A Strategy To Produce Better MPs, By Molly Bennett, Aka The Mother Teresa Of Northwick

While I've been pole-axed by swirling rooms and trying to think philosophical thoughts, I've been mulling over the state of our politicians. Especially the one who ate my bloody sandwich this lunchtime.

It's occurred to me that MPs should be made to take sabbaticals, particularly as more and more of them seem to be becoming professional politicians before they've had any work or even life experience outside politics. Six to eight weeks a year ought to do it.

I know MPs already get months off when Parliament's in recess, but that's not what I mean. I'd make them take the same (i.e. much shorter) holidays as the rest of us (except for teachers like Ellen), then spend the rest of each Recess working at the sharp end. Under assumed identities, so they don't just get to see the bits that have been pre-gilded to impress them.

If The Boss had to spend a week or two in a hospital ward as an orderly, and then another few as a debt adviser, for example, he'd have a much better idea of the real situations his constituents face. And of the obstacles and possible solutions to their problems. Any attempt he made to influence policy formation as a result would at least have the virtue of being genuinely informed.

Andrew used to get some real-life input from constituents during surgeries, of course, but that was in the days when he was really listening. I don't know what's happened to him lately - whether he's burned-out, chronically tired, or just distracted by whatever is going on with Vicky - but he doesn't really seem to absorb what he's being told any more.

The only exception to this was the Leylandii business the other day, which is what got me started thinking about this, actually. I know his solution was completely impractical - as well as probably illegal - but at least he saw Mr and Mrs Parker's situation and really understood it, for once. And he brought it up afterwards, too. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

Maybe The Boss doesn't usually worry about the outcomes of constituents' cases because he's started to believe that his almighty power as an MP will override everything, whether it be social security regulations, or waiting lists, or even the housing shortage. Even so, it's depressing that, the longer he's been an MP, the less interest he seems to take in what happens to the people he promises we'll try to help.

I mean, it's nice that Greg and I are trusted to do a good job without any oversight, but I can't understand how Andrew can just forget about most of the constituents once they leave surgery. You'd think curiosity would kick in sometimes, if nothing else. Unless he just has a short attention span, like Dad. (And look where that's got him, not to mention me and Dinah.)

Greg and I have completely different attitudes. Even when we take annual leave, the first thing we do upon returning to work is to check what's been happening with our cases while we've been absent. That's if we haven't already phoned in during our holiday, especially if a significant deadline's been scheduled to occur while we're away.

We don't do it because it's our job - but because these people are real to us. (Too real in the case of the usual suspects, but that's a different issue.) At the risk of sounding like Mother Teresa, I wish that Andrew still seemed to care as much as we do. He was a much better MP when he did.

Anyway, I'm going off on a bit of a tangent, so I need to re-focus on the main argument - I really hope Mum's rambling Kevin Turvey thing isn't hereditary - and explain why my sabbaticals suggestion would be good for MPs in other ways, too.

When Michael Portillo spent a week living with that single mother on benefits, it didn't do him any harm, did it? Even though he didn't go undercover, it did bring him good publicity. I've had a sneaking affection for him ever since, and I bet I'm not the only one.

It also helped that, although Portillo did look completely out of his depth, he did at least seem aware that he was in deep water. I'm starting to wonder if Andrew thinks he can bloody walk on it. And as far as his political philosophy goes, well - there's more to that than smoking a pipe and wandering around trying to look like Jean-Paul Sartre, isn't there?

So, to sum up - quick, before Channel 4 News starts - if MPs really want to help anyone, and to make policies with a chance of achieving their aims, then a regular reality check would be A Bloody Good Thing.

There endeth the sermon as delivered by Molly Bennett in uncharacteristically dictatorial mode. This may be due to vertigo, but hopefully normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

Trained monkeys, Dr Snuffleopagus and the Drama Queen.

Things are really looking up. Today's the last day of Recess, and The Boss still isn't speaking to me, so Greg has to do surgery again. The usual suspects seem to be otherwise occupied, and work is thoroughly uneventful - which is just how I like it.

To add to my joy, Josh phones at lunchtime to tell me he's got an interview at the cinema on Monday. Bloody hell. So all my worrying about his unemployability may have been for nothing.

I'm not used to everything going so well, so I get a bit nervous - with reason, as it turns out. My whole evening is interrupted by various members of my family. First Connie phones.

"I hate my new job," she says. "I wish I hadn't applied for this bloody internship now."

"Why?" I say. Doesn't she realise what an honour it was to be selected? There aren't many internships as prestigious as this, nor that are as well-paid. Connie's earning almost as much as Max - though I haven't told him that.

"A trained monkey could do what I'm doing," says Connie, hiccuping with outrage. "Or a robot. And my boss is awful."

"Oh, well - join the club on that one," I say. I am still working on the principle that, if it isn't cancer, shut up about it.

"He hates women, and only speaks to me when he has to, Mum." God, this is like deja-vu. My maternal sympathy finally kicks in.

"Oh, poor you, Connie," I say. "I know all about that one. Give it another week, and then speak to him about it if it doesn't get any better."

"I would, Mum," she says, "But I can't pronounce his name properly. I can't call him Dr Snuffleopagus, which is what it sounds like, can I?"

This might appear to be a minor problem, but Connie takes such things very seriously indeed. She was once reduced to tears of embarrassment when she phoned the kebab shop to place an order, and couldn't understand what the man who answered was saying. She couldn't handle asking him to repeat what he'd said more than twice, in case he thought she was taking the piss - so, instead, she lost the plot and had to pass the phone to Josh - who presumably reminded them that his father was dead, and negotiated a discount.

I finally calm Connie down a bit, and am looking forward to an early night, when I get a text from Dinah.

"I've had bad news," she says.

This doesn't sound like something to discuss by text message so I try to phone her, but she doesn't answer. Instead she texts again:

"I don't want to talk about it." Oh, for God's sake. I text back:

"Then why bloody well text me in the first place FFS*?" I am definitely becoming more impatient by the day.

There is a lull, and then three texts arrive in quick succession. In them, Dinah spells out her distress at being diagnosed with a serious illness when she saw her GP this morning. Now I feel terrible.

"God, I'm sorry, sis," I type. "What is it?"

Back comes the reply, as quick as a flash.

"HPD."

What the hell is that? I didn't even know Dinah was feeling ill. Or not any more than usual, anyway. Hypochondria runs in the family.

"Dinah, I've never heard of HPD, I'm sorry. What is it?"

"Histrionic Personality Disorder."

I almost collapse laughing. Max thinks I'm choking and starts trying to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on me, until I fight him off.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" he says. "Are you hysterical or something?"

"Probably," I say. "Dinah's just been diagnosed with Histrionic Personality Disorder."

"How did it take them so long to work that one out?" Max says. "That's just another word for Drama Queen-itis."

Later, I go onto Facebook to try to work out where Josh has gone for the evening, and notice that Dinah has updated her status. It now reads, "Dinah is finding it very hard to cope with her HPD diagnosis." I resist the temptation to leave a sarcastic comment, but the effort nearly kills me, and now I need a lie-down. Attention-seeking Facebook statuses always stress me out, even though I make it a matter of principle to ignore them. It's never a good idea to encourage nutters, whether at work or in your private life.

*FFS - for those of you over the age of thirty-five or who do not have teenage children to keep you abreast of what's hip and happening in text-speak, FFS means "for f*ck's sake."

Josh Finds a Real-Life Use for Film Studies.

Greg answers the phone first thing, and then imparts some wonderful news: The Boss has decided to take today and tomorrow off. Oh, the relief! Greg does some celebratory sit-ups, and I even attempt a few. Well, one - but it's a start. (I need to build up quite quickly though - there's only just over a week to go, until I meet Johnny.)

Even though this probably represents the shortest summer holiday ever known to man - apart from mine and Greg's, of course - Recess ends on Friday, so who cares? And, even though it is short notice, we don't need to re-schedule most of Andrew's appointments, as we only made them to give him something to do - so it'll hardly be a disaster if they never take place.

We're so elated that we zoom through today's work. There are none of The Boss' usual pointless interruptions, and my concentration is much improved by the absence of the cloud of his recent disapproval. I'm actually in quite a good mood by the time I get home.

Josh isn't. He's had to sign on for the first time today, and when I ask how he got on, he starts ranting like Mr Meeurghn.

"Why don't they tell you not to join the bloody queue in the entrance to the Jobcentre?" he yells. "Standing there like a muppet made me late to sign on, and then I got in trouble, even though I'd been in the building for ages."

"What happened?" I say. (Honestly, sometimes my home life resembles my working day in a very depressing manner.)

"The woman said that she was showing me a yellow card," says Josh.

"What?" I find this hard to believe. "Did she actually say that?"

"Yes," says Josh. "She seemed to think she was Alec Bloody Ferguson. And would it kill the staff to call people by their full names?"

"What do you mean?"

"When it's your turn to sign on, they only call you by your surname," says Josh. "It was worse then being at school. She just shouted, 'Bennett!' Talk about dehumanising."

I am amazed that my son knows the word, let alone uses it in normal conversation. Maybe I am not such a bad mother after all.

If I get a chance, I shall speak to the manager of the Jobcentre tomorrow, and check whether his staff are supposed to be talking to claimants like that. There's no call for it. After all, if they weren't lucky enough to have lots of unemployed people to deal with, they'd be out of work themselves. And if I can manage to be civil to the usual suspects - when they're all completely bonkers and abusive - then it doesn't seem too much to expect Jobcentre staff to bloody well be polite to sane, pleasant people. (Not to mention that I don't take well to people picking on my children, as Mr Thumb almost learned to his cost.)

Josh is so annoyed about the whole experience that he says he never wants to sign on again, and I start wondering whether the Jobcentre have a deliberate policy of being thoroughly unpleasant to people, in order to deter them from making claims? I don't mention this to Josh, as there's no point in winding him up, and anyway, it turns out that today's visit wasn't a complete waste of time. He must have compensated for the yellow card somehow, as he has been approved to apply for a job for which the Jobcentre are pre-selecting candidates. It's at the cinema.

"I told you Film Studies would come in handy," he says.

I think he's being a bit over-optimistic, but wisely keep quiet. You have to allow your kids to retain some comforting illusions, after all. And anyway, at least the job is full-time, so I am going to keep my fingers crossed Josh gets it. Maybe he'll even be moving out soon, once he has saved up enough money for the deposit on a rented flat. Then Max and I will be able to have rampant sex all over the house, hopefully before we get osteoporosis and can't take the risk, despite finally having the opportunity.

This thought makes me almost as keen to get things moving as Josh is, so I spend all evening helping him write a CV. This involves making a mountain out of the veritable molehill that is Josh's meagre work experience, and proves very challenging. Honestly, what chance do school-leavers have of finding work in this economic climate, when listing their skills and experience barely fills half a side of A4?

In the end, I agree to pad the CV out by trying to make Josh's hobbies sound far more productive than they actually are - though I refuse to add "National Skateboarding Champion" to his list of achievements.  You never know, he might be asked to give a demonstration at interview, and then where would he be? Though I suppose he could always use his (un)broken arm as an excuse. He'd probably claim it was a skateboarding accident, now I come to think of it - which occurred during a world record attempt. I do hope that he'll find a job where he can put all that imagination to good use.