The Dangers of Reading the Telegraph and Other Cautionary Tales.

I wish Richard Bloody Levinson would stop reading The Telegraph. It just encourages him. No wonder his Housing Officer has gone off on long-term sick leave. She emailed me minutes before she left her desk in despair, to tell me that just the sight of his name in the sender line of yet another email had become sufficient to give her severe palpitations.

This afternoon, he sends me seventeen emails, all with this link attached. In the first one, he wants to know why he can't get a housing transfer when "these bloody Somalis can get away with a million pound house on benefits, just because they've got so many children?" He obviously hasn't even registered that the Somalis in question are apparently housed in private accommodation. Dingbat. Northwick Council's own HQ probably isn't worth a million pounds!

Then he reiterates his long-standing complaint about why he and his girlfriend can't be expected to stay in their lovely two-bedroomed council flat in East Cross, because of the stress caused by "living amidst the common herd." He says that his girlfriend has now developed "a nasty skin condition" as a result. The other sixteen emails have no text, but simply a series of photos attached, all showing evidence of said nasty skin condition. On every part of the body you can imagine. And probably parts you can't - all in unrelenting close-up. Repulsive. The man must have a ten-pixel camera at the very least. I wonder if Richard's girlfriend realises that it's more likely to be the stress of living with someone as pompous as he is that's causing her rash?

I have hundreds of genuinely-needy constituents on the waiting list for housing who would kill to have his flat, but Richard claims he needs "a three-bedroomed house in the country, to avoid the need to live close to uncouth neighbours." Up 'til now, I've always relied upon the argument that, as Richard doesn't have any kids, he doesn't actually need a three bedroomed council house but, thanks to the bloody Telegraph, any such comment is now likely to infuriate him even further. I am sorely tempted to fake an out-of-office reply, referring enquiries to Greg - who is even more annoyed by this story than is Richard. But that would only lead to disaster. I end up replying that I will forward his enquiry to the Housing Department, but that I regret that his attachments were too large to open. Hopefully that'll stop him sending me any more vile skinflicks.

In the evening, I have nothing whatsoever to do, after I have cooked and eaten beans on burnt toast. I have no company either, as both Connie and Josh are out. I am at such a loose end that I decide to phone Dad. I haven't spoken to him for a while anyway.

"Ah, Molly. Glad I caught you," he says. Does he really not know that I phoned him?

"Why?" I say.

"Well, I'm off tomorrow morning," he says, as if I should have known.

"Off where?"

"Thailand."

There is a long silence, and then Dad steps in to fill it.

"I told you," he says.

"Er, no - you didn't."

"Well, I don't really want to go," says Dad.

"Oh, yeah?" Does he really think I am that stupid?

"No. It's my mate, see. He booked it, and he doesn't want to go by himself. I can't really afford it, but I don't like to let him down."

The trouble with Dad is that he's like The Boss. He actually believes the stuff he says. This renders arguing with him entirely pointless, even when you can prove he's talking out of his arse.

"Got to go," says Dad. "Haven't finished packing yet. Take care of yourself. Byee!"

Before I know it, I am listening to a dialling tone. Good God. Wonder if Dinah knows? I'm not telling her. More to the point, does Mum know? Thank God Question Time's on in a minute. Politics seems more appealing than real life, all of a sudden.