Back To Life, Back To Reality. And Not In A Good Way.

Well, I'm back in the land of the living. Or of the utterly insane, to be more accurate. And I've gone right off politics - if that's what my job actually involves, which I rather doubt. I'm sure I've got more in common with psychiatric social workers than with MPs.

Anyway, the only advantage to having a shitty first day back at work is that now Christmas doesn't seem half as bad as it did at the time.

"What presents did you get, then, Mol?" says Greg, when he arrives this morning.

"A coat-stand, a shelf and a block of Caerphilly cheese," I say.

"Oh," says Greg. Which may well be the shortest sentence he's ever uttered.

At least the cheese had the virtue of being personal, though. And it was only an emergency gift, according to Connie, who was its donor.

"Unlike Dad or Josh, I ordered your proper present weeks before Christmas - and it was something I knew you actually wanted," she said. "And then Amazon couldn't even manage to deliver the bloody thing. I'll never trust them again."

"Well, it has been snowing everywhere," I said. "So I suppose it's been a pretty challenging time."

"Wouldn't have been half so bloody challenging if they'd sent the parcel to the right country," said Connie. "I'm writing a letter of complaint. Want to hear it?"

"No," I said. "I'm on holiday. That would just be like listening to a moaning constituent."

Honestly, I might as well have saved my breath. Connie had already started reading aloud:

"Given that you have inexplicably sent my mother's present to Scotland instead of to England, as per the address given, I fail to see how snow could have been a factor in your incompetence."

I'm still absurdly proud of her use of 'inexplicably' for some reason. Probably because it sums up the whole of the so-called festive season.

It remains inexplicable why Max was already asleep on the sofa by 9:00pm on Christmas Eve when we were supposed to be playing games and bonding as a family; why Connie and Josh had had an enormous row by 11:00am on Christmas Day and why, according to Connie, Max resembles a mis-shapen potato when he's drunk.

"He looks more like someone who's been let out of the day centre without his carer to me," said Josh. "And how can it take him five and a half hours to cook Christmas dinner?"

"Drinking two bottles of wine by yourself can't be rushed," said Max. "And anyway, I'm fine. Now let's crack open that After Dinner Quiz box. Then we can bond like you all said you wanted to."

"Of what is helminthology the study?"

As usual, and without any prior consultation, Josh, the self-appointed Magnus Magnusson* of Northwick, had decided he was going to read out the questions. Democracy is a concept that remains stubbornly beyond his grasp.

"No idea," said Connie and I simultaneously. "Give us a clue."

"Like you two," said Josh.

"Women?" I said.

"Geniuses?" said Connie.

"Parasitic worms," said Josh.

This should have provided an early indicator as to how the rest of the game was going to pan out, and led to pre-emptive action, but I never learn. I must be more of an optimist than I thought.

Josh's next question was directed at Max:

"Dad - what is the oldest vegetable?"

"Molly," said Max. He didn't even miss a beat.

Coming from a man who looks like Mr Potato Head, I'd have been a bit more careful with the plant-based insults if I was him.


*Magnus Magnusson - presenter of BBC Mastermind for twenty-five years, and a lot more polite a quizmaster than Josh.

Tommy Cooper, Vince Cable And Keats: Not As Unrelated As One Might Think

Gah. This bloody snow is screwing everything up. Now Johnny says he's not sure if he wants to risk flying in from Moscow next week for what is supposed to be our night of passion. Or evening of passion, anyway.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise," he says. "But I just can't afford to get stuck there between Christmas and New Year. Never seen anything like the cock-up at Heathrow. Bloody pathetic what a few inches of snow causes in the UK."

I refrain from pointing out that the Russian winds aren't exactly helping, but Carlotta and Marie-Louise seem to agree with him about the efficiency of British travel. They have decided not to attempt the journey from London for today's office lunch.

"We really don't want to spend hours sitting in a freezing train, only to have to walk along the railway line to safety, and then hang around for a coach to get us to Northwick," says Carlotta. "And Marie doesn't much feel like spending any more time with The Boss than necessary, anyway, while he's still being so horrible to her."

So, by the time we arrive at Salvatore's for lunch, we're a pretty depleted group: me, Greg, Andrew and bloody Vicky. Mind you, the atmosphere's better than it is at home, as at least The Boss is in a better mood than Max was when I left home this morning.

Andrew is in a very good mood, actually. I've no idea why, unless he's just realised how lucky he is that his penchant for attractive young women hasn't left him in a mess to rival Vince Cable's. So far.

Andrew's even feeling generous, and opens his battered old briefcase with a flourish to reveal a clutch of gifts. I'm suddenly reminded of Tommy Cooper, but I don't say anything, as the presents look pretty promising for a change.

For a start, they don't look book-shaped, so hopefully they don't contain sequels to the matching copies of Cooking With Northwick Piccalilli that Andrew gave me and Greg last year. We were convinced he'd got them free when he was taken on a tour of the factory a few months earlier.

Anyway, I digress. (Must be the hormones, or the thought of Piccalilli.) Andrew hands us all our gifts, and says:

"Ho, ho, ho. Happy Christmas!"

He really does look very pleased with himself.

"Did Trish choose these?" says Greg. "They're ever so well-wrapped."

"No, I bought them," says Andrew. "Although Trish did help out with the packing. I'm no good at that fiddly stuff."

He glances at Vicky, who doesn't seem very impressed with her small package. To be fair, it isn't half as nicely-wrapped as the others and, as she inspects it, a tear in the paper reveals something turquoise underneath.

"Ah, yes. That one," says Andrew. "Trish ran out of time, so I had to wrap yours myself, Vicky. Anyway, hope you all like your presents, and thanks for your hard work this year."

I'd prefer not to be watched while I open mine, after last year's proved virtually impossible to look thrilled about, but The Boss looks so expectant that there's no choice but to get on with the unwrapping. I cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Greg tears the paper off his first, only to find a box of Matchmakers. Cool mint ones, admittedly - but even so, he doesn't exactly look overwhelmed.

"Oh," he says. "Um, yeah. Matchmakers. Thanks, Boss."

"No, no," says Andrew. "Open the box."

He laughs, and nudges Vicky - as if there's any chance of someone as young as she is understanding a reference to Take Your Pick. She doesn't disillusion him, though, and I can't bring myself to, either. There's something almost childish about Andrew's excitement today, and it would feel too cruel to put a dampener on it.

Greg does as he's told, and slides the box lid back.

"Oh," he says again - though this time in an entirely different tone. "HMV vouchers - brilliant! Thanks, Boss."

"Trish thought the boxes would fool you," says Andrew. "Now your turn, Molly."

I'm as chuffed as Greg was when I open my box - originally containing Morny soaps - to find that it too contains vouchers. For Northwick's premier beauty salon.

"Oh, Andrew," I say. "Thank you so much. I've never been to a beauty salon before."

"I should think he can see that," says Vicky, as she puts her package into her bag. Unopened.

"What have you got, Vicky?" says Greg.

"I don't know," she says. "I'll open it later, in private."

I'm expecting The Boss to object, but when I turn towards him, he's winking at her.

The meal's gorgeous - as it always is at Salvatore's - although there are a lot of awkward gaps in the  conversation. I don't know if this is because Greg and I are barely drinking, as we've still got work to do today, or whether it's because Andrew only seems interested in what Vicky has to say. God knows why, as that's as boring the hell, as far as Greg and I can tell from the little we can hear in between her giggling.

Andrew and Vicky are extremely well-oiled by the time Greg and I decide that we're more than ready to go back to the office, and Andrew's trying to persuade Salvatore to ignore the smoking ban and allow the smoking of a pipe.

"Salvo," he shouts. "Join us for a drink - and meet Vicky, a very bella donna."

"Isn't that a poison?" says Greg, as he passes me my coat. "And wouldn't you think he'd be a bit more careful in the company of a giggling young woman?"

"Yes," I say. "You would, wouldn't you?"

Then we both stare at each other in horror, while images of tape recorders and journalists' notebooks swirl through our minds.

"Sod Belladonna," I say. "Let's just hope Vicky doesn't turn out to be La Belle Dame Sans Merci instead."

Chariots Of Fire, And Why Snow, MPs And Alcohol Don't Mix.

God, I'm knackered. I hardly slept a wink last night, because I woke up about an hour after I'd dozed off, and then I just could not get back to sleep. Bloody palpitations.

I think they were probably caused by the nightmare I'd been having just before I awoke. The Boss was driving a chariot through Northwick while dressed in a Roman centurion's outfit, and was making me pull the damn thing - on foot! It wouldn't have been so bad, if he hadn't kept whipping me every time I slowed down to catch my breath.

It definitely wasn't some sort of Freudian reference to my lack of a sex-life, as this was not the kind of whipping that anyone would enjoy, not even those people who apparently like hanging out in dungeons, while dressed in gimp suits. Mentioning no particular professions...

And I wasn't dressed in one of those pervy pony outfits, either, though I did have rather high heels on. It took bloody ages to pull the chariot past the market square, thanks to all the stupid cobbles. Architects never think when they decide on these silly "historic" road surfaces, do they?

After lunch, I realise what the nightmare probably signified: I must have been anticipating the inevitable blow-by-blow account of The Boss's journey back to Northwick after the *House rises for Christmas Recess. He always likes to make it as interactive as possible, and share the joy around.

Andrew's first call sets the scene:

"On my way to the station. Be back before the office closes."

"No need," I say. "There's nothing for you to do. Go straight home when you get off the train."

"Doesn't matter," he says. "I've got lots of stuff to give you to do. See you when I get there."

Greg groans when I recount the conversation, and decides to spend the next hour in the archive cupboard throwing darts at Andrew's photo. Then he returns to his desk, logs on to the Met Office's website and sits staring intently at the screen. For what feels like ages.

"What on earth are you doing?" I say. "You haven't even blinked for the last ten minutes."

 "Taking evasive action. I am willing it to snow as heavily as possible between London and Northwick," he says. "Right now."

I do a sceptical eyebrow raise, but Greg doesn't take any notice:

"Don't just sit there, Mol - help me! Visualise blizzard conditions and concentrate. We need to harness the power of our minds if tomorrow's Christmas lunch isn't to be cancelled because we've got too much work again."

I pretend to co-operate for a couple of seconds, but then I get bored and give up, so it seems that my mind may be rather short on power today. Greg keeps at it, though - and, eventually, it starts to snow again. Rather heavily - so maybe he genuinely possesses some of those telekinetic powers that Max accused me of having.

This is quite a scary thought, but seems to be confirmed when The Boss sends a text saying:

"Mayhem here. Next train cancelled."

Greg cheers loudly at this news, and then nips off to the pub for a celebratory gin. I start to wonder if he's telepathic as well as telekinetic when Andrew's next text makes clear that his thoughts have also turned to alcohol:

"No idea when next train's coming & it's too bloody cold to wait on station. Going for drink in bar."

Oh, dear. This won't end well. The Boss should never be allowed to combine alcohol and train travel but, when I try to phone him to remonstrate, he's turned his bloody mobile off. I don't hear anything more for a good few hours, and we are just about to lock up when the phone starts to ring.

"Leave it," says Greg, who has already put his coat on, and is waiting in the doorway.

"Can't," I say. "It's the bloody private line. Probably his Lordship. You go, and I'll lock up as soon as I've got him off the phone."

Greg waves goodbye, as I pick up the receiver.

"Molly," says Andrew, in a very loud voice. "I'm on the train."

"Ah, right," I say. "Don't shout, though. You sound like Dom Joly."

"I'm not shouting. And who's Don Jorrey?"

Oh, bloody hell. Doesn't Andrew get the simplest cultural reference? And, if that's not shouting, then my name's Igor and I am a singing postman. Which might actually help in situations where you know there's a rant coming, but you can't do anything to prevent it. If I started yodelling about brotherly love, that'd probably stop The Boss in his tracks.

But I don't know any Russian songs - except for this, which probably doesn't count - so I have no option but to sit silently while Andrew yells about the incompetence of Network Rail, the Travel Information Office, and Philip Hammond MP. He doesn't award Mr Hammond his *Rt. Hon, either.

When he finally pauses for breath - or for what sounds rather like a hiccup - I grab my opportunity.

"Andrew, is there anyone else in the compartment with you?" I say.

"Yes," he says. "A load of businessmen who look like bloody bankers and Jon Tiverton from the Northwick Daily Press."

"Well, then, for goodness' sake stop swearing," I say. "And lower your voice! They're probably all journos who are writing down everything you say. Think about what's just happened to Vince Cable."

"Can't hear you," yells Andrew, even louder than before. "But remind me tomorrow never to support this fucking train operator's application for the rail franchise again.

As I sigh and put the phone down, I'm sure I can still hear him shouting: "Bloody wankers."

Well, they say you can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Or even pull his own damned chariot, now I come to think of it.


*House - House of Commons, which rises for the Christmas Recess today, to the joy of constituency staff everywhere.
*Irony - see above statement.
*Rt. Hon - Right Honourable. See here for clarification, as I can't be bothered to explain after the day I've had.

Cruising, Insulation, And How To Make The Big Society Work

It's still bloody freezing, and I'm thinking about giving up shaving my legs. I need all the warmth I can get and it's not as if anyone's likely to notice, is it? Not unless I ever have to be decontaminated again. (Thank God that didn't happen during cold weather.)

It turns out that George's so-called boiler repair was a temporary fix at best, as the damned thing isn't working again today. Now he says it'll be days before the problem is solved as he needs to order a part. Greg is even more annoyed than I am.

"How do these idiots get jobs?" he says. "We need to find out, before Vicky manages to get rid of us."

"God knows," I say. "I have no idea what we could do instead. Hurry up and think of something."

Greg spends the rest of the morning trying to type while wearing insulated gloves. I can't bear to check the results, but he says it's far easier to hit all the keys at once and then delete the letters you don't want, than it is to try to hit one letter at a time.

Making coffee proves rather more of a challenge, though. There's a lot of crashing and swearing from the kitchen, before Greg comes back into the office and puts a half-empty mug on my desk.

"Sorted," he says.

"Arguable," I say. "There's hardly any coffee in here, and you've forgotten the milk."

"Couldn't risk spilling that as well," he says. "Too smelly. And, anyway, I'm not talking about the coffee. How d'you fancy cruising for a living?"

"Wouldn't be much of a living," I say. "I don't think money usually changes hands. The sex is seen as payment in itself."

This seems a reasonable assumption given that I have a less than fulfilling sex life, but Greg disregards it:

"Not that sort of cruising, Molly, you dingbat. The seafaring kind. Apparently we can do that while claiming Jobseeker's."

I look blank, until Greg starts searching through the pages of the weekend's newspapers, completely decimating them in the process. Licking the fingers of his gloves doesn't work half as well as those damp sponges they used to have in Post Offices.

Eventually he passes me a copy of this.

"I thought we could be the on-board entertainment," he says. "I could rap and you could be the joke act."

"Actually," I say, "Your rapping would cover both bases. I'd be redundant before I'd even started."

You don't always have to take insults lying down, after all.

At least the subject of cruising makes a change from talking about snow, which isn't half as interesting a topic of conversation as the Media would have you believe. Not that this stops constituents from phoning up to complain about it.

"My bloody road still hasn't been gritted," says Mr Beales. "No-one's taking any notice of what Andrew said in the paper."

He has no idea what a relief that is, but he carries on without waiting for me to respond:

"And keeping an eye on that traffic policeman's bloody impossible in this weather. I can't even get my car out of the drive."

"In some countries it's apparently the law to clear the frontage of your property yourself," I say. "Though not in the UK, of course."

This may seem irrelevant, but I do know what I'm doing. At least when I'm at work.

"Well, those Health & Safety nutters wouldn't allow that here, would they?" says Mr Beales. "But you've given me an idea - I'll do the whole cul de sac myself and let the buggers prosecute me if they dare."

Then - thank God - he rings off, very pleased with himself. I'm quite pleased with myself, too: I know I shouldn't blow my own trumpet, but sometimes I am a genius.

Mr Beales - rebel without a cause - has just proved the effectiveness of the technique I used to use on Josh and Connie when they were younger: making something unappealing seem forbidden. David Cameron should try it, if he really wants the usual suspects to become part of The Big Society.

Though if that ever happens, I think the rest of us will have to leave the country. By cruise ship if necessary.

Attempting Not To Shoot The Cigar-Smoking Messenger, And The Return Of The Russian Dream.

I'm still so annoyed about the car that I decide I've got to talk to someone else about it, so I phone David after lunch. Now I wish I hadn't.

When I've finally finished describing all the weird Ellen-related incidents there have been over the last six months, my best friend just says,

"Well, I know you've wasted your potential, Mol, but I never had you down as stupid."

"What d'you mean?" I say, trying not to sound hurt.

"It's bloody obvious what's going on. You'd be the first to say that if it was happening to someone else."

David exhales noisily. I bet he's smoking one of those stupid Cuban cigars he bought on his show-off stag week. For a moment, I hope he chokes on it, until I recall that I did ask him to give me his honest opinion. He's just wrong, that's all.

"But I haven't got any proof," I say. "And Max always goes beyond the call of duty to help people."

"Humph," says David. "If I were you, I'd come here for a visit, while you decide what to do next. Leave Max to stew."

I say I'll think about it, but I know I won't really. Leave the field clear for Ellen? That'd really make me stupid, wouldn't it? And, anyway, it's nearly bloody Christmas, I haven't got any money and David will probably be all superior and annoying if I do go. Better to stay here and confront the situation.

At least, that's what I'm planning to do, until Josh looks out of the window and says,

"Looks like Russia out there."

"It does," I say. "Pretty, isn't it?"

It's odd how much more appealing wearing a fur coat and minus ten temperatures seem, all of a sudden. I must ask Johnny whether he'd consult his wife before lending someone the family car - if it was their only one, of course. He'll have to use his imagination there.