Honestly, can you believe it? Just when I should have been waking up next to Johnny in a luxury hotel suite after a night full of (hopefully) mad passion, here I am listening to Reg Beales bloody moaning instead.
"So, they're definitely out to get me now," he says. "Just like my brother."
I sigh, and count to ten - twice - before I reply. Just to be on the safe side.
"I think you'll find the Police and the RSPCA are two different organisations," I say. "And the Met* aren't known for taking an interest in horses that are being mis-treated. Not even when the horse is in London - which yours isn't."
"Well, they must have been following me to spot the stupid animal, though, mustn't they?" says Reg. "So our Edmund's got a point. These bloody busybodies should be made to wear high-visibility jackets at all times."
I pass Greg a note which reads:
"Play that fire alarm sound on your phone. Quick!"
Then I turn my attention back to Reg Beales.
"A horse and cart on the main road into Northwick is pretty difficult to ignore," I say. "I'm quite surprised the traffic police didn't have something to say about it as well. If I were you, I'd just apologise and say you've learned your lesson when you go to court - though, to be honest, I doubt you'll get the horse back, whatever you do."
"But how am I supposed to pull the cart without one?" says Reg, as Greg passes me his phone and a siren rings out.
"Got to go," I say. "The fire alarm's going off. 'Bye!"
This triumph of ingenuity cheers me up no end, until I spot Vicky sitting in the Oprah Room. She's filing her nails again, while looking disapprovingly at Greg and me.
"Find her something to do, for God's sake, Mol," says Greg, in a low voice. "It's like having MI5 in here with her watching everything we do or say. Or The News Of The World, anyway."
He's got a point, so I suggest to Vicky that there's a mountain of archiving to do, if she's not too busy.
"I've got to type a report up for Andy," she says. "So I can't do it this week. Sorry."
She doesn't sound it, but I give her the benefit of the doubt. People can surprise you - sometimes. Even when you've worked for an MP for far too long.
"Okay," I say. "But maybe you could make a start on it next week instead? It'd really help us out."
"Can't," says Vicky. "I won't be here."
I think Greg manages to mask his ecstatic - if slightly crazed - smile before Vicky notices, but I'm having trouble hiding my joy too. I can feel my lips twitching, unless I've suddenly developed a tic.
"Really?" I say. "Are you leaving us, then?"
"No," says Vicky. "I'm going to that conference with Andy. Didn't he tell you?"
"Shouldn't think he's told anyone," says Greg. "The Media would love it. MP Takes Young Intern To Luxury Hotel doesn't sound too good, does it?"
Not half as good as Oil Baron Takes MP's Possibly Middle-Aged Senior Caseworker To Luxury Hotel, that's for sure. And Saves Her From Lunatic Constituent Charged With Cruelty To His Horse, While He's At It.
I give up, I really do. Life's a bitch, and then you die.
*Met - Metropolitan Police. For some reason, Reg is now convinced that they are out to get him, despite all our attempts to convince him that they are far too busy at the moment.
Showing posts with label Police. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Police. Show all posts
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Thursday, 18 November 2010
A Right Earful, And The Shortcomings Of Georges Bloody Perec
I've given up on Perec. His bloody book's no help at all when it comes to real life. It must be the most useless user's manual ever.
He obviously never met anyone like Miss Chambers - who phones this morning to complain that someone has posted more dog poo through her letterbox. When I ask if she's reported it to the Police, she says,
"How can you be so stupid? You can't trust them an inch."
"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case," I say, but this seems to enrage her even more than usual.
"I told you they stole my teapot!" she screams. "I can't take any more of this. If I kill myself, it'll be your fault."
Oh, for God's sake. I'm not having that on my conscience. I take a deep breath, brace myself to return the phone to my ear, and then say,
"Well, if you're feeling like that, I really think you should speak to your GP and see if he or she can help."
"I haven't got a GP. My last one threw me off his list."
Then she starts screaming. No words, just a long, drawn-out sound that I can't even begin to reproduce.
The noise travels down the phone line, hurtles in through my left ear, and exits through the other one, apparently making it all the way into Greg's office, and causing him to come rushing in to mine.
I drop the phone, but Miss C has already hung up.
"What the hell?" says Greg.
"She's threatening suicide, so I suggested she go to see her GP and she just went ballistic," I say. "God, my ear hurts."
"I'm not surprised," says Greg. "Never heard anything like it. Not even from her."
"Well, it's probably your fault. Have you been posting more dog poo through her door?"
"Don't be stupid, Molly. I'm not risking that again. I value my life too much."
Greg shows me an article about a man who was killed after urinating through someone's letterbox, but I can't read it as the whole room is starting to swirl.
After about an hour, I am feeling so sick that I have to lie down on the sofa in the Oprah Room, much to Vicky's disgust, and eventually, Greg sends me home. Via my GP.
Apparently I either have Labyrinthitis - whatever that is - or damage to my eardrum. So now I'm stuck with having to lie down to stop the room moving, while I bet Miss Bloody Chambers is sitting in an armchair, happily watching TV and knitting.
Unless she's making herself a straightjacket, there is no justice.
He obviously never met anyone like Miss Chambers - who phones this morning to complain that someone has posted more dog poo through her letterbox. When I ask if she's reported it to the Police, she says,
"How can you be so stupid? You can't trust them an inch."
"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case," I say, but this seems to enrage her even more than usual.
"I told you they stole my teapot!" she screams. "I can't take any more of this. If I kill myself, it'll be your fault."
Oh, for God's sake. I'm not having that on my conscience. I take a deep breath, brace myself to return the phone to my ear, and then say,
"Well, if you're feeling like that, I really think you should speak to your GP and see if he or she can help."
"I haven't got a GP. My last one threw me off his list."
Then she starts screaming. No words, just a long, drawn-out sound that I can't even begin to reproduce.
The noise travels down the phone line, hurtles in through my left ear, and exits through the other one, apparently making it all the way into Greg's office, and causing him to come rushing in to mine.
I drop the phone, but Miss C has already hung up.
"What the hell?" says Greg.
"She's threatening suicide, so I suggested she go to see her GP and she just went ballistic," I say. "God, my ear hurts."
"I'm not surprised," says Greg. "Never heard anything like it. Not even from her."
"Well, it's probably your fault. Have you been posting more dog poo through her door?"
"Don't be stupid, Molly. I'm not risking that again. I value my life too much."
Greg shows me an article about a man who was killed after urinating through someone's letterbox, but I can't read it as the whole room is starting to swirl.
After about an hour, I am feeling so sick that I have to lie down on the sofa in the Oprah Room, much to Vicky's disgust, and eventually, Greg sends me home. Via my GP.
Apparently I either have Labyrinthitis - whatever that is - or damage to my eardrum. So now I'm stuck with having to lie down to stop the room moving, while I bet Miss Bloody Chambers is sitting in an armchair, happily watching TV and knitting.
Unless she's making herself a straightjacket, there is no justice.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Alarms Going Off All Over The Place, Including In My Head.
Gah. I haven't slept a wink. So much for having a restful weekend while Max is away. First I have a nightmare, in which I am at work and spot the number 666 tattooed on Greg's head, and then - as soon as I get back to sleep - I'm woken again by a siren going off.
It's so loud that, at first, I think it must be our burglar alarm, but then I realise I didn't switch that on, because Josh was still out clubbing when I went to bed.
He's back home and fast asleep when I stumble through to his room at about 4:00am, though.
"Josh," I say. No reaction whatsoever. And what is that smell?
"Josh! Wake up!"
"Whassat?" says Josh. Finally.
"Alarm," I say. "Not ours, though. Oh, God - unless it's the car alarm?"
"Don't be daft, Mum. The car's not here, is it? Dad's got it."
It's very annoying when your drunken teenage son is more capable of rational thought than you are.
He's not half so quick off the mark when it comes to going to investigate, though: I have to do that. I can't tell where the noise is coming from when I look out of the front door, thanks to the late-night traffic, so I go into the back garden.
Oh, shit, it's Ellen's alarm. I hope she's all right, though now I haven't a clue what to do next. Knowing someone like Steve Ellington causes a certain reluctance to confront burglars, so I just shout, "Ellen? You okay?" - over the garden wall.
There's no reply, so then I go back inside, and phone the Police. They say they'll be there as soon as they can, but that most units are currently in Northwick's nightclub quarter. (Also known as Beirut at this time of night.)
"Well, please hurry," I say. "My neighbour's a single woman and often on her own at weekends, so I'm worried about what's happening, though I don't really want to risk going into the house myself."
The alarm's still sounding when I put the phone down, so God knows why Ellen hasn't turned it off herself. Something must have happened to her.
"Stop panicking," says Josh. "She's probably come in pissed and set it off herself before passing out in a corner somewhere. Just phone her up."
But there's no answer when I call Ellen's landline, so then I find her mobile number and try that instead. I can barely hear the ringing tone - and not just because of the alarm. My heart sounds as if it's relocated to the inside of my head.
"Uh. Hello? Who is this?" says Ellen. "And do you know what time it is?"
"Oh," I say. "Ellen, it's me. Molly."
"Christ! What are you doing calling me now?" Ellen doesn't sound like someone who's in fear of her life, though maybe I should be fearing for mine, given her snotty tone.
Then she says something else, but I can't hear her properly.
"Sorry, what did you say?" I ask.
"I wasn't talking to you," she says. Oh, I see. There's someone else there.
Honestly, I don't think Ellen has any appreciation of what it takes to be a good neighbour. She barely bothers to listen while I try to explain about her alarm, then just tells me to instruct the Police to disable it.
"I'm away this weekend," she says. "Won't be back 'til this evening." I'm sure she giggles as she hangs up.
I'm not finding it half as funny as she seems to be, especially when it takes until almost 10:00am for the Police to turn up and establish that there hasn't been a break-in.
It takes even longer to switch the damned thing off, as it turns out that one of the policemen will have to force entry to gain access. I don't think Ellen is much nicer to him than she was to me when he rings to seek her permission.
"So sorry to have disturbed you, Ma'am," he says, in a very sarcastic tone of voice. He'd do well in our office. The ability to be rude via excessive politeness is an essential part of the job.
Anyway, now it's lunchtime and I'm so bloody knackered that I should think I'll be asleep well before Max gets home tonight. I wonder what time Ellen will be back from wherever it is that she's been? She'll need to get that window re-glazed as soon as she is.
It's just typical that, on the one night that there's an emergency at her house, Max is away and I have to deal with it single-handedly. Though Max will probably say that it's just an unfortunate coincidence. Not that they happen half as often as some constituents would have you believe. Oh. Bloody, bloody hell.
It can't be normal for a heartbeat to be this loud.
It's so loud that, at first, I think it must be our burglar alarm, but then I realise I didn't switch that on, because Josh was still out clubbing when I went to bed.
He's back home and fast asleep when I stumble through to his room at about 4:00am, though.
"Josh," I say. No reaction whatsoever. And what is that smell?
"Josh! Wake up!"
"Whassat?" says Josh. Finally.
"Alarm," I say. "Not ours, though. Oh, God - unless it's the car alarm?"
"Don't be daft, Mum. The car's not here, is it? Dad's got it."
It's very annoying when your drunken teenage son is more capable of rational thought than you are.
He's not half so quick off the mark when it comes to going to investigate, though: I have to do that. I can't tell where the noise is coming from when I look out of the front door, thanks to the late-night traffic, so I go into the back garden.
Oh, shit, it's Ellen's alarm. I hope she's all right, though now I haven't a clue what to do next. Knowing someone like Steve Ellington causes a certain reluctance to confront burglars, so I just shout, "Ellen? You okay?" - over the garden wall.
There's no reply, so then I go back inside, and phone the Police. They say they'll be there as soon as they can, but that most units are currently in Northwick's nightclub quarter. (Also known as Beirut at this time of night.)
"Well, please hurry," I say. "My neighbour's a single woman and often on her own at weekends, so I'm worried about what's happening, though I don't really want to risk going into the house myself."
The alarm's still sounding when I put the phone down, so God knows why Ellen hasn't turned it off herself. Something must have happened to her.
"Stop panicking," says Josh. "She's probably come in pissed and set it off herself before passing out in a corner somewhere. Just phone her up."
But there's no answer when I call Ellen's landline, so then I find her mobile number and try that instead. I can barely hear the ringing tone - and not just because of the alarm. My heart sounds as if it's relocated to the inside of my head.
"Uh. Hello? Who is this?" says Ellen. "And do you know what time it is?"
"Oh," I say. "Ellen, it's me. Molly."
"Christ! What are you doing calling me now?" Ellen doesn't sound like someone who's in fear of her life, though maybe I should be fearing for mine, given her snotty tone.
Then she says something else, but I can't hear her properly.
"Sorry, what did you say?" I ask.
"I wasn't talking to you," she says. Oh, I see. There's someone else there.
Honestly, I don't think Ellen has any appreciation of what it takes to be a good neighbour. She barely bothers to listen while I try to explain about her alarm, then just tells me to instruct the Police to disable it.
"I'm away this weekend," she says. "Won't be back 'til this evening." I'm sure she giggles as she hangs up.
I'm not finding it half as funny as she seems to be, especially when it takes until almost 10:00am for the Police to turn up and establish that there hasn't been a break-in.
It takes even longer to switch the damned thing off, as it turns out that one of the policemen will have to force entry to gain access. I don't think Ellen is much nicer to him than she was to me when he rings to seek her permission.
"So sorry to have disturbed you, Ma'am," he says, in a very sarcastic tone of voice. He'd do well in our office. The ability to be rude via excessive politeness is an essential part of the job.
Anyway, now it's lunchtime and I'm so bloody knackered that I should think I'll be asleep well before Max gets home tonight. I wonder what time Ellen will be back from wherever it is that she's been? She'll need to get that window re-glazed as soon as she is.
It's just typical that, on the one night that there's an emergency at her house, Max is away and I have to deal with it single-handedly. Though Max will probably say that it's just an unfortunate coincidence. Not that they happen half as often as some constituents would have you believe. Oh. Bloody, bloody hell.
It can't be normal for a heartbeat to be this loud.
Friday, 10 September 2010
Changes in Perspective, or The Morning After The Night Before.
I wake to mad beeping from my mobile. A barrage of texts, all of them from Johnny.
"Good morning."
"I'm so sorry about last night."
"I can't stop thinking about you."
"When can we meet again?"
"I'm on the train. And wishing I wasn't."
Max looks a bit curious, so I tell him the texts are all from Orange.
"Bastards," he says. He's very familiar with Orange's relentless marketing, which seems to fill up his in-box as soon as he's managed to empty it. Or that's what he claims, anyway - whenever he tries to explain why he never receives my texts. Josh says it's worth all the hassle for the Orange Wednesday codes, but then he would, seeing as he's always the one who gets to use the damned things.
I can barely look at Max as I get ready and rush off to work. There's no time to give last night's debacle more than a cursory thought, which is probably a good thing. God knows why Johnny wants to repeat the experience. I'm not at all sure that I do.
"What the hell happened to you?" Greg says, as I walk into the office, five minutes late.
"Oh shit," I say. "I forgot to text you." Then I realise the significance of what Greg has said. "Oh my God, did you report me missing to the Police?"
"Um, no," says Greg. He fidgets a bit, and says, "Coffee?"
He's obviously forgotten that I am on coffee-making duty for the next two months in lieu of his having acted as my taxi service to Johnny's hotel last night. Then I realise why.
"Why didn't you? Weren't you worried about me?"
"Well, I would have been," says Greg. "But, after I went for a run, I fell asleep in front of the TV and didn't wake up until 8:00am. Few too many gins."
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "I could have been dead."
"Don't be daft, Mol. If you can handle the nutters we get here, you can handle a bloody oil baron. Anyway, how was he?"
"How was who?" says The Boss. He has a snakelike ability to creep up on you. It's quite repulsive.
"Boris," says Greg. "We're guessing at what his next occupation will be."
Greg makes me do today's surgery by claiming to have an urgent doctor's appointment. Something to do with a suspected stress fracture, due to his "jogging injury." He only started jogging yesterday, so this seems a bit unlikely, especially as he says he only got to the end of his road before he had to give up and walk back home again. A severe stitch, apparently.
Anyway, the upshot of this is that now I have to do the surgery letters as well as finishing up my other casework - and all before I leave work today. I can't leave anything unfinished, not when I shall be on leave next week. Or nothing that it wouldn't be safe for Greg to handle alone, anyway - which represents most things. God knows what time I'll get home tonight - though this may be a good thing, as I still have no idea how I'm going to face Max.
When I finally lock up at 9:00pm, and start walking home, last night's events come flooding back. In their full ghastliness. I can't imagine why Johnny still sounds so keen to continue our affair. If you could even call it an affair, when all it has involved is two chaotic and ultimately very hazardous kisses, and some virtual sex.
Mind you, it has changed my perspective on hard man Vladimir Putin, though. If he's even half as short-sighted as Johnny, he'd be a piece of piss to deal with, if he started throwing his weight about. All you'd have to do would be to steal his glasses. Johnny doesn't seem at all powerful without his.
And Johnny isn't the only one who's acting out of character. Max is being very assertive when I get home. He's done almost all the packing, and informs me that we are not taking the laptop with us, as we are going to "spend quality time together" without distractions. He even wants me to leave my mobile behind, but I refuse to comply with this - not when I am leaving an incompetent ninja at home, with a sex-pest for a neighbour.
I write Josh a very long list enumerating the dire consequences that will arise should he be unwise enough to consider anything as stupid as a house party in our absence, and ask Mum to drop in daily to check that the house is still standing. And that Josh is still in one piece. Accidents will happen, as I know only too well after last night's shenanigans.
So now it's bedtime, and tomorrow I am off on "holiday." At least this might give me a bit of headspace to decide what on earth I am doing with my life. Though if the answer is turning into a bearded lady and growing back my hymen, I have no idea what the solution to that will be.
"Good morning."
"I'm so sorry about last night."
"I can't stop thinking about you."
"When can we meet again?"
"I'm on the train. And wishing I wasn't."
Max looks a bit curious, so I tell him the texts are all from Orange.
"Bastards," he says. He's very familiar with Orange's relentless marketing, which seems to fill up his in-box as soon as he's managed to empty it. Or that's what he claims, anyway - whenever he tries to explain why he never receives my texts. Josh says it's worth all the hassle for the Orange Wednesday codes, but then he would, seeing as he's always the one who gets to use the damned things.
I can barely look at Max as I get ready and rush off to work. There's no time to give last night's debacle more than a cursory thought, which is probably a good thing. God knows why Johnny wants to repeat the experience. I'm not at all sure that I do.
"What the hell happened to you?" Greg says, as I walk into the office, five minutes late.
"Oh shit," I say. "I forgot to text you." Then I realise the significance of what Greg has said. "Oh my God, did you report me missing to the Police?"
"Um, no," says Greg. He fidgets a bit, and says, "Coffee?"
He's obviously forgotten that I am on coffee-making duty for the next two months in lieu of his having acted as my taxi service to Johnny's hotel last night. Then I realise why.
"Why didn't you? Weren't you worried about me?"
"Well, I would have been," says Greg. "But, after I went for a run, I fell asleep in front of the TV and didn't wake up until 8:00am. Few too many gins."
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "I could have been dead."
"Don't be daft, Mol. If you can handle the nutters we get here, you can handle a bloody oil baron. Anyway, how was he?"
"How was who?" says The Boss. He has a snakelike ability to creep up on you. It's quite repulsive.
"Boris," says Greg. "We're guessing at what his next occupation will be."
Greg makes me do today's surgery by claiming to have an urgent doctor's appointment. Something to do with a suspected stress fracture, due to his "jogging injury." He only started jogging yesterday, so this seems a bit unlikely, especially as he says he only got to the end of his road before he had to give up and walk back home again. A severe stitch, apparently.
Anyway, the upshot of this is that now I have to do the surgery letters as well as finishing up my other casework - and all before I leave work today. I can't leave anything unfinished, not when I shall be on leave next week. Or nothing that it wouldn't be safe for Greg to handle alone, anyway - which represents most things. God knows what time I'll get home tonight - though this may be a good thing, as I still have no idea how I'm going to face Max.
When I finally lock up at 9:00pm, and start walking home, last night's events come flooding back. In their full ghastliness. I can't imagine why Johnny still sounds so keen to continue our affair. If you could even call it an affair, when all it has involved is two chaotic and ultimately very hazardous kisses, and some virtual sex.
Mind you, it has changed my perspective on hard man Vladimir Putin, though. If he's even half as short-sighted as Johnny, he'd be a piece of piss to deal with, if he started throwing his weight about. All you'd have to do would be to steal his glasses. Johnny doesn't seem at all powerful without his.
And Johnny isn't the only one who's acting out of character. Max is being very assertive when I get home. He's done almost all the packing, and informs me that we are not taking the laptop with us, as we are going to "spend quality time together" without distractions. He even wants me to leave my mobile behind, but I refuse to comply with this - not when I am leaving an incompetent ninja at home, with a sex-pest for a neighbour.
I write Josh a very long list enumerating the dire consequences that will arise should he be unwise enough to consider anything as stupid as a house party in our absence, and ask Mum to drop in daily to check that the house is still standing. And that Josh is still in one piece. Accidents will happen, as I know only too well after last night's shenanigans.
So now it's bedtime, and tomorrow I am off on "holiday." At least this might give me a bit of headspace to decide what on earth I am doing with my life. Though if the answer is turning into a bearded lady and growing back my hymen, I have no idea what the solution to that will be.
Saturday, 17 July 2010
A Sentimental Promenade, A Mugging and a Very Bad Face Day.
God, do I never learn? Spend the morning going through Connie's hair magazines in an attempt to find a photo of a haircut that will make me look less like a corpse. Finally find a good one of Kylie sporting a cute shaggy bob. I take it with me when I go into town, and present it to my hairdresser who, after looking me up and down without comment, puts the picture face down on the counter and wields her scissors. I am very excited, as this may be the moment at which I finally recapture my youthful good looks.
An hour later, I am forced to accept that, while my hair does now resemble Kylie's, my face does not. I have therefore wasted my money, and am doomed to keep on being pole-axed with horror whenever I catch sight of myself in shop windows and unexpected mirrors. I walk home, lacking the enthusiasm to even pick my feet up properly, and thus have three embarrassing moments of the catch toe on paving slab, stagger, pick self up and pretend nothing happened type. (This happens quite frequently, due to my insistence on keeping my head down whenever I am in the town centre, in order to avoid having to make eye contact with any of the usual suspects who might be passing by.)
When I walk into the house, I find a uniformed policeman sitting on the sofa in the living room.
"What's Josh done now?" I say. It's all too much. Or too little, actually.
"Josh?" says the policeman. "Did you know the muggers?" He's addressing Connie. And Russ.
"No, of course we didn't know them," says Connie, glaring at me.
I am too busy freaking out to care.
"Muggers? Muggers? What's happened?" Are all my family destined to be regularly set upon by madmen?
"Tell you later, Mum," says Connie, pushing me back out into the hallway, and closing the door in my face.
After Connie and Russ have finished looking through mug-shot albums, in which Connie spots quite a few ex-classmates, but fails to identify the perpetrators, the policeman leaves, and I finally discover what has happened. It turns out that Connie and Russ decided to go for a supposedly romantic walk at lunchtime - down the newly-created "Green Walkway," which is sited on an unused section of railway track that runs from Easemount into the centre of Northwick. What complete idiots. As with most regeneration projects, the planners ignored the fact that its location might as well be bloody Beirut.
They'd just passed the first bend, thus positioning them out of sight of the road, when they were confronted by three youths. (These were men, according to Russ, but boys, according to Connie.) They surrounded Josh and Connie, and then just stood there swaggering and looking like "prats" (again according to Connie), or "thugs" (according to Russ). Then they demanded that Russ empty his pockets. He complied but only had a couple of quid.
At this point, Connie insists that the muggers were about to give up and move away - until Russ said, "But she's got money!" and pointed at her. Russ denies this and says that Connie assaulted him with her umbrella in an unprovoked attack, which he ascribes to the stress of the moment. Connie responds that it was the stress of having such a chicken-shit boyfriend that made her lose her temper, and ends the discussion by pointing out that, by the time she'd finished hitting Russ, the muggers had disappeared.
Josh nods in atypical approbation of his sister.
"Good one, Con. That's what I told you!" he says, giving her the thumbs-up.
"What is what you told her?" I am incredulous that Connie would listen to Josh's advice on any subject.
'Best way to avoid being mugged in the street is to behave like a mad person," says Josh. "You should try it at work, Mum.
An hour later, I am forced to accept that, while my hair does now resemble Kylie's, my face does not. I have therefore wasted my money, and am doomed to keep on being pole-axed with horror whenever I catch sight of myself in shop windows and unexpected mirrors. I walk home, lacking the enthusiasm to even pick my feet up properly, and thus have three embarrassing moments of the catch toe on paving slab, stagger, pick self up and pretend nothing happened type. (This happens quite frequently, due to my insistence on keeping my head down whenever I am in the town centre, in order to avoid having to make eye contact with any of the usual suspects who might be passing by.)
When I walk into the house, I find a uniformed policeman sitting on the sofa in the living room.
"What's Josh done now?" I say. It's all too much. Or too little, actually.
"Josh?" says the policeman. "Did you know the muggers?" He's addressing Connie. And Russ.
"No, of course we didn't know them," says Connie, glaring at me.
I am too busy freaking out to care.
"Muggers? Muggers? What's happened?" Are all my family destined to be regularly set upon by madmen?
"Tell you later, Mum," says Connie, pushing me back out into the hallway, and closing the door in my face.
After Connie and Russ have finished looking through mug-shot albums, in which Connie spots quite a few ex-classmates, but fails to identify the perpetrators, the policeman leaves, and I finally discover what has happened. It turns out that Connie and Russ decided to go for a supposedly romantic walk at lunchtime - down the newly-created "Green Walkway," which is sited on an unused section of railway track that runs from Easemount into the centre of Northwick. What complete idiots. As with most regeneration projects, the planners ignored the fact that its location might as well be bloody Beirut.
They'd just passed the first bend, thus positioning them out of sight of the road, when they were confronted by three youths. (These were men, according to Russ, but boys, according to Connie.) They surrounded Josh and Connie, and then just stood there swaggering and looking like "prats" (again according to Connie), or "thugs" (according to Russ). Then they demanded that Russ empty his pockets. He complied but only had a couple of quid.
At this point, Connie insists that the muggers were about to give up and move away - until Russ said, "But she's got money!" and pointed at her. Russ denies this and says that Connie assaulted him with her umbrella in an unprovoked attack, which he ascribes to the stress of the moment. Connie responds that it was the stress of having such a chicken-shit boyfriend that made her lose her temper, and ends the discussion by pointing out that, by the time she'd finished hitting Russ, the muggers had disappeared.
Josh nods in atypical approbation of his sister.
"Good one, Con. That's what I told you!" he says, giving her the thumbs-up.
"What is what you told her?" I am incredulous that Connie would listen to Josh's advice on any subject.
'Best way to avoid being mugged in the street is to behave like a mad person," says Josh. "You should try it at work, Mum.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
A New World Record and The Hazards Of Hay Fever
Oh dear. That has to be the record for the shortest stay by an intern - ever. Mr Humphries proves too much for James, who has disappeared in a cloud of loose bowel movements. He hasn't even been back to collect his stuff. Hope he has plenty of Chai tea at home.
The morning goes suspiciously smoothly until almost 10:00. Then Mr Humphries makes the first of a series of visits to the office, becoming more agitated with every one. I deal with the first few, which involve something to do with him being spied on, as usual, but I'm busy when he comes in again just before lunch. Greg takes a frantic call from the Labour Party saying that Mr H is holding Joan at knifepoint in reception. We hadn't got round to telling Party staff that they mustn't rub their noses while talking to him, and Joan suffers from hayfever. Incensed by her apparent use of the code for activating Government surveillance, Mr H has pulled a Stanley knife, and locked her into the room. Poor woman. Mr Humphries even scares me.
The whole building is sent into lockdown mode as I try to contact the Police. Dialling 999 achieves my being put on hold for eighteen minutes - eighteen minutes! The Police Station is almost opposite our bloody building. Greg finally loses his patience and legs it over the roof, climbs down the fire escape and runs there, pushes to the head of the queue and demands a Police escort back to the office immediately - or he will "tell the Home Secretary."
Meanwhile, James has gone green, and is more than usually desperate for the loo. He can't get there, though, because the loos are past reception, where poor Joan is still stuck with a known madman. Eventually, the Police storm reception, arrest Mr Humphries, and cart him off over the road - and the building is open for business again. It is 3:00pm, so I send James off to get some lunch and to calm down. He makes me escort him out of the building. He is almost 6 feet tall, and I'm at least a foot shorter, but hey, whatever. That turns out to be the last we will ever see of him, as he never comes back, and doesn't answer our calls for the rest of the day.
He has made life difficult before he goes, though - as he answered the phone to The Boss while Greg and I were otherwise occupied, and told him what was happening. What an idiot. Andrew has instructed that I call him straight back as soon as "the misunderstanding is resolved." Misunderstanding? Misunderstanding? Mr Humphries' behaviour is more than a bloody misunderstanding. Joan is a wreck, and James looked even worse than her before he did his disappearing act. Most awkwardly, the staff of all the other offices in our building are incandescent with fury. They blame us for attracting undesirables and failing to manage them properly, as well as for their businesses having effectively lost an entire working day's output.
The Police want statements from everyone, and ask whether I will support a charge of harassment against Mr H. The Boss forbids it. I take another look at Joan and decide to ignore him. Mr H needs help, plus it is completely unreasonable to expect staff who don't work for an MP to cope with the challenges we face. Not only that but, if we don't co-operate, we'll encourage the Police to be even less speedy in their response to our emergency calls in future. So first I have to sit in with a still-shaking Joan - not a pretty sight - while she gives her statement, and then I have to give mine. Can't face phoning The Boss back to admit what I've done, as it's already nearly 8:00pm when I leave the office. Max hasn't even phoned to see where I am.
When I get home, Josh asks what's for tea, and Connie is incapable of listening to anyone, as she has got an interview for the IT job and is very over-excited, even by her usual maniacal standards. I am utterly dispensable. I foresee a trip to Primark for new underwear tomorrow lunchtime - lockdowns allowing - and I must remember to buy batteries for my camera.
The morning goes suspiciously smoothly until almost 10:00. Then Mr Humphries makes the first of a series of visits to the office, becoming more agitated with every one. I deal with the first few, which involve something to do with him being spied on, as usual, but I'm busy when he comes in again just before lunch. Greg takes a frantic call from the Labour Party saying that Mr H is holding Joan at knifepoint in reception. We hadn't got round to telling Party staff that they mustn't rub their noses while talking to him, and Joan suffers from hayfever. Incensed by her apparent use of the code for activating Government surveillance, Mr H has pulled a Stanley knife, and locked her into the room. Poor woman. Mr Humphries even scares me.
The whole building is sent into lockdown mode as I try to contact the Police. Dialling 999 achieves my being put on hold for eighteen minutes - eighteen minutes! The Police Station is almost opposite our bloody building. Greg finally loses his patience and legs it over the roof, climbs down the fire escape and runs there, pushes to the head of the queue and demands a Police escort back to the office immediately - or he will "tell the Home Secretary."
Meanwhile, James has gone green, and is more than usually desperate for the loo. He can't get there, though, because the loos are past reception, where poor Joan is still stuck with a known madman. Eventually, the Police storm reception, arrest Mr Humphries, and cart him off over the road - and the building is open for business again. It is 3:00pm, so I send James off to get some lunch and to calm down. He makes me escort him out of the building. He is almost 6 feet tall, and I'm at least a foot shorter, but hey, whatever. That turns out to be the last we will ever see of him, as he never comes back, and doesn't answer our calls for the rest of the day.
He has made life difficult before he goes, though - as he answered the phone to The Boss while Greg and I were otherwise occupied, and told him what was happening. What an idiot. Andrew has instructed that I call him straight back as soon as "the misunderstanding is resolved." Misunderstanding? Misunderstanding? Mr Humphries' behaviour is more than a bloody misunderstanding. Joan is a wreck, and James looked even worse than her before he did his disappearing act. Most awkwardly, the staff of all the other offices in our building are incandescent with fury. They blame us for attracting undesirables and failing to manage them properly, as well as for their businesses having effectively lost an entire working day's output.
The Police want statements from everyone, and ask whether I will support a charge of harassment against Mr H. The Boss forbids it. I take another look at Joan and decide to ignore him. Mr H needs help, plus it is completely unreasonable to expect staff who don't work for an MP to cope with the challenges we face. Not only that but, if we don't co-operate, we'll encourage the Police to be even less speedy in their response to our emergency calls in future. So first I have to sit in with a still-shaking Joan - not a pretty sight - while she gives her statement, and then I have to give mine. Can't face phoning The Boss back to admit what I've done, as it's already nearly 8:00pm when I leave the office. Max hasn't even phoned to see where I am.
When I get home, Josh asks what's for tea, and Connie is incapable of listening to anyone, as she has got an interview for the IT job and is very over-excited, even by her usual maniacal standards. I am utterly dispensable. I foresee a trip to Primark for new underwear tomorrow lunchtime - lockdowns allowing - and I must remember to buy batteries for my camera.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Lies, Psychological Traumas and the Return of the Incompetent Silver Surfer.
Greg is wounded today. Or rather, his ego takes a knock-out blow. Mrs Nudd bursts into the office - because some idiot has left the door on the catch - and starts screaming:
“What the f*ck do you mean that there’s nothing more you can do for me?"
Then she starts throwing files and chairs around, and ends up holding a letter-opener to my throat. (Why do the nutters always go for my throat? Is it because I am almost a midget?)
Greg is surprisingly butch (for him). He attempts to take hold of Mrs Nudd from behind, but then she grabs me and hangs on, so Greg tries harder and manages to yank her backwards, though she still doesn't let go of my neck. When he eventually succeeds in throwing her off-balance, she dislodges me from my chair and we all end up in a heap on the floor.
I phone the Police while Greg manhandles (boyhandles?) the still-struggling Mrs Nudd towards the door. She calms down a bit when she hears me reporting the assault, and Greg seizes the opportunity to push her over the threshold and slam the door - but not before she’s hissed, right in his face,
“You are the ugliest f*cker I‘ve ever seen in my life.”
Then she goes off into the sunset to pick yet another fight with her daughter-in-law. How on earth does she expect us to make her son “see sense and come home”?
“What the f*ck do you mean that there’s nothing more you can do for me?"
Then she starts throwing files and chairs around, and ends up holding a letter-opener to my throat. (Why do the nutters always go for my throat? Is it because I am almost a midget?)
Greg is surprisingly butch (for him). He attempts to take hold of Mrs Nudd from behind, but then she grabs me and hangs on, so Greg tries harder and manages to yank her backwards, though she still doesn't let go of my neck. When he eventually succeeds in throwing her off-balance, she dislodges me from my chair and we all end up in a heap on the floor.
I phone the Police while Greg manhandles (boyhandles?) the still-struggling Mrs Nudd towards the door. She calms down a bit when she hears me reporting the assault, and Greg seizes the opportunity to push her over the threshold and slam the door - but not before she’s hissed, right in his face,
“You are the ugliest f*cker I‘ve ever seen in my life.”
Then she goes off into the sunset to pick yet another fight with her daughter-in-law. How on earth does she expect us to make her son “see sense and come home”?
About forty minutes later, a police constable saunters in, says something about being unavoidably delayed, and then goes away looking relieved when we can’t be bothered to press charges. This may have been a mistake in retrospect, as Greg is too traumatised to do any work for the rest of the day, just keeps wandering off into the staff loo and staring hopelessly into the mirror.
Honestly. sometimes Dinah sounds as bonkers as Mrs Nudd. She phones while Max, Josh and I are eating dinner.
“Dad’s joined bloody Facebook now,” she says.
“And?” I say. There’s always an “and” with Dinah.
“He’s got six friends already, apart from me - and they’re all women. I told you not to teach him to use that computer!”
“Well, maybe they’re old school-friends or something,” I say - with an optimism I do not feel.
“They’re all about twenty and look Thai! Silver surfer, my arse.”
“Dad’s joined bloody Facebook now,” she says.
“And?” I say. There’s always an “and” with Dinah.
“He’s got six friends already, apart from me - and they’re all women. I told you not to teach him to use that computer!”
“Well, maybe they’re old school-friends or something,” I say - with an optimism I do not feel.
“They’re all about twenty and look Thai! Silver surfer, my arse.”
Dinah sucks noisily on her cigarette for emphasis, says “Fucksake!” and hangs up. Sometimes I think it wouldn’t matter if I walked off when she phones, like I do with Miss Chambers. I am nothing more than a receptacle for the venting of others and it’s very tiring.
Much later, when everyone else is in bed, Johnny negotiates receipt of my challenging photo with consummate ease, simply sending an email that says, “Very attractive!” He has more political awareness than The Boss, that’s for sure, and I feel compelled to send him a proper picture as a reward.
I look hideous in all the non-gurning ones so then I have to spend hours trying to photograph myself without getting my arms in the frame. This is not as easy as it sounds. No wonder all those EMO kids look so odd in their MySpace profile pictures. I end up sending one showing me with my eyes closed, on the basis that this allows me to retain an air of mystery.
I look hideous in all the non-gurning ones so then I have to spend hours trying to photograph myself without getting my arms in the frame. This is not as easy as it sounds. No wonder all those EMO kids look so odd in their MySpace profile pictures. I end up sending one showing me with my eyes closed, on the basis that this allows me to retain an air of mystery.
When I get into bed, Max asks me where I’ve been, and I say that I’ve been working on a report for the Select Committee. I don’t think he knows The Boss isn’t on any committees since the election, but he does go a bit quiet after that. Now I’m not sure if he doesn’t believe me, or if he’s just asleep.
Friday, 21 May 2010
Why I Hate Fridays
Today's really not a good day at work, even though Greg is highly-impressed with my achievements. First I manage to lose an arsonist in the lift and then I collect a bomber on the stairs.
It all starts when I go downstairs to collect the arsonist for his surgery appointment, only to find him in a wheelchair, apparently due to a recent arson attack that went wrong.
He has a posse of carers with him, which leaves no room for me in the lift, so I give strict instructions that the group should go up to the third floor and wait for me there.
Then I run like a lunatic up the six half-flights of stairs. (Note to self: reconsider recent decision not to give up smoking. Anti-Nanny State rebellion is all very well, but being unable to breathe isn't.)
I get to the top (eventually) and wait for the lift to arrive. The light shows that it is on the second floor - oh, and going down. So where are they? I run around the third floor seeking the wheeled arsonist, but there's no sign of him. so it's back to the lift. Oh, hell - now the basement light is on.
I run back down six flights of stairs - God, my breathing's getting worse - but there's still no sign of the twisted fire-starter anywhere, or of his posse. There's nothing for it but to start running back upstairs again, but then I'm stopped on the second-floor landing by man brandishing a Tesco carrier bag and demanding to know where the MP's office is.
"Why?" I ask. Such stunning presence of mind.
"Because I've got a bomb here for the lying bastard," comes the reply.
The bomber is at least eighty and seems pretty shaky, so I direct him politely in the wrong direction, (towards the ground floor and the security doors that some f*ckwit obviously let him through earlier), then run up the remaining three flights and back into the office.
"Phone the Police!" I gasp at Greg. "Arsonist in the basement and bomber on the stairs."
To his credit, Greg merely raises his eyebrows before picking up the phone and dialling. I collapse in a chair, while The Boss continues to talk to someone on his mobile about his reasons for deciding not to stand for the Labour Party leadership. I don't think he listens to a word I say.
Half an hour later, a Police Constable brings me a very irritated arsonist and team, all of whom have apparently been lost in the underground car park for the last forty-five minutes. The Boss agrees to write to the manager of the arsonist's bail hostel to query the decision to refuse to allow smoking in the bedrooms.
Having been captured by the same Police Constable a short while later - he wasn't really built for speed - the ageing bomber accepts a cup of tea and sympathy, and is finally escorted off the premises, being allowed to keep his Tesco bag into the bargain. (Six tins of catfood and a packet of custard creams.)
Then The Boss says, "Nice to be back to normal, eh, Molly?" and goes off for his newly-arranged working lunch with the political editor of The Northwick Press, who doubles as the paper's restaurant critic. Does Andrew ever notice anything?
I try to tell Max all about it when I get home but, although he makes noises in all the right places and waits for me to finish, he then says what a bad day he's had with an enormously fat customer and a collapsing sofa.
It occurs to me that there are people in the world who are having intelligent conversations about philosophy, or semiotics, or feminism - right this minute. Why is it that I'm not one of them? I'm sure I was intended to be.
It all starts when I go downstairs to collect the arsonist for his surgery appointment, only to find him in a wheelchair, apparently due to a recent arson attack that went wrong.
He has a posse of carers with him, which leaves no room for me in the lift, so I give strict instructions that the group should go up to the third floor and wait for me there.
Then I run like a lunatic up the six half-flights of stairs. (Note to self: reconsider recent decision not to give up smoking. Anti-Nanny State rebellion is all very well, but being unable to breathe isn't.)
I get to the top (eventually) and wait for the lift to arrive. The light shows that it is on the second floor - oh, and going down. So where are they? I run around the third floor seeking the wheeled arsonist, but there's no sign of him. so it's back to the lift. Oh, hell - now the basement light is on.
I run back down six flights of stairs - God, my breathing's getting worse - but there's still no sign of the twisted fire-starter anywhere, or of his posse. There's nothing for it but to start running back upstairs again, but then I'm stopped on the second-floor landing by man brandishing a Tesco carrier bag and demanding to know where the MP's office is.
"Why?" I ask. Such stunning presence of mind.
"Because I've got a bomb here for the lying bastard," comes the reply.
The bomber is at least eighty and seems pretty shaky, so I direct him politely in the wrong direction, (towards the ground floor and the security doors that some f*ckwit obviously let him through earlier), then run up the remaining three flights and back into the office.
"Phone the Police!" I gasp at Greg. "Arsonist in the basement and bomber on the stairs."
To his credit, Greg merely raises his eyebrows before picking up the phone and dialling. I collapse in a chair, while The Boss continues to talk to someone on his mobile about his reasons for deciding not to stand for the Labour Party leadership. I don't think he listens to a word I say.
Half an hour later, a Police Constable brings me a very irritated arsonist and team, all of whom have apparently been lost in the underground car park for the last forty-five minutes. The Boss agrees to write to the manager of the arsonist's bail hostel to query the decision to refuse to allow smoking in the bedrooms.
Having been captured by the same Police Constable a short while later - he wasn't really built for speed - the ageing bomber accepts a cup of tea and sympathy, and is finally escorted off the premises, being allowed to keep his Tesco bag into the bargain. (Six tins of catfood and a packet of custard creams.)
Then The Boss says, "Nice to be back to normal, eh, Molly?" and goes off for his newly-arranged working lunch with the political editor of The Northwick Press, who doubles as the paper's restaurant critic. Does Andrew ever notice anything?
I try to tell Max all about it when I get home but, although he makes noises in all the right places and waits for me to finish, he then says what a bad day he's had with an enormously fat customer and a collapsing sofa.
It occurs to me that there are people in the world who are having intelligent conversations about philosophy, or semiotics, or feminism - right this minute. Why is it that I'm not one of them? I'm sure I was intended to be.
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