The Mafia Moll, Or My Fair Lady: As You've Never Seen Her Before.

Is paranoia catching? I'm becoming as bad as the usual suspects, and I bet it's all their fault. Oh, and Johnny's, of course.

"Where've you been for the last few days?" he says in his first email of the day. "I've missed you."

"Riddled with insomnia due to 24-hour news, and being poisoned by a homicidal faun," I say. "I nearly died from that one."

"Don't be silly," says Johnny, sounding just like Max. "If anyone's out to poison you, it'll be you-know-who, because of the company you keep. And I told you not to keep taking the name of the *M-People in vain."

Talk about a lack of sympathy. I bet Shakespeare didn't behave like that to the object of his affection. Even if she did have unavoidable links to a Russian refugee with a fondness for peculiar hats.

"Romance is dead," I say to Johnny, apropos of nothing in particular.

"I know," he says. "In marriage, anyway. Not between us, though, surely?"

"I don't know that virtual sex in between your endless conference calls really counts as romance," I say.

I add a miserable *emoticon to that sentence, for effect. The young don't have an exclusive right to EMO statements, after all. We're all entitled to the odd moment of self-pity, no matter what Mum might say.

"It's pretty romantic to be besotted with each other even when we never see each other, though, isn't it?"

I don't think Johnny's being sarcastic, but you can never be too careful, so I have no idea of the correct response to this. It's probably safer to send another emoticon, just in case - though it takes me ages to decide between a smily face or a wink. In the end, I opt for both.

The more I think about it, the less I can work out why romance would have died between Johnny and his wife - if it really has. It's not as if they have money worries, annoying teenage children, or a non-existent social life, is it? Not like me and Max. And I bet they don't have a sex-mad parent staying with them either.

Just imagine Max coming home and saying,

"Darling, shall we go to the embassy ball tonight? I have a meeting with the Minister for Mafia, but the au pair can put the children to bed while you have a leisurely bath, and then I'll send the car to pick you up."

I'd feel like Eliza Doolittle if that happened to me - but gritty realism's more my scene. This evening ends up turning into a *kitchen sink drama, though I'm not sure if Max still qualifies as an angry young man. Not at his age - which seems to be the root of the problem.

When he arrives home from work, he kicks the front door shut so hard that a lump of plaster falls from the ceiling onto my head.

"Fuck it," he says. "Fuck the fucking lot of them."

Josh and I look at each other but keep quiet, and even Dad works out that now is probably not the time to turn the volume up, though I can tell he's itching to do just that. God knows what he's watching, though at least it isn't News 24.

Max says, "Fuck it," again, and then sits down on the sofa, and buries his head in his hands.

"What on earth's the matter?" I say. "Are you okay?"

"No," he says. "I didn't get the job. My job, effectively, or the one I've been doing for the last fifteen years, anyway. They felt other people's skills were more relevant, though their experience damn well wasn't."

Bloody hell. I tell you what, if I really had Mafia connections, a certain boss of a little-known furniture retail chain would be being bundled into the boot of a car right this minute. After being force-fed twenty-seven organic Scotch eggs and watching rolling news for a week without sleep.



*M-People - Johnny's code word for the Mafia, but in reality, a band from the 1990s, whose song, Moving On Up, is pretty much the polar opposite of what I've spent my life doing.
*Emoticon. A sad one; a happy one, and a winking one. The latter reminds me of someone annoying, but I can't think who.
*Kitchen Sink Drama - my life, summed up.

Turn On, Tune In, And Cop Out. (I Wish.)

Lightbulb moments are vastly over-rated. I've just had two of them and neither was enjoyable.

In the morning, Mr X phones to complain about his new council flat. Or, more specifically, about the lack of light bulbs in his new council flat. (I'm calling him Mr X because I'm too scared to risk naming him.)

Let's just say the conversation does not go well. My attempts to explain that he is expected to provide and fit his own light bulbs is interpreted as a combination of racism and discrimination; and then Mr X says that this is how he's been being treated ever since he arrived in the UK. From a previously war-torn part of Eastern Europe, which I'm also not willing to name.

Mr X is very het-up and becoming increasingly difficult to understand, so my asking him to repeat every other sentence really doesn't help. Eventually, he loses patience and starts yelling at me. Luckily the pitch isn't as ear-shattering as that which Miss Chambers can achieve, but what he says is much more worrying.

He's threatening to bomb the local housing office if he is not provided with light bulbs by the end of the day. I'd ignore it if he was one of the usual suspects, as they wouldn't have the faintest idea how to build a bomb - but Mr X seems an altogether different kettle of fish.

The detail he gives - not to mention the organisation of which he claims to be a member - makes his threat sound alarmingly credible, so now I am faced with a dilemma.

"Greg," I say. "I think I'm going to have to breach confidentiality again."

After I've explained why, Greg goes off on a rant about how refugees from war zones should be made to undergo counselling as part of the asylum process, so that they realise that they don't have to operate in the same way as may have become necessary in their homeland.

"Yeah, well - not helpful at this point," I say. "I don't think I'm likely to get Mr X any psychological help by this afternoon. I'll have to phone The Boss and get his permission to share the information instead."

"Huh. Good luck with that," says Greg. "Don't you remember what he was like about Mr Humphries? You got a right bollocking - just for giving a statement to the Police."

"Well, this time more people's lives might be on the line if I do nothing. So I haven't got any choice, have I?"

Honestly, imagine how cool it must be to have the sort of job where the biggest emergency you face is a collapsing bedstead. Not mentioning anyone's job in particular.

I pick up the phone and dial Andrew's number. There's no answer, so then I try his mobile - which goes straight to answer-phone. Brilliant. Mr X is probably assembling his bomb right this minute, while lots of unsuspecting housing officers sit calmly typing and drinking fruit tea.

I call Marie-Louise, who tells me that Andrew is in back-to-back meetings for the rest of the day, and has left his pager in the office. For God's sake - I give up. There's nothing for it but to make an executive decision, so I ring the Council and speak to the Head of Housing Services. Off the record, though I never really trust that anyone will honour that particular phrase.

After all that, it turns out that I needn't have worried. Or risked a bollocking. Apparently, Mr X phoned the Council and made the same threats, before he even called me. So the Police have been notified already, and the Housing Office is in the process of being evacuated.

All that's left for me to do is to try to extract a promise that someone from either the Police or the Council will let me know the outcome, but I don't have much faith that this will actually happen. Nor does Greg.

"They always bloody well forget about us," he says. "So I'm not leaving anything to chance."

He spends ages building a barricade in front of the door in case Mr X escapes the clutches of the Police and comes here to take his revenge. Joan knocks it down five minutes later when she comes in to ask for an up-to-date photo of The Boss for a newsletter. She says she didn't even notice it was there.

We're all so jumpy by now that no-one wants to answer the phone, in case it's Mr X again, so we decide to do it on a rota basis. Greg says he'll go first, Vicky's to go next,  and then it'll be my turn. And so on for the rest of the day - or that's the theory, anyway.

After Greg takes the first call - from Steve Ellington - the phone rings again.

"Your turn, Vicky," I say.

She shakes her head, and stray hairs go flying everywhere as usual.

"Count me out," she says. "I'm only a volunteer."

So it's my turn again. This time the caller's a lovely old lady called Mrs Worthington, who sounds very frail, but is scrupulously polite.

"So sorry to bother you, dear," she says. "But I don't know where else to turn."

"Don't worry about that," I say. "How can we help?"

"It's the lightbulbs in my flat."

For one insane moment, I imagine that Mr X has kidnapped Mrs Worthington and is holding her hostage until he is given a stock of lightbulbs, but then all becomes clear.

Mrs W tells me that she was widowed last year, very shortly after she and her late husband had exchanged their council house in the South East for a smaller one in Northwick - which has much higher ceilings.

As if the stress of bereavement and moving wasn't bad enough, she recently had a fall and is now barely able to walk, let alone climb on to a stool or use a ladder to reach the light-fittings.

"The last bulb went yesterday," she says. "And I don't know any of my neighbours, so I don't feel I can ask them for help. I don't like to bother people, and Fred and I were never blessed with any children."

"When you say 'the last bulb' - which room is it that has no lighting?" I say. Cooking by candlelight might be a bit hazardous, to say the least.

"Oh, all of them now, dear," she says. "That's why I had to phone you. I couldn't think who else to contact."

How desperately sad is that? When I finally get home - after checking behind me all the way to make sure Mr X isn't lurking in the shadows - I make a cup of tea, sit down and contemplate the height of our ceilings.

Then I climb onto a chair and try to reach the light fitting. It's miles away, so I try standing on the table, but I still can't reach the damned thing. Josh walks in and looks at me.

"What the hell are you doing, Mum?" he says.

"Trying to change a light bulb," I say. "By myself."

"You've got no chance of managing that. You're far too short. And anyway, this bulb's still working."

"That's not the point," I say. "I'm assessing the situation."

"Hopeless," is Josh's cruel verdict.

If he ever moves out, and then Max leaves me for James Bloody Blunt, I'll never see artificial light again.

Conflicting Interests All Over The Place

It's one of those days. First Mr Meeurghn phones, screeching about one of his neighbours picking on him. When I enquire a little further, it seems as if the neighbour objected to Mr Meeurghn ordering him to help carry a stereo and sofa up the stairs to Mr M's flat. Mr Meeurghn has no concept of the notion of asking someone nicely.

Now he says he can't go outside without the neighbour looking at him as if he wants to kill him.

"You write him and tell him," he yells.

"Tell him what?" I want to go home already. And it's only 10:30am.

"You tell him be nice to me, because I am refugee," says Mr Meeurghn.

I sometimes long for just a small part of the vast influence that Mr Meeurghn believes me to possess. I know who I'd use it on first - but that is just wishful thinking. In the absence of any meaningful super-powers, I spend ages trying to tell him that it is really up to him to improve his relationship with his neighbour, but he loses his temper and slams the phone down on me. I can't say I'm sorry.

Greg says, "He's on our list for the next DIY CRB check. Once bloody Recess is over."

I don't think we need to go and spy on Mr Meeurghn to know that he is a total nutter - not since the letter from the Home Office - but I suppose we could check out whether his neighbour looks like a reasonable person or not, just in case Mr M is telling the truth for once. You have to try to keep an open mind, after all. Though that's sometimes a bit of a tall order.

Then John Fuk-Yue phones. He tells me - for the umpteenth time - that the hospital have got his diagnosis wrong: that he has epilepsy, and not a personality disorder. He says that he needs an urgent meeting with me to discuss this in person, as he has to look into someone's eyes to trust them. I don't say that the problem with this idea is that I don't trust him, but I do agree to write to his doctor and express John's extreme disquiet.

"Remind me of the name of your GP?" I say. I can't remember everything off the top of my head, but John takes this as a personal affront.

"I've told you before," he says. "How many bloody times? I don't have a normal GP. I have that bastard that was allocated to me."

"Ah, yes - now I remember. Tell me again what reason they gave for that?"

"That I was too dangerous to be seen by anyone outside the secure medical centre," he says. "And all because I accidentally punched that nurse."

I take the name of the doctor, and agree to fax my letter to speed things up. I am instructed to include a long list of the specific symptoms which John believes signify epilepsy, and I am to point out that if he did have a personality disorder, his self-medication of paracetamol and alcohol wouldn't work. For Godsake - is everyone going to think they have the right to tell me how to do my job today?

I'm almost embarrassed to send the stupid letter, but John scares me more than a loss of dignity does, so I type it up quickly and fax it straight through. Half an hour later, I get a phone call from the medical centre. Doctor Granger would like to have an off-the-record conversation with me. I hate these - they are never good news.

"About our mutual acquaintance, Mr Fuk-Yue," he says. "If that's what he's still calling himself this week?"

"Yes," I say. "He hasn't changed his name for a while now."

"Well, you mentioned that he'd asked for a meeting with you. I'm phoning to tell you that I think that would be most inadvisable."

"Why's that?" I ask, though I have a horrible feeling that I already know the answer.

"Because he is an extremely dangerous, manipulative individual," says Doctor Granger. "You are aware of the special arrangements for his medical care?"

"Ye-es," I say. "He told me there was a misunderstanding when he punched a nurse by accident."

"Regrettably, there was a lot more to it than that, my dear. Suffice to say that, despite the guards at this facility, I myself will not see Mr Fuk-Yue without wearing a stab vest. I strongly advise that neither you nor your MP meet with him without security  - under any circumstances."

"Oh dear, I don't think Mr Sinclair will be happy about that. He refuses to have security, and doesn't believe that anyone should be denied access to their MP. Or to the MP's staff."

"Is Mr Sinclair there? I think I need to speak to him myself," says Dr Granger. God, he's masterful. I'd be quite turned on, if I wasn't so stressed. He reminds me of Johnny, apart from the Scottish accent. Or even Max, when he took control of the Josh situation yesterday. What is going on with my hormones?

The Boss is out of the office, trying to smooth over the situation with the St Helen's Road residents, so Dr Granger tells me to ask Andrew to call him when he comes back. I'm not very optimistic about the likely result of their conversation - realistically, as it turns out.

The Boss goes nuts when I explain what the GP wants. He yells at me, then phones Dr Granger and tells him that he has never had a problem with a constituent being violent, and that that is because of the way that he speaks to them - "soothingly and with respect."

I can only assume that Dr Granger demurs, because then Andrew says, "Unlike some people," in a rather offensive way.

There follows a lengthy argument, and then Andrew slams out of the office, glaring at me as he passes. I wait a few minutes, and then phone Dr Granger myself.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor - but I just wanted to thank you for your efforts to ensure my safety, and to apologise for Mr Sinclair's manner," I say. "He is under rather a lot of pressure today."

"Between you and me, lassie, I'd say he's not under enough pressure. The man needs a reality check. How many times have you been threatened or assaulted?" he asks.

"Um, quite a few," I say. "But then I see constituents rather more often than Mr Sinclair does."

"Exactly the point I made to him, before he hung up," says Dr Granger. "You be careful, my dear. And do not see that man alone."

Considering that John likes to "just pop in", and has frequently been found hanging around in the one corner of the lobby that is not visible from the security door, I'm not at all sure how I'm going to manage to avoid this. But it is nice to know that someone cares.

Greg decides to add John to the DIY CRB list before we go home. In the process of noting down the address, he realises that John lives in the same street as Mr Meeurghn. How did I miss that?

"Great," says Greg. "We can kill two birds with one stone and check 'em both out at the same time."

"That's if they haven't killed each other first," I say.

This leads to the uncomfortable realisation that, if Mr Meeurghn's neighbour is John Fuk-Yue, then Mr M may actually have a valid reason for his paranoia, for once in his life. And I am smack in the middle of a conflict of interest. That'll teach me to gloat about Andrew's cock-up with the St Helen's Road Hostel.

Mind you, I suppose that if Mr M and John did kill each other, that'd be two less scary people to contend with on a regular basis. Or maybe I could suggest that The Boss offers to arbitrate and pays them both a home visit. Then we'd soon see how effective his supposedly soothing voice really is.

I'd better not mention this idea to Greg. He's so cross with The Boss that he'd probably set up that appointment straight away. I wouldn't mind paying Dr Granger a home visit, though. I really need to get a grip on my hormones.