Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot. And Then Not, Not, Not.

Bloody hell, I've got to do something about Max's snoring. He woke me up God knows how many times last night. By 5:00am I was plotting to kill him, and I wasn't intending it to be quick and painless, either.

Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.

"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."

"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."

I look at him in disbelief.

"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."

"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."

Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.

Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.

Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?

"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."

"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."

Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got  the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.

"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"

"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."

"Oh," says Greg. "Her."

It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.

Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.

"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."

"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."

I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.

Spinelessness In The Face Of Provocation.

I am knackered. I know I've said it before but, honestly, snoring really should be grounds for divorce. I finally drag myself out of bed mid-morning, but just can't be bothered to get dressed. It's too cold to undress first, anyway.

So I'm still sitting around in my thermals and hideous fleece nightshirt - attractively topped off with both my own and Max's dressing gowns - at lunchtime, when the doorbell rings. Then Max invites Ellen to come in, the idiot.

I glare at him, while she produces a gift-wrapped plant pot and hands it to me.

"This is for you, Molly," she says. "As a thank-you for the loan of the car last weekend."

I'm not exactly sure what comes out of my mouth next, but it's something along the lines of, "Humph."

Gracious is my middle name where nymphomaniac neighbours are concerned. And I don't like Christmas cactuses anyway (or should that be cacti?). They never bloody flower, just sit there promising much and delivering very little. A bit like certain governments I could mention.

My lack of enthusiasm must be obvious, because Ellen says,

"Max said you weren't very happy about him lending it to me - but it was all my fault. You mustn't blame him."

She pats Max on the arm at the same time as saying this, and it's all I can do not to swat her hand away. And what gives her the right to tell me when to be cross with my own husband?

"Humph," I say again.

I'm getting grumpier by the minute, but in the absence of any proof that she is sleeping with Max, there's nothing I can do but try to pull myself together, which is challenging in this outfit.

Luckily, Ellen is off to do her Christmas shopping, so she doesn't stay long. I'm so relieved that I manage to avoid asking why she hasn't already done it, given that her school has been closed since the first hint of snow.

After she's gone, I unwrap the cactus and put it on the table, and then I start to feel a bit guilty for being so rude to her, despite the restraint I showed about school closures. What if she isn't up to anything with Max? That'd make me the bad guy - especially if you  take Johnny into account. Thank God I didn't have virtual sex with him the other day.

If I told idiot brother Robin about it, he'd no doubt start going on about karma, so I decide I'd better try and compensate for any of the bad stuff I may have earned, just in case. I shall lure Max into having real sex by virtue of wearing my new(ish) underwear in his honour.

Putting thermals on top of lace does rather spoil the effect but, as long as I whip them off quickly tonight, Max probably won't even notice what I'm wearing until I get down to my bra and knickers. Then speed will be of the essence if I'm to avoid freezing to death.

The safest bet is probably to turn the electric blanket up to maximum temperature, and dive in to bed as fast as I can. This should avert hypothermia, as long as we don't disturb the covers too much after that. Now the whole thing's starting to sound like a military operation, which could be a bit depressing if I thought about it too much.

I decide not to think about it too much and am very nice to Max for the rest of the day instead. I don't even remark on the whole bottle of wine he downs while he's cooking dinner. He does, though. As he drains his glass, he says,

"Don't worry, Mol. I know I always snore when I've had a drink - so I'll sleep in Connie's room tonight."

Oh, for God's sake. Begging would be far too humiliating, so it seems that the only thing I'm going to score today is a bloody cactus. And even that's been cultivated to remove its prickles.

There'd be a joke there, if I was in the mood to make it.

Come Back, Norman Tebbit: Worryingly, All Is Apparently Forgiven.

Oh my God. When are politicians going to learn to recognise shades of grey? I despair, really I do. And I have no idea what is happening to my politics.

Today I manage to fall out with Pete Carew, the deputy leader of Northwick Council. I do wish he wouldn't sneak into the office like that. I've just got off the phone to one of the council officers, who has made a major cock-up by revealing the name of a noise nuisance complainant to the perpetrator.

This was despite the fact that the complainant had been assured his identity would be protected in future because, last time he complained, he was subjected to death threats and vandalism, which the Police are actually treating very seriously.

The council officer is so defensive about his stupid error, that I almost lose my temper during the conversation. When he's not making pathetic excuses, he resorts to monosyllabic responses to very straight questions. It's like trying to get blood out of a stone.

As soon as I've hung up, I shout through to Greg's office:

"God almighty, Greg. When are the Council going to get some bloody competent staff? Some of this lot wouldn't last five minutes in the private sector."

"Hey, Molly," says Pete. "What's with all the public sector bashing? It's the bankers' fault, as well you know."

"God - where did you come from?" I say. "I didn't know you were here. And anyway, I'm not bashing the public sector. Not as a whole."

"Well, it sounded like it to me," says Pete. "I've worked in it for thirty-five years and I'm bloody proud of what I've done."

"Well, you work hard, Pete," I say.

That's where I should end the conversation, but for some insane reason I don't. Instead, I continue:

"But I can't help thinking it'd be bloody refreshing if someone in the Party would acknowledge - just for once - that not everyone who works in the public sector does a good job in return for taxpayer's money. Or has an essential job. Constituents know that's not the case."

"Humph," is Pete's considered reply.

Honestly, when will people learn that trying to defend the indefensible really pisses the public off? And me, actually. I worry a lot about the dangers to the economic recovery of cutting jobs, (especially as Max is much more likely to lose his job than is Pete), but I don't see how pretending that every bloody job is essential, or being done well, helps to protect anyone.

There follows a predictably ill-tempered argument, which ends up with Pete asking me how on earth I can say any of this when I work for a Labour MP; and me saying that that is precisely the reason why I am saying it - due to the fact that I am exposed to constituents' often well-founded complaints about incompetence within the public sector on a daily basis.

But I'm apparently supposed to believe that there are no public sector jobs which could be cut without negatively affecting the public. I can think of one council officer who wouldn't be missed, straight off the top of my head, but this doesn't go down well at all when I mention it. In fact, I'm sure Pete mutters "fascist" under his breath as he takes his leave.

Greg has been mouthing "shut up" at me throughout, the bloody hypocrite. He's suddenly become very party political since he found out he was the one going to conference this year. Usually he takes the view that you could sack half the public sector and never notice the difference, and he's always reading out stupid public sector job titles, and ranting about the salaries.

Now it'll be me that the local party is moaning about, rather than The Boss, for a change. I shall have to pour oil on troubled waters once I've calmed down - but that's going to take a while. "Fascist" was completely uncalled-for. I'm no fan of the bankers, as our bank manager would be only too happy to confirm.

I'm still in a foul mood when I get home, and am quite likely to lose my temper with Josh or Max, especially if they say anything flippant about PMT - so I decide it's safer to stay out of the way once we've finished dinner. I'll read the papers in bed before QT* starts. (I'm still trying to catch up on everything I missed during our so-called holiday anyway.)

Imagine my horror when I come across this article, and find I agree with almost everything in it. Not content with turning into the bearded lady, I now seem to be becoming Norman Tebbit, of all people. I can't bear it - I used to despise him almost more than anyone else in Thatch's cabinet, especially for that "On your bike" thing.

It's a good job I'm not going to conference this year. I'd probably get lynched. I wonder if there's a link between fascism and sexual frustration?

*QT - BBC Question Time. Essential viewing for MPs' staff, as the usual suspects all watch and want to discuss the next day. They obviously have nothing better to do, either.

A Rescue Mission in the Middle of the Night, and News of an Oddly-Appropriate Name

Max and I are knackered when we finally get back from Connie's. No sooner has he said, "I am never moving Connie again," than he falls asleep. Not for long, though. The phone rings at 4:00am. Poor old Max has to join Robbie's dad in a rescue mission. Honestly, you couldn't make it up.

It turns out that the much-hyped beach "house" is actually a beach hut. Where staying overnight is prohibited. Josh and the others had unwisely dug an enormous fire pit late at night, which eventually got a bit out of control and caught the attention of the guy who supervises the car park. He went to investigate, and was wholly unamused to find eight teenage boys stacked on top of each other in the tiny hut.

Apparently most of the boys were sound asleep, despite the cramped conditions - but they weren't well-hidden, as their feet were sticking out of the doorway. The supervisor ordered them to leave immediately, but they were all far too drunk to drive. Hence the calls to the parental emergency services.

Josh seems to have sobered up a bit by the time Max brings him home, although his relief at being rescued appears to be based solely on having thus escaped from Robbie's snoring, which he says prevented him from getting any sleep.

"Join the bloody club," says Max.

"Well, it's not my fault," says Josh. "I was still awake when the supervisor arrived, but I was stuck under Jim and Robbie, and couldn't wriggle out. Otherwise, I'd have slept on the bloody beach. Robbie's snoring's almost as bad as Dad's"

"I'd shut up about my snoring, if I were you," says Max.

"Sorry, Dad - I'm just tired. It's been a stressful night."  Josh yawns, and sets both me and Max off too.

"Stressful? I think you ought to count your lucky stars I got rid of the supervisor before it got light," says Max. "If he'd seen that giant sand phallus you lot built, you'd have been in even more trouble."

"So how big was this beach house?" I ask Max.

"About six foot by six foot," says Max. "For Chrissake. They need their heads testing."

"Being so cramped made my broken arm a bit sore," says Josh - who never knows when to shut up.

"It's not broken," says Max. "Or not yet, it isn't. But it could be arranged if you ever pull any more stunts like that. I'm going back to bed."

That sounds like a damned good idea to me, too - so I follow suit, but we seem doomed not to get any sleep this weekend. As soon as we've both snuggled back down - temporarily united by our despair at Josh's latest shambolic adventure, my mobile starts beeping. I can't ignore it - not now Connie's no longer at home. It could be her. Instant panic. Now what's happened?

I blunder around looking for my glasses. It's such a drag not being able to read texts without them. When I can finally see, I realise that the text is from Dinah. Oh, the relief - but even that's only momentary. The message says,

"Oh. My. God. Guess what the Thai Bride's name is?"

"What is it now?" Max's voice is muffled by the pillow he's pulled over his head.

"Dinah," I say. "She wants us to guess what the Thai Bride's name is."

"Yung-Fuk," says Max. I text this suggestion to Dinah.

"It's a great guess, but it's not the one," she replies. "Was that one of Max's? Try again." Who does she think she is? Bloody Roy Walker?

"Dinah, I can't be bothered with playing Catchphrase. It's the middle of the night. Just TELL ME!"

"Porn!" is her reply. "Though you probably don't spell it exactly like that."

Christ almighty. I'm about to tell Max, when he lets out an enormous snore. It's like a flashback. I've had quite enough of that this week. In fact, I've had quite enough of this week, full stop.

A Five-Star Romance.

The weather's getting warmer, so now we have to listen to Annoying Ellen's sex life on a regular basis. She must be pretending she's enjoying it. I've never heard anyone make so much noise in my life.

I thought one of her toyboys was killing her the first time she did it. Now I think she's doing it to get attention, as she seems to have pushed her bed in front of the window, which she makes a point of opening before she entertains.

I'm hoping it's a coincidence, but Max seems to be spending a long time in the garden in the evenings, watering the plants - or so he says. He comes back inside with a stupid, dreamy look on his face. Men are such suckers. Why can't Ellen just die - preferably in silence?

Mind you, the whole thing does remind me about the gold stars, so I have a very early night in the hope that this will persuade Max that we should earn another one. I probably shouldn't have mentioned the stars at all, though, as Max is unamused, and assumed that I am awarding marks for sexual performance. by the whole business of the stars, as he thinks I must be awarding marks for sexual performance.

He's unconvinced by my claim that it is a valid sociological study, which will be of great value to any of those market researchers who assess how often the nation is having sex. And by my claim that I merely wanted to ensure that Josh wouldn't know what the stars referred to if he ever consulted the family diary.

Max just rolls his eyes, emits an unfeasibly loud sigh, then turns his back on me and starts snoring almost immediately. So no stars are earned tonight for any reason.

I sleep fitfully for an hour before waking up in a panic. Now I know who Ellen reminds me of - a blonde James Blunt! It's been bugging me for weeks, but now I'm even more worried. If Max fancies Ellen, and Ellen looks exactly like a man, does this mean that Max is gay, and is that why we have no sex? Oh my God.