A Bumper Crop of Metaphors, Despite The Inattention (And General Uncaring Attitude) of Max, Whose Middle Name Obviously Isn't Percy Thrower*.

Honestly, and without wishing to sound like Miss Chambers, sometimes I'm sure I'm the victim of a conspiracy: to ensure that I never have sex again.

To his credit, Johnny seems to be trying to rescue me from this cruel fate, when he emails some rather intriguing suggestions as to what we could do if we were alone in my office - but then The Boss decides to phone for a chat.

"I hope you're not drinking coffee," he says.

"Um, no," I say. Truthfully, seeing as Johnny's scenario was far more appealing than a mug of Nescafe.

"Or losing your temper, either," says Andrew. "You sound a bit irritable, which also increases your chances of having a stroke. Along with having sex - but at least you won't be doing that at work."

"No," I say. "There's absolutely no chance of that."

By the time Andrew's finished telling me everything that might kill me before I ever have sex again, I've completely lost the urge to have it at all, so I send Johnny an email which simply reads:

"Mission aborted due to unforeseen circumstances."

Which is also what could be said to happen to my attempt to persuade Max that we should earn another gold star by impressing him with my new underwear. It's not as if Johnny ever got to see it, so I suppose it still does count as new.

As do the stars, almost - seeing as the packet's still almost entirely full. I'd quite like to use some of them up before the glue dries out, which is not a metaphor, but might as well be. (They're coming thick and fast today. Unlike some people I could mention.)

Anyway, I'm relying on my knickers to work their magic, once I get home from spending the evening at the Easemount Bowling Club, whose members are worried that they'll soon be without a green. They go on about it at quite some length, so the whole thing seems to take forever.

When I finally make my escape - having signally failed to learn to bowl - I find Max in the garden watering the plants. Or so he says, even though it's almost dark. It's also the night for putting out the bins, (since the Council changed the collection days to cope with all these bank holidays we've been having), so this could be a rather more convincing explanation.

I look up at Ellen's bedroom window, just to check, but there's no sign of her, naked or otherwise - though she could have dived behind the curtains when she heard me arriving home. Max's demeanour is definitely odd, so something must be going on.

I shall have to lure Ellen back out into the open, if I am to know for sure - but she won't come out if she can see that I'm still on the look-out. Evasive action is urgently required.

"How's the garden doing, Max?" I say, wandering casually around, and trying to hide myself in a rather attractive purple shrub.

"Be careful," he says, at the same time as I say, "Ow."

That's just typical, isn't it? The only plant big enough to provide cover for a very small person, and it has to be a bloody Berberis. Prickles everywhere, and that is not an euphemism.

"What are you doing, Mol?" says Max. "You know that plant's spiky - that's why we planted it. To deter Steve Ellington from burgling us again."

"Allegedly," I say - meaning the burglary, and not the planting. Or not the planting of the Berberis, at any rate.

I wish we hadn't planted it now, seeing as it's just ripped my skirt, and my lacy pants - not that Max seems to notice them. He's too busy looking at me as if I am mad, so I dab the blood off my arm with the hem of my skirt, and look around for inspiration. There must be another plant big enough to lurk behind.

"What the hell is this?" I say, picking up a tangled brownish mass of foliage that appears to be comprehensively dead, albeit that it's in a pot.

"Oh," says Max. "Ah. Um - that's the plant you bought me for our anniversary. I think I may have forgotten to plant it. Or to water it, actually."

I look at him, then down at the dead plant, then back at him. I'm trying to avoid recognising this latest metaphor for my life, but the bloody things just will not stop making their presence felt.

"So," I say, very slowly. "I buy you a Passionflower for our anniversary. And then you kill it - by neglect?"

Max winces, as he nods his head.



*Percy Thrower - Nan's favourite television gardener - and not a disco star, despite what Kenny Everett may have claimed.

The New Cold War And Strategies To Deal With It.

God, I had a terrible dream last night. I was standing outside the old Labour Party HQ in Millbank trying to hold the line against the massed troops of North Korea, who all looked like mini-Ellens. By myself, so this turned out about as well as you'd expect.

Those marching clones scare the shit out of me. I get the shivers every time I see them on the news, even when it isn't as freezing cold as it is today. They're much more frightening than the Russian soldiers who used to parade in front of Brezhnev* - probably because they look so much more focused. Like a demented band of pre-teen baton twirlers.

Anyway, my encounter with them leaves me with a sense of dread that lingers for most of the day. Mr Warner seems to be having the same problem. He comes to the office to tell me that TV Licensing still won't believe that he doesn't own a TV, and that things seems to be getting worse.

"Things are coming to a head," he says. "Everyone's out to get me now - including the bloody Council."

"Why do you think that?" I say.

"They haven't collected my rubbish for the last two months. Not since I wrote to TV Licensing and said I'd shoot anyone who tried to break into my flat. They must share information."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case. It's probably just a coincidence."

I make a note of the last date upon which he remembers his bin being emptied, and promise to see what I can do. Then I stand up and wait for Mr W to take the hint, but he just stays in his chair, fidgeting, and plucking at his clothing.

"Was there anything else?" I say.

Talk about a very bad move. Mr W stands up.

"Do you want to see my ulcer?" he says, as he drops his trousers.

Mr W's legs put me right off my lunch, so I donate my sandwich to the Greg winter stomach fuel fund and send Johnny an email instead. I attach a photo of my new haircut to give him a laugh.

"Wow. You look great," he says. "I'd be really proud to walk into a room with a woman who looked like that on my arm."

"Are you taking the piss?" I say. "I am already having a very bad day, so it's inadvisable."

"No. For Christ's sake, woman, can't you ever take a compliment? Thank you is the appropriate response."

Honestly - whatever must Johnny's wife look like if he thinks my haircut is okay? I apologise, anyway, and blame my grumpiness on the fact that, not only did I spend last night protecting the Labour Party from the North Koreans - singlehandedly -  but I am also freezing to death.

"What the hell are you talking about? North Koreans? And have you forgotten that I live in Russia?" he says. "Generally considered to be somewhat chillier than the UK?"

I have the last laugh on that one, though - as it turns out that it's colder here today than it is in bloody Moscow, although Johnny is quick to point out that it's much worse there in the depths of winter.

"Minus 10 is common," he says.

"Good job I don't live with you then," I say. "How on earth does your wife manage?"

"Oh, she has a mink coat."

The phones start ringing again then, so I don't manage to send my anti-fur response until after the office has closed. Johnny is completely undeterred.

"Yes, yes, PETA* and nasty fur coats - sometimes, darling, you are so predictable," he says. "But just wait until you've tried a winter here without one. You'll do a Naomi Campbell within days."

I'm not at all sure about this last comment. What's with the use of "you will" instead of "you would"? Mind you, with the Cold War that's raging at home at the moment, it's a very tempting thought.

Just imagine: instead of being Molly Bennett, overlooked wife and under-rated MP's caseworker, I could be Molly Hunter, wife of an adoring (if bossy) oil baron. I'd spend my life dancing at embassy parties and swanning around Moscow in designer clothes.

Including a fur coat which, even if I didn't object to it on moral grounds, would make me look like a Ewok. I suppose I'd better don my Primark jacket and head for home.


*Brezhnev, Leonid Ilyich. For those of you too young to remember him.
*PETA - People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, for whom Naomi Campbell was a spokesperson. Until she started wearing fur again.

A Whole New Dimension to Putting the Bins Out, Thanks to Annoying Ellen the Sex-Pest. Oh, and Teacher..

God, I am getting as blind as a bat. How are you supposed to pluck your eyebrows (or anything else) when you can't see them without glasses - even in a 25x magnifying mirror? God knows how many stray chin hairs are escaping my notice.

I need to get a better-paid job, so that I can start going to a beauty salon, like everyone else seems to. I have no idea how I'm going to tidy myself up sufficiently to pass inspection by Johnny. Maybe I can steal his glasses, and solve the problem that way.

Max doesn't appear to be having any trouble with his eyesight, though I bloody well wish he was. Tonight, he's about to take the rubbish out, ready for tomorrow's refuse collection, when - amazingly - Josh decides to be helpful and offers to do it instead. Well, it is late and Max does look tired, but even so, I'm not used to Josh being considerate. Maybe this is how it's going to be now he's left school?

"No, don't worry, I'll do it," says Max.

"Max," I say. "Are you mad? Josh - Josh - is voluntarily offering to do a household task, and you are turning him down?"

"Well, he'll probably fall over something in the dark," says Max. "And what with his arm, and everything..."

Josh is about as contrary as the usual suspects. If you refuse him anything, even something he doesn't really want, it immediately becomes irresistible. He grabs the bin bag from Max's hand, and heads out of the back door. Max looks really annoyed for a minute, and almost goes out after him, but then he just sits down heavily on the couch, and starts doing a Sudoku puzzle.

Josh is gone for what seems like ages, and just as I am about to go out looking for him, I hear the back door slam, and his footsteps along the hallway. He's shouting,

"Dad. Dad!"

"What?" says Max, as Josh comes into the room.

"Now I see why you wanted to take the bins out yourself. Bloody hell!"

Max is suddenly very red in the face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says.

"You bloody well do," says Josh.

"Well, I definitely don't," I say. "So could someone please enlighten me?"

"Come with me," says Josh, and drags me outside, along the garden path, and out of the the back gate. It's pretty dark, and I can't see where I'm treading, so I get a bit anxious.

"What am I looking out for, Josh?" I say. "I can't see a thing."

"Sshh!" says Josh. "Look up."

'Oh, my God," I say. "Is that what I think it is? Or rather, who I think it is?"

"Ellen?" says Josh. "Yeah. I saw her face when she first put the light on. Before she pulled the curtains in front of it."

"But she's naked," I say. "And why's she pressed against the glass?"

"Oh, I think the answer to that is obvious," says Josh.

If I had any eggs left after the Yorkshire puddings, I'd throw them at that bloody woman's window. What the hell does she think she's doing? And is this (presumably regular) floor show only for Max's benefit, or is it aimed at any of the neighbours who might be putting out their rubbish?

"Max! How often has that f*cking woman done this?" I may be yelling a little too loudly, as suddenly Ellen jerks backwards, and shuts her curtains properly. I have startled her, unless she's just achieved what she wanted. Yuck.

"Hush," says Max. "Come inside. You're making a spectacle of yourself."

"I am making a spectacle of myself? I am? What about that bloody lunatic?" God, I'm angry. I wouldn't mind so much if Ellen didn't always pretend that it she is my friend, and that Max is merely tolerated as my husband. I'm so angry that I accidentally burst into tears - I have been doing far too much crying this week. Then I remember the girls with cancer, and I get a grip.

"Okay, tell me the whole story," I say. "How long has she been doing this, and how many times?"

"No more than four or five," says Max. "That I've noticed."

"Oh, I think you'd notice. How did it start?" I am starting to feel icily calm now.

"One night I was taking out the rubbish and I smacked the bin bag into the gate, so it made a noise. Then something caught my eye, and I saw Ellen naked at the window. I think she was trying to fasten it."

"Oh really? Did she dive out of the way once she spotted you?"

"Well, no - now you come to mention it." Max sounds genuinely surprised. "But I looked away really fast anyway, 'cause I was worried she'd think I'd been spying on her."

"Dad, she's been playing you," says Josh. "You are an idiot. You should've said something."

It comes to something when teenagers are smarter than their parents, doesn't it? I take a deep breath, think again about the girls with cancer, then say,

"Okay. So when were you going to tell me about it, if ever?"

"I kept hoping it'd stop. And the longer it went on, the more impossible it got to tell you, as I thought you'd flip out and go round and smash her door down or something."

Max might be right about this, actually. I'm feeling pretty tempted to take some sort of direct action. He continues,

"And anyway, I don't think she just does it to me. I reckon she lies in wait for any of the men around here on bin night."

Good God. And Ellen is a teacher. Maybe she should change her subject specialism and start teaching sex education. It seems as if that'd be right up her street. Though talking of streets, I wish she wouldn't give practical bloody demonstrations on ours. I have no idea what to do about this, so I am going to sleep on it. In the absence of any eggs.