The Disappearance Of Josh Bennett & The Arrival Of Someone Who Looks Just Like Him.

As if it's not bad enough listening to the usual suspects moaning about Prince Andrew all day, things are getting out of hand at home as well.

I'm hovering in the kitchen talking to Max about the changes to pensions, while he makes *pancakes and tries to ignore our resident pensioner, aka Dad. Who is, as usual, shouting updates on something sports-related and terminally boring from the comfort of the sofa in the living room.

I may have to kill him if he doesn't hand the remote control over before the start of tonight's Channel 4 News. He's behaving as if he is the Slightly Overweight Controller of TV viewing and it's driving everybody nuts.

Josh got so fed up with it yesterday that he decided he'd go and stay at Holly's, just so that he could watch a programme all the way through for once. He didn't say when he'd be coming back, either.

That was the worst bit, actually. It's bad enough Connie being away at university, let alone the baby of the family moving out - despite the fact that said baby is almost six feet tall. I feel utterly bereft.

I bet this is only the start, too. Before you know it, I'll be in the throes of full-on Empty Nest Syndrome - and I bet my hormones will go berserk at the same time. Just to add to the joy.

I groan at the thought of how fast the hairs on my chin will grow when that happens, and then I bang my forehead on the kitchen counter. Not too hard - just for effect. Or that was the intention, anyway.

"Ow," I say.

"Mol, you're getting in the way," says Max. "That last pancake would have landed on you if I hadn't caught it. And what's the matter, anyway?"

"My son is being driven out of his home by a sex-mad pensioner with ADHD, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it," I say. "And we've become the kind of people who talk about pensions, too. Before you know it, the kids will be grudgingly visiting us in our cabbage-scented care home, and having to remind us who they are."

"I don't think you need to worry about that just yet," says Max. "Listen!"

I've never been so relieved to hear the front door open, and Vans-clad footsteps clonking along the hallway. At least one of my children still lives at home!

"That you, Joshua-wa?" I say. (Nicknames are big in our family, except when you're in trouble.)

Josh stops short in the doorway, and looks me up and down. His expression is completely blank.

"No," he says. "It's Frank Stephens to you."

See? Exactly what I was worried about. Though I had no idea pre-senile dementia came before the empty nest.



*Pancakes - today is Pancake Day. Which is some sort of religious festival, though I can't recall the detail, other than it's about giving up something you like. Religious Studies was very, very boring when I was a child.

Why Being The Pack Leader Means Different Things In Thailand And Russia

This Wikileaks thing just goes on and on, doesn't it? And everyone seems so surprised by what's coming out. Greg and I just don't get it - what did people think happened behind the scenes?

"One minute everyone's a conspiracy theorist," he says," and the next they're shocked at what governments get up to. You'd think people never watched Spooks."

"I know," I say. "But at least these leaked cables make The Boss' faux-pas look pretty minor."

"Oh, I reckon Andrew'd give his princely namesake a run for his money in the tactless stakes," says Greg.

Maybe The Boss has got more in common than he thought with the monarchy he claims to despise, though I bet he'd rather be like Putin. Talking of whom, Johnny emails me after lunch and says,

"You can call me Alpha Dog from now on. And I'm ordering you to have virtual sex with me right now."

It's odd how Johnny's bossiness is so sexy when Max's isn't. At least, it's not when it involves him making unilateral decisions to lend nymphomaniacs our car. I'm still stewing about that, when Johnny gets impatient, and sends another email:

"Tell me what you're wearing."

"Jacket, cardigan, woolly dress, t-shirt, and four - no five - thermal vests," I say. "Oh, and gloves and my coat. The boiler's still broken."

"Ah, well, I've got a conference call in five minutes," he says. "There probably isn't time for you to take all that off, let alone get down and dirty. Not with the speed you're typing at."

Honestly, I'm doing the best I can under difficult circumstances.

"Yes, well, Mr International Director of a Global Oil Company," I say. "I bet you have no idea what it's like to be cold. You just pocket the profits extracted from chilly mortals like me, while expecting virtual sex acts in sub-zero temperatures."

"Oh, don't start going all socialist on me again, woman," says Johnny. "We've got better things to do. And we're short of time, as I keep trying to impress upon you."

He's right, so I try to get into the spirit of the thing, but his odd language is bothering me.

"Since when do you say things like 'down and dirty'?" I say.

"Since I became the leader of the pack," he says.

This kills all desire stone dead. Has Johnny forgotten the ongoing trauma of my Dad's recent transformation into the Gary Glitter of Dorset? I wait ten minutes and then reply:

"Sorry, had to take an urgent call from Julian Assange. He's investigating leaks from oil companies."

That'll teach Johnny, though the usual suspects must be telepathic as they immediately start phoning and wanting to discuss what Assange is up to, and I'm bored stiff with the whole thing by the time I get home from work. It's just a pity that the rest of my family aren't.

First Mum phones to ask me whether I think the stories are true, and then Connie calls to ask the same thing.

"Yes," I say. "Probably. Now change the subject and tell me all your news."

"Well, I had an email from Grandad earlier today," says Connie. "He says he's homesick but he can't come home."

"Why?" I say. "Has Porn-Poon cleaned him out? Can't he even afford a plane ticket back from Thailand now?"

"No," says Connie. " I don't think it's that. He misses Dorset, but says that all the women in this UK are too old for him."

I am trying very hard not to think about Gary Glitter - for the second time today - but I can't help myself.

"What - all of them?" I say.

"Apparently," says Connie.

Oh, for Goodness' sake. The entire female population of this country is too old for a man of seventy-five? I despair. And I bet Stepmothers Mark I, II and III would too, not to mention Mum.

"Anyway," says Connie. "I spoke to one of the neurologists at work about it this afternoon. Described how Grandad's behaving and all that."

"And what did this neurologist say?" I ask.

"That it sounded a bit like frontal lobe dementia," says Connie. "It can cause complete disinhibition. But don't worry, I don't think it's hereditary."

Funnily enough, that thought hadn't occurred to me. Unless it doesn't just apply to a fetish for young Thai girls, and Putin lookalikes are included. I'd better phone Connie back and check.