A Rather Less Than Poetic, But Nevertheless Indisputable Display of Synchronicity.

God, being in love makes people annoying, doesn't it? Greg is really getting on my nerves.

"Jess says she can come away with me next week," he says. "She's managed to get the time off work - isn't that a stroke of luck?"

"I thought she was a poet," I say. "So I didn't think time off would be a problem."

"Yes, but don't forget she has massage clients too," says Greg.

I had forgotten that. No wonder he likes Jess so much.

Now he's got a very far-away look in his eye, so I decide to go and have a cigarette. There's only so much I can take of other people's sex-lives, without the need for nicotine.

I smoke as slowly as I can, and then stop off in the Labour Party office to chat to Joan, but Greg's still thinking about Jess by the time that I get back.

"It was synchronicity," he says. "Me meeting Jess, you know."

"Humph," I say.

No-one wants to be reminded of Sting when they're trying to avoid the thought of other people's sex lives.

"Don't you believe in synchronicity?" says Greg.

"No," I say - which proves to be a big mistake, but not one that becomes obvious immediately.

Things are unusually quiet for the rest of the morning, mainly because The Boss is still in London for this week's Friday sitting of the House. He doesn't get back here until just before the start of surgery - which quickly becomes quite demanding, despite the fact that all the usual suspects seem to be away on holiday.

I don't recognise any of the people who've booked appointments - for a change - but most of them want to talk about the Government's NHS and welfare reforms. At length, as you can imagine.

The Boss looks quite relieved when Miss Ventnor decides to buck the trend: she's got a thing about light pollution.

"City dwellers are being deprived of the pleasure to be had from seeing the stars," she says. To The Boss - she doesn't seem to have noticed me. Maybe she only sees properly in the dark.

"I agree," says Andrew. "It's a terrible shame. There's nothing like a starry sky."

He's looking pretty starry-eyed himself. Miss V isn't what you'd describe as unattractive.

She's also quite poetic, especially on the subject of wildlife and what birds and animals suffer as  result of becoming confused between day and night. Andrew's nodding his head so much in agreement that I'm sure I can hear his vertebrae cracking.

The mutual love-in takes so long that, by the time The Boss has agreed to join the campaign against light pollution and I have shown Miss Ventnor out - and ushered in Mrs Jackson to take her place - we're running even later than usual.

The Boss doesn't seem worried, though. Mrs J's even more attractive than her predecessor.

"I'm sure you didn't agree with Ken Clarke about sentencing, or degrees of rape, did you, Mr Sinclair?" she says.

"No, indeed I didn't," says Andrew, right on cue.

"Well, then," says Mrs J. "What are you going to do to protect the women of Northwick - and to stop the Council's plans to turn some of the street-lights off?"

"If you'll just excuse me," I say. "I have an urgent call to make. You'll be able to manage this without me, won't you, Andrew?"

I don't wait for an answer, as I pick up my notes and beat a retreat.

Andrew's still not talking to me by the time we leave the office this evening, but I don't care. Sometimes it's healthy for MPs to decide where they stand on issues all by themselves.

"That was a bit cruel of you, Mol," says Max, when I tell him about it. "You know Andrew always gets himself in a muddle with this sort of thing."

I'm about to defend myself, when there's an almighty crack from overhead, and the kitchen light goes out.

"Good God," I say. "What the hell was that?"

"The bloody lightbulb exploded again," says Max. "That's the third one that's done it in the last few weeks."

I start sweeping the glass up off the floor, but Max has just finished putting the food onto our plates, so he tells me to leave the mess until after we've eaten.

"Took me ages to cook this," he says, "so I don't want it to get cold. Eating's the priority, not clearing up."

I agree with him, until I take my first mouthful, and bite down on a shard of glass.

I may need to re-think my position on synchronicity. And on lighting.

Back To Coventry, Metaphorically-Speaking. And The Birth Of A Youth Activist.

Marvellous. It's Friday again, and The Boss isn't speaking to me, also again. This is probably how things are between Boris and Dave at the moment, too - but it makes surgery rather difficult to handle, to say the least.

I start off by trying to persuade Andrew to be moderate in his responses to enquiries, but he soon makes it plain that he's not willing to listen to a word I say. This results in things becoming farcical quite quickly.

The first constituent is an ex-con, who wants The Boss to write to his GP to persuade him to issue a prescription for Viagra.

"I can't get it up no longer," he says. "It's right traumatic."

The Boss nods sagely, as if he can imagine this only too well.

"Terrible thing, terrible," he says. "Have you tried asking your doctor yourself?"

"Yep. He won't agree to it. He's prejudiced against offenders."

"What were you in prison for?" I say.

"Rape."

Now The Boss wants me to write to the doctor to point out that this constituent has served his time and is as entitled to a sex-life as anyone else. (That's debatable, from my perspective. It's not as if everyone is having rampant sex, after all.)

The next constituent is no better. He's a convicted paedophile. (Is the bail hostel running a day-trip to our office, or something?) Now I'm supposed to persuade the man's victim to meet him - to help the paedophile deal with his feelings about the event.

By this point, it feels as if the world has gone stark staring mad. God knows what the press will make of The Boss' intercession in either of these bloody cases, if the news gets out.

The last constituent's a bit of a shock, too. When I go to the door, and call for Mr Johnson, a teenage youth stands up. Followed by Josh.

"Oh, hi, Josh," I say. "I'm busy at the moment. I'll be about half an hour if you want to wait for me."

"I'm with Ben," says Josh. 'I'm his McKenzie's friend." (I wondered why he asked me about that the other night! Reminder to self: always dig deeper before answering.)

"Oh. I see." I don't, actually. I have no idea what is going on.

"We've come to see our MP," says Josh. "There's something very dodgy going on at the cinema, and someone needs to do something about it."

Now it seems as if The Boss agrees. When Ben has told Andrew that he's been forced to resign, Josh takes over. (I think he may have missed the bit where the McKenzie's friend is supposed to remain silent.)

He explains that the cinema has just taken on another batch of new employees. Before anyone can think that this is an early indicator of the private sector stepping in to fill the gap left by public sector redundancies, Josh says that most of those who already have jobs are being got rid of - by stealth. Like Ben.

Apparently, a steady stream of cinema workers are being called in to see the managers, accused of small misdemeanours such as taking a day off sick, and then advised to resign "if they want to make sure they have a good reference."

Josh says that these culls of employees happen fairly regularly, according to the few staff who have managed to keep their jobs for longer than a year.

"But what's the point of that, if the company then has to recruit to fill the jobs again?" I say.

"Well, Mum," says Josh. "Oh, sorry, Mrs Bennett - the rumour is that the company gets financial incentives for every worker it takes from the dole queue. And they don't have to employ them for long to earn it."

"Bloody hell," says The Boss. "So they can claim for a new lot every six months or so?"

"Seems that way," says Josh. "If everyone goes quietly. Only I don't see why they should, do you?"

Well, that was a surprise. Even The Boss is impressed. When we get back to the office, he actually speaks to me.

"Quite the young activist, your son - isn't he?" he says. "Seems he's inherited your reforming zeal. It's just a shame yours seems to have disappeared, eh, Molly?"

Then he picks up his briefcase, says, "Come on, Vicky - I'll buy you a coffee," and walks out of the door.

"Well, we can't all be red-soled philanthropists," I say - to his retreating back. All my best lines, doomed to remain unheard.