to Max, who says, "Why?"

"Well, when he got in it, he couldn't have known that he wasn't going to get stuck in the tunnel a quarter of a mile down. On his own, and without even being able to move his arms and legs. I felt claustrophobic just watching that capsule move into the shaft. I'm sure it gave me palpitations."

"That was because you had a bloody temperature," says Max. "And you have far too much imagination for your own good." He gives me a funny look as he says this. I hope he doesn't know about Martin Shaw.

I don't reply, as I'm not sure where this is heading, but then Max goes on to say that Mr Gonzalez didn't even tell his wife what he was up to when he left for work that day.

"Huh. Typical," I say.

"What d'you mean?" says Max. "He didn't want her to worry."

"That's probably how all men justify keeping secrets," I say. Max looks as if he wishes I was still upstairs in bed, though I can't think why.

How Not To Cheer Someone Up.

Everyone seems to have decided that I need cheering up. That's where the consensus breaks down. The differing methods by which this might be achieved seem to say rather more about the people making the suggestions than about the causes of my Weltschmerz.

While we're both getting ready for work this morning, Max suggests he meets me in town straight after work. Seeing my expression, he says, "What?" - as if he made that sort of suggestion on a regular basis.

"Um, well - I'm just surprised, that's all. What brought that on?"

"Thought it might cheer you up. Where shall we meet?"

"Well, on past experience, it'd better be somewhere where I won't feel an idiot sitting by myself waiting for you to turn up," I say. Max looks wounded.

"I always turn up," he says.

"Eventually." I never know when to accept an olive branch when it is offered. Though this is not to say that I concede Max's point about my resemblance to an elephant. We arrange to meet at Caffe Nero. Again. You can't say we lack imagination.

I'm in quite a good mood when I arrive at work, but this is short-lived. After Greg has attended this morning's "briefing," which is even briefer than usual, he comes back rolling his eyes, sits down at his desk with an exaggerated sigh, and buries his head in his hands. The Boss bounces in, like an ageing Tigger on speed.

"Greg tell you my idea?" he says.

"Not yet," I say. "What have you thought of now?'

"Something to boost office morale." The Boss's self-satisfaction is almost tangible. He puts his shoulders back, and struts in to the kitchen. "Can't say I'm not sensitive to my staff's needs." He must be still drunk, because his next question is, "Coffee, anyone?"

"Is that his plan?" I ask Greg. "Making us a coffee?"

"No," says Greg. "Worse than that. Much worse." He's about to explain, when there is a crashing noise, some swearing, and then The Boss sticks his head back round the kitchen door.

"Where the hell are all the cups and spoons?" he says. "Can't find anything in here."

The cups and spoons are where they always are, first thing in the morning. In the sink, waiting for me to wash them up. The drawer, however, isn't in its usual place. It's in the middle of the floor.

"What happened to the drawer?"

"Must've pulled it out too far, trying to find a spoon." The Boss steps round it, looks at his watch, then says, "Oh, I'm late for the Easemount Remembering Project. Better go."

So much for that, then. Democracy is never extended to coffee making in our office. Not during Recess, anyway. When I've finished washing up, rebuilding the kitchen cabinet and making the coffees, Greg has recovered enough to tell me what The Boss's great motivational plan actually is. Let's just say it's unlikely to have the desired effect.

Andrew has decided to invite the girls from the London office to come here on Friday, so that we can all have lunch together. This will apparently also give them the chance to "see and appreciate" what we do here in the boring old provinces. Carlotta doesn't sound any more enthusiastic about it than we are, when I call her to make the arrangements. By the time she's given me a list of her dietary requirements, together with far too much information about Marie-Louise's allergies, I can't think of a single restaurant that will fit the bill.

The rest of the day passes quite quickly, mostly with cases linked to constituents having lost their jobs due to the recession: bank charges, benefit claims and one potential eviction. Before I know it, it's time to meet Max. I'm actually quite excited, which is odd, as Caffe Nero is hardly the Marriott. Or even Heathrow, though I am still looking forward to it. I even freshen up my make-up - and squirt Rive Gauche around with gay abandon - before I leave work, to the sound of Greg muttering about the office smelling like a tart's boudoir. I am already ten minutes late by the time I get to the cafe, but there's no sign of Max yet.

By the time I've been there for forty-five minutes, I'm almost the only customer left. And I have drunk so much bloody coffee that I've given myself palpitations. I keep checking my mobile, under cover of the table in case anyone thinks I am a sad git who has been stood up, but there's nothing from Max. No texts, no missed calls, no answer-phone messages. When it's a full hour after we arranged to meet, I give up, pay the annoyingly-sympathetic waitress, and start to walk home. Then my mobile rings.

"I'm really sorry," says Max. "Had an emergency."

"Did you?" I say. "What sort of emergency exactly?"

"The deliverymen missed a customer's coffee table off this week's delivery round. So I had to take it there myself after work."

"Ah," I say. "Well, that is an emergency. Undoubtedly. Unlike the eviction case I nearly killed myself trying to finish so that I could be there to meet you on time." Then I hang up, turn my phone off, and walk the rest of the way home. I can't say that I feel noticeably more cheerful, but maybe Connie or Josh can think of something to improve my mood. They couldn't do any worse than the f*ckwits who've already had a try.

Guilt In All Directions, And Josh Takes Centre Stage

Josh does not take well to Max and I taking the piss about the National Skateboarding Championships. In fact, he goes so far as to say that it is our failure to encourage his talents which has made him the way he is. Then he storms off into town with the lads.  Max laughs, while I fall into a guilt-ridden slough of despond. This isn't helped by the fact that I won't get a reply from Johnny until Monday at the earliest. God knows how many copies of my photo his PA will have disseminated around the typing pool by then. I will be his staff's equivalent of Mr Beales. My buttocks might even adorn their dartboard, as The Boss' face does ours.

I'm so miserable that even Max notices, and suggests we go and have a coffee somewhere - so we plod down to Caffe Nero, where I ingest so much caffeine that I give myself palpitations. Max wants to know if I think The Boss will give me a pay-rise, now that I can prove that I'm so badly paid in comparison to most other MPs' employees. I say I rate my chances of that at zero, to which Max says he has now developed palpitations as well. The way our working lives are going, we'll have to rely on Connie to keep us soon. And she's only here for the summer!

We decide we can't afford to buy anything other than a coffee now that Max's job is in such jeopardy, so we might as well go home again. I feel even more guilty about the £20 I spent on underwear this week. You can't take that back for a refund either, unlike your wife. If Max found out..... I can't bear to think about it.

So, an hour after we left the house on our first date in weeks, Max and I are heading back home. We walk along in silence most of the way, until we reach the underpass on the way out of town. We've just passed through one of its steepish, sloping arms, when we're stopped in our tracks by a loud rumbling noise. As we stand still in the central circle, a skateboarder suddenly shoots out of another of the arms, waves, spins a few times and then roars gracefully past us, out into the other arm that leads in the direction of our house. We manage to spot that it's Josh' friend, Robbie, but honestly - blink, and you'd have missed it. It was all over so fast - even though Robbie was going uphill on the exit.

The rumbling doesn't diminish as much as it should, though, given that Robbie should be a fair distance away by now. In fact, it's intensifying, though it isn't as rhythmic as the earlier sound. Max and I continue to stand still in the central area, in case we're about to get taken out by a runaway trolley or something. We seem to wait for ever until, eventually, another skateboarder appears. He is veering all over the place and wobbling furiously. It's Josh. And it's agonising.

Max and I look at each other, both close to hysteria, and then back at Josh who doesn't acknowledge us at all. He's too busy concentrating on wobbling his way slowly - very, very slowly - out of the underpass. Just before he's out of earshot, it all becomes too much. Max lets out an explosive volley of laughter, and I sink against the wall, shaking. I am close to needing an incontinence pad.

"Our son, the skateboard champion," Max says. We are terrible parents.