The Battle Of Balaclava, Mafioso-Style.

I know it's pathetic to moan about this, given the terrible things that are happening in Libya and New Zealand, but, bloody hell, shopping's such a hazard when you work for an MP. Poor old Greg looks as if he's seen a ghost when he comes back from lunch.

"Christ," he says, before throwing himself onto the sofa in the Oprah Room and closing his eyes as if he's in pain.

"What on earth's the matter?" I say. "And get off there before The Boss and Vicky come back and decide you've been sleeping on the job."

"I shall just tell them that I have had a relapse of *PTSD," says Greg. "Caused by the trauma of encountering Steve Ellington at the pharmacy counter in Boots. Is it too much to expect constituents to keep their bloody distance when you're on your lunch-break and engaged in a sensitive transaction? "

I know exactly what Greg means. MPs' staff should be like teachers and live anywhere other than the town in which we work. You never know who is going to pop up and start demanding to know what the point of the United Nations is, right at the moment when you're trying to read the instructions on a bottle of Durex Play Gel - not that that's ever happened to me, of course. It's just an example I thought up off the top of my head.

"What were you buying?" I ask. "Anything embarrassing?"

"Imodium," says Greg. "I can't tell you how much fun Steve E had with that, but suffice it to say that it involved lots of increasingly-tedious references to politicians' tendency to verbal diarrhoea. So I've come up with a cunning plan to camouflage ourselves while we shop in future, and I've bought you something to help achieve that aim. Pass me that carrier bag."

I do as I'm told, and then wait while Greg rummages through endless packets of Imodium, two cans of Red Bull and three bags of Haribo Starmix. After what feels like hours, he finally says, "Got it!" and chucks something at me.

I'd be lethal in a riot as I can't help catching anything that anyone throws at me. It's automatic after years of parenting Josh, who went through a rather lengthy and dangerous stage of saying, "Catch!" at the same time as throwing hard objects straight at Connie's head.

So of course I obey Greg's instruction, and then stare in disbelief at the shapeless black thing that's landed in my hand, and which seems to be knitted from thick black wool.

"Um, thanks," I say. "It's very nice. But why are there holes in it, and what is it for?"

"It's a balaclava, you fool," says Greg. "I bought myself one, too. We just put them on whenever we leave the office - and then we can stay incognito wherever we go. Brilliant, eh? Let's try them on, and see how we look."

Which may have been a mistake, in retrospect - judging by how Andrew and Vicky react to the sight of us when they walk back into the office. Vicky starts screaming, and The Boss pulls her in front of him as if she were a riot shield.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he says.

"Whapf?" says Greg, which is a significant achievement with a mouthful of Haribos. My teeth are so firmly stuck together that I'm incapable of making any sound at all.

The Boss drops his voice and pulls Vicky closer to him, before continuing:

"Are you the Russian Mafia? If so, I'm not the man you're looking for - but I do know where he lives."

"Nompf, youfoof - s'mee," says Greg - twice, before he gives up and removes his balaclava, and gestures at me to do the same.

Some people have no sense of humour at all. Even after Greg's pointed out that terrorists and mafioso don't usually fill the time spent lying in wait for their victims by typing letters, The Boss still can't see the funny side of the whole thing. He doesn't speak to us for the rest of the afternoon, and Vicky doesn't speak to him, either.

"Why's Vicky giving The Boss the silent treatment?" I say to Greg, when we sneak off to the Labour Party office to get away from the chilly atmosphere pervading ours.

"Didn't you hear what she said when he finally released his grip on her?" says Greg.

"No," I say. "I was still trying to pull my balaclava off, so I couldn't hear anything at all. It's a bit tight and I couldn't get it over my ears."

"Yeah, I spotted that," says Greg. "You looked a bit like Colonel Gaddafi crossed with a Meerkat who'd joined the Special Forces. Anyway, Vicky called Andrew a spineless coward for hiding behind her - so maybe she's not as daft as she looks."

Which is a lot more than can be said for  me and Greg when we're wearing our new shopping kit.


*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. What Greg claims to be suffering from whenever he wants a day off to recover from a hangover.

Brothers In Arms, Or Comrades In Dodgy Hats, And An Inability To Think Creatively During Virtual Sex.

Oh, for God's sake. All these revolutions are even more contagious than I thought. Now Igor has decided it's time to stand up to Putin and Dmitry Medvedev. He comes marching into the office, pauses for dramatic effect, and then waves his fist in a solidarity salute.

"Good morning, dear ones," he says. "I come to tell you that freedom starts here. In this small room."

It doesn't feel that way to me, but I just smile politely and get on with typing a reply to yet another letter about cuts to library services.

"Nice hat, Igor," says Greg. "Looks exactly like the one Colonel Gaddafi was wearing last night. Bit of an odd choice for a leader of a revolution, though, isn't it?"

"A lot of body heat goes out through your head - whizz - just like that," says Igor. "And Russia is a very cold country."

The Boss nods sagely at this piece of useless information, then starts eating one of Greg's Twixes.

"Help yourself, Andrew," says Greg. "Don't mind me. What's mine is yours in the socialist state that is Northwick Constituency Office. And, Igor - seeing as Andrew doesn't like to be left out of anything, are you going to get him a hat like that, too? As an alternative to your matching fedoras?"

"Oh, yes, I do that - of course - if Comrade Andrew wishes me to," says Igor. "Then we wear them into battle when the fight begins."

Greg starts laughing, but The Boss doesn't join in. In fact, he's gone decidedly pale.

"What's the matter, Andrew?" says Greg. "Sugar rush, or have you lost your revolutionary zeal, all of a sudden?"

"No," says The Boss. "I've just got a lot on today, what with protesting against the cuts at the County Council and that visit to the Laryngectomy Club, so I'm not sure I've got time -"

"Pfft," says Igor. "There is nothing more important than freedom of people. Now we go to pub to make plans and to drink a little vodka, yes?"

Andrew looks as if he'd prefer to do anything rather than spend the afternoon with a mad Russian with a taste for extravagant millinery, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he just picks up his coat and follows Igor out of the door - making his role in the forthcoming conflict seem likely to be no more than that of camp follower.

"Fan-bloody-tastic," says Greg. "That's what I call leadership.  Igor's obviously a natural, unlike some people. And now they'll both get so pissed that we'll be free of The Boss for the rest of the day. God bless Igor, that's what I say."

"Hmm, yes," I say. "Though I can't help wondering when he's going to remember that it's the Russian Mafia that he's actually terrified of. He seems to have forgotten about them in all the excitement about Putin and Medvedev."

"Vodka-related Mafia amnesia," says Greg, which Igor might quite possibly have developed, but which Johnny certainly hasn't. He nearly bites my head off when I accidentally say the M-word while telling him about Igor's plans.

"How many times to I have to tell you not to mention those people?" he says. "If you're not careful, you'll get me thrown out of Russia."

"Well, would that be so bad?" I say. "At least it'd be easier for us to meet up if you were based in the UK instead of in bloody Moscow."

"Be careful what you wish for," he says. "I'm due to hear about my next posting fairly soon. Though if one thing's certain, it's that it definitely won't be in the UK."

Then he goes on to tell me that he's hoping for Dubai. Dubai, for God's sake. As if Russia wasn't far enough away.

"It was supposed to be Bahrain next," he says. "But that probably isn't going to come off now, with everything that's happened. I just hope I don't get Nigeria again."

I don't know what to say as I'm too busy trying to work out how I have managed not only to have a marriage which provides virtually no sex, but a virtual affair which offers even less. And with a man who lives in another country - and soon to be another continent. I am completely bloody hopeless.

"So what will happen to us if you go to Dubai, then?" I say.

"Nothing," says Johnny. "Seeing as we've botched up every attempt we've made to meet so far, I can't see it's going to make any difference. I'll still be flying back to Britain fairly regularly - just not as often as before, so we'll just have to get our act together, and not let anything bugger up our next meeting."

"Oh," I say. "I see. So what do we do in the meantime?"

"We just carry on using our imaginations. Now tell me what you're wearing, and hurry up because I've got a planning meeting in ten minutes."

"A furry hat with earflaps," I say - which is all I can think of for some strange reason.

A Secret Mission. Which Has Nothing To Do With Russia.

I've been trying to catch up on all the WikiLeaks stuff. No wonder Johnny's so reluctant to say the M-word, given what the cables say about life in Russia! Maybe Igor isn't as mad as he seems, either. I shall be nicer to him next time he drops in to the office.

In fact, I shall make that one of my New Year resolutions. Along with saving my marriage and having more sex. Hopefully I can kill both those birds with one stone, but if I can't, I shall have to have a re-think.

Johnny says he's still more than happy to step in to fill the breach - as it were - so I can only assume he's got over his anxiety about what Max's height might signify.

"I just miss romance," I say. "You know, someone who has eyes for no-one else, and who really, really loves you. Like Dr Zhivago loved Lara."

"Well, that film wasn't set in Russia by accident," he says. "It's a lot more romantic than the UK. That's why I'm a better bet if grand gestures are what you're after. I've been here so long, I've practically gone native."

"Well, actually, I think that's where Pasternak set the book," I say. "And, anyway, given that you say you miss romance too, I can't see that there can be much of it in Russia either."

"That's because my Lara is in bloody Northwick," he says. "And won't even travel to Heathrow to reach me, let alone over the Urals in the snow."

Me? Johnny's Lara? Has he been on the vodka? His eyesight must be worse than I thought. I'm a bit dizzy after that, so I pretend I have an important meeting to attend and can't spend any more time talking to him today.

"Email me tomorrow, then," he says. "And think about when we're going to get together for real. If you want to, I might be able to get away for a day or so between Christmas and New Year. As long as flights into the UK aren't grounded by an inch of snow again."

Oh, hell. Now I'm really stressed. If I get in any deeper with Johnny, not only will I probably end up getting deported as a Russian spy, and then being murdered by the Mafia for my connection to Igor, but I don't want to cheat on Max if he isn't cheating on me.

So I seriously need to find out if he is. Trouble is, there's no shortage of candidates since last week's Christmas meal. It's been bad enough trying to work out what's going on with Annoying Ellen, but now there's Bloody Bambi to contend with as well. Who to focus on first?

I can't reach a decision even though I have plenty of time to think about it, given that I spend half of the afternoon sticking stamps on to all the envelopes containing The Boss's Christmas cards, and the other half standing in a queue in the Post Office waiting to buy some more.

If so many of the cards didn't need Airmail stamps, I could have just bought a few books of first-class in Superdrug or somewhere. Not for the first time, I curse Andrew's fondness for overseas jollies. I hate the Post Office - it always smells funny, the lights are permanently set to flicker, and its acoustics are a nightmare.

By the time I escape, it is almost closing time and I have completely gone off - in no particular order - young women with screaming babies; initially-cute toddlers who never seem to tire of knocking over the barriers onto other people's feet; and white youths who speak as if they were black. Not to mention everyone who sells anything via eBay, and eccentric old people trying to remember where they put their shopping lists.

Watching a pensioner searching irritably through her handbag, I suddenly realise how much nicer it is to be thought of as Lara rather than as an grumpy old woman, which seems to be how Max sees me. If he sees me at all.

Just as the thought occurs to me, I spot Max walking past the entrance to the Post Office, and assume that he's on his way home, until I see that he is being accompanied by Bambi. Neither of them have noticed me - no change there, then - so I watch for a moment, dithering, before I take out my mobile and phone Greg.

"Can you lock up tonight?" I say. "I've only just got out of the Post Office and now I'm on an urgent mission."

I wonder if tiptoeing makes you more conspicuous than walking normally when you're stalking someone? It certainly makes you more likely to fall over on icy patches.

God knows when I'll next get a chance to follow Max and see what he's up to, though I must admit that those boys were very kind - even if they did insist on calling each other "bro" and "my man" while helping me to my feet.