Festive Madness, And Rash Assumptions About Possible Uses For Batteries.

Oh, dear God. Our local pound shop is selling "Sexy Santa" outfits. I've just had the most traumatic experience in there.

I'm walking around looking for where the batteries have been moved to, when I hear a familiar voice.

"Look at this!" says a man who is almost completely hidden behind a fake Christmas tree.

I'm so mindlessly obedient that I do as he tells me. Oh, Christ, it's Richard Levinson, the man who says he's too refined to live on a council estate.

"This'd put a smile on Santa's face, wouldn't it?" he says.

He's got such a carrying voice that everyone in the shop is looking in our direction by now. For one very long moment, I am convinced that Richard is talking to me, and am paralysed by horror. Has it really come to this?

I look down at the floor, and try to will myself to disappear into it. Which, as usual, doesn't work. When I look up again, Richard's still holding the packet and shaking it at everyone who walks past.

"Ooh - if I was a few years younger, I'd buy one myself," says an elderly woman, whose voice I also recognise. It's Miss Harpenden, of all people. She of the flying rat fame.

To his credit, Richard shudders but doesn't actually reply to Miss H's horrible suggestion. He's too busy waving the "Sexy Santa" set at another woman - a younger one, who seems to be trying very hard to ignore him.

By now, I'm feeling quite panicky. What the hell have I walked into? It's like a re-make of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. All we need now are Miss Chambers and Mr Beales and we'll have the full set. Of people who aren't the full set, if you see what I mean.

Whoever the younger woman is, she's having none of it. She turns her back on Richard, and says,

"For God's sake, put that down. Now. If you think I'm wearing that, you've got another bloody think coming."

So this must be Richard's elusive fiancee, the one with the nasty skin condition. I can't say I blame her for being so pissed off. Even without rampant sores, it'd be a challenge to look alluring in a red polyester bra and knickers, bizarrely topped off with fuzzy red reindeer antlers that light up. Maybe the lack of a hat is why the set is so cheap.

The woman starts to walk away but, by now, half the population of Northwick seems to be getting involved. Some people are so nosy.

"Ah, go on, love," says another man. "Make the lad's Christmas."

This receives no response whatsoever, so then Richard, who never knows when to keep quiet, says,

"Forget Christmas, I was thinking about tonight."

His fiancee looks him up and down, very slowly, then says, "You can fuck off."

With that, she abandons her basket of pan scourers and perfumed candles, and walks out of the shop. Several women start to clap, then stop as suddenly as they started.

Richard looks at his audience, makes one of those "what can you do?" gestures with his hands, then puts the Santa set back on the shelf. Although he tries to look as if he's strolling when he leaves the shop, everyone can tell that he's running.

When I get back to work, and tell Greg about my lunchtime shopping experience, I realise that, after all that, I've forgotten to buy the bloody batteries.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'm going to get a sandwich so I'll pop up there and get them for you. Then I can check the shop's not running regular day-trips from the loony bin."

When he returns, I'm busy talking to Joan, who's hassling me to choose what I want from the Christmas lunch menu of the local pub. I really don't think smearing salmon in chestnut pesto counts as festive, and everything else looks bloody horrible, but Joan's insistent that I have to choose something.

"This combined office 'do' might be the only Christmas lunch you get for work," she says. "If Andrew finds a reason to cancel your proper one again."

"Oh, I don't think he will this year," I say. "Vicky's already bought a new dress for it."

Joan pulls a face that is worth a hundred words - even better than her usual imitation of the bus driver from South Park - then advises me to order one of everything, on the grounds that The Boss will eat anything anyone else doesn't want, and probably some of what they do.

By this time, I've forgotten to ask what else was in the enormous Pound-Den carrier bag Greg was carrying, and I remain in the dark until we're locking up at the end of the day, when he passes it to me.

"Here's your batteries, Mol," he says. "Pay me back tomorrow."

"What's this?" I say, pulling out a large present encased in the tackiest Christmas gift wrap you're ever seen. Santa's nose is redder than The Boss's and alarmingly phallic.

"Just a little early Christmas or birthday present for Max," he says. "I hope it fits you."

"Oh, for God's sake, Greg. Tell me you haven't?" I say, but when I try to give the parcel back to him, he just taps his nose, and says,

"Keep an open mind, Mol. Might render those batteries redundant."

Honestly, how much humiliation can women be expected to take? And, anyway, I bet you need batteries  for glowing antlers.

The Medusa of Northwick, Or Why One Can't Always Be Expected To Rise Above Gossip

Joan stops me in the corridor this morning. I suppose it's preferable to her usual tactic of cornering me in the loo, but not by much.

"Molly, what's going on with Andrew and Trish?" she says.

"What d'you mean? " I say.

"She picked him up from GC* on Friday night. Didn't look like he was too happy about it, either."

Joan fixes me with that look. No wonder it terrorised the kids in South Park.

"Ah," I say.

"Exactly," says Joan.

After I've dredged up several acceptable reasons why Trish might have insisted on collecting Andrew rather than leaving him to find his own way home - such as cold weather, or that she just happened to be passing - Joan gives me the look again. It really makes your bowels clench.

"Come on, Molly," she says. "There was more to it than that. I overheard them arguing in the car park."

"Ooh, did you?" I say. "What about?" One can't rise above curiosity indefinitely, after all.

"I don't know for sure. First Andrew refused to get in to the car, because he said he had another engagement to go to, and then Trish said 'The fuck you have.'"

Blimey. Trish doesn't share Andrew's penchant for swearing, so her using that sort of language is unheard-of. I wonder who the "other engagement" was with? I bet it was bloody Vicky.

"What happened then?" I say.

I know I should rise above office gossip, but I might as well get the full story - as it's not as if everyone else won't already know the gory details, after all. Joan's not known as the bush telegraph of Northwick Labour Party for nothing.

"Trish leant over, and grabbed Andrew's new pipe out of his mouth. Then she snapped it in half and threw it at him. Really hard."

I don't quite manage to hide my laugh, as Joan continues:

"He noticed me when he jumped out of the way, so then I had to get into my car and drive off. Oh, sorry - hang on, Molly." Joan's mobile is ringing.

Thank God for that. I am saved from having to comment on what she's told me by the bell. Or by her phone's massively annoying ring-tone, anyway. I make a break for it, while Joan starts a heated argument with the photocopier engineer.

When I get back to my desk, I find that Trish and I aren't the only ones whose relationships are in trouble. There are three letters from people whose "partners" have cheated on them in today's post.

They all want Andrew to report their cheating ex-loves to the DWP* for benefit fraud, and their letters provide comprehensive and detailed information - such as National Insurance numbers, places of work and car boot locations - to facilitate the process.

The Boss will never have any truck with this sort of thing, so I have to write back and make vague references to our inability to use third party data due to the Data Protection Act. No doubt I'll eventually get replies asking why the Benefits Agency's Fraud Hotline doesn't share the same scruples.

All this stuff does make you think, though - doesn't it? I may have to revise my position on talking to Max about what is going on with Ellen.

In fact, I've decided I'm going to take a leaf out of Trish's book and tackle him when I get home tonight. Perhaps Joan would like to come along and back me up with some more of her looks.


*DWP - Department for Work and Pensions, for those of you lucky enough to still have jobs.
*GC - General Committee Meeting of the local Party, as before. For those of you lucky enough never to have to go to them.