Why Being The Pack Leader Means Different Things In Thailand And Russia

This Wikileaks thing just goes on and on, doesn't it? And everyone seems so surprised by what's coming out. Greg and I just don't get it - what did people think happened behind the scenes?

"One minute everyone's a conspiracy theorist," he says," and the next they're shocked at what governments get up to. You'd think people never watched Spooks."

"I know," I say. "But at least these leaked cables make The Boss' faux-pas look pretty minor."

"Oh, I reckon Andrew'd give his princely namesake a run for his money in the tactless stakes," says Greg.

Maybe The Boss has got more in common than he thought with the monarchy he claims to despise, though I bet he'd rather be like Putin. Talking of whom, Johnny emails me after lunch and says,

"You can call me Alpha Dog from now on. And I'm ordering you to have virtual sex with me right now."

It's odd how Johnny's bossiness is so sexy when Max's isn't. At least, it's not when it involves him making unilateral decisions to lend nymphomaniacs our car. I'm still stewing about that, when Johnny gets impatient, and sends another email:

"Tell me what you're wearing."

"Jacket, cardigan, woolly dress, t-shirt, and four - no five - thermal vests," I say. "Oh, and gloves and my coat. The boiler's still broken."

"Ah, well, I've got a conference call in five minutes," he says. "There probably isn't time for you to take all that off, let alone get down and dirty. Not with the speed you're typing at."

Honestly, I'm doing the best I can under difficult circumstances.

"Yes, well, Mr International Director of a Global Oil Company," I say. "I bet you have no idea what it's like to be cold. You just pocket the profits extracted from chilly mortals like me, while expecting virtual sex acts in sub-zero temperatures."

"Oh, don't start going all socialist on me again, woman," says Johnny. "We've got better things to do. And we're short of time, as I keep trying to impress upon you."

He's right, so I try to get into the spirit of the thing, but his odd language is bothering me.

"Since when do you say things like 'down and dirty'?" I say.

"Since I became the leader of the pack," he says.

This kills all desire stone dead. Has Johnny forgotten the ongoing trauma of my Dad's recent transformation into the Gary Glitter of Dorset? I wait ten minutes and then reply:

"Sorry, had to take an urgent call from Julian Assange. He's investigating leaks from oil companies."

That'll teach Johnny, though the usual suspects must be telepathic as they immediately start phoning and wanting to discuss what Assange is up to, and I'm bored stiff with the whole thing by the time I get home from work. It's just a pity that the rest of my family aren't.

First Mum phones to ask me whether I think the stories are true, and then Connie calls to ask the same thing.

"Yes," I say. "Probably. Now change the subject and tell me all your news."

"Well, I had an email from Grandad earlier today," says Connie. "He says he's homesick but he can't come home."

"Why?" I say. "Has Porn-Poon cleaned him out? Can't he even afford a plane ticket back from Thailand now?"

"No," says Connie. " I don't think it's that. He misses Dorset, but says that all the women in this UK are too old for him."

I am trying very hard not to think about Gary Glitter - for the second time today - but I can't help myself.

"What - all of them?" I say.

"Apparently," says Connie.

Oh, for Goodness' sake. The entire female population of this country is too old for a man of seventy-five? I despair. And I bet Stepmothers Mark I, II and III would too, not to mention Mum.

"Anyway," says Connie. "I spoke to one of the neurologists at work about it this afternoon. Described how Grandad's behaving and all that."

"And what did this neurologist say?" I ask.

"That it sounded a bit like frontal lobe dementia," says Connie. "It can cause complete disinhibition. But don't worry, I don't think it's hereditary."

Funnily enough, that thought hadn't occurred to me. Unless it doesn't just apply to a fetish for young Thai girls, and Putin lookalikes are included. I'd better phone Connie back and check.

Beware The Activities Of The Furniture Spooks.

This is probably going to be a bit garbled, as I'm not exactly thinking straight. God knows what possessed me to go to bed so early last night.

Not only did I miss the chance to snoop out of the window to see if anyone else got out of the car when Max finally arrived home, but I also missed my opportunity to phone Sam and pretend I needed to speak to Max. Now it's too late to pull that one.

I wish I could find the Valium that Dad left here. I could really do with something to calm me down. Whoever said knowledge is power was absolutely bloody right, and Max is even more uninformative than usual today.

If he worked for MI5 or 6 I'd understand it, but I can't see someone who works in the furniture industry being privy to many state secrets. Unless one of them is the exact amount by which the public sector is routinely charged over-the-odds for desks and filing cabinets.

When we get up this morning, I decide to act normal and see what I can find out that way.

"How was your weekend?" I ask.

"Oh, okay."

I wait a bit, in case Max is just pausing for breath, but when nothing else is forthcoming, I have another try:

"So what did you guys get up to?"

"Not much," he says. "Do you want to use the shower first?"

This international man of mystery stuff is so annoying. God knows whether Max was staying at Sam's, or shagging Ellen in public somewhere - I just can't tell. Which is pathetic, given how good I am at detecting when other people are lying.

I knew that Lucas North was no good right from the first episode of Spooks. In fact, Max and I had an argument about it, when I forgot my promise to stop telling him what I think's going to happen next, and now he says I ruined the rest of the series.

My honesty detector might be malfunctioning when it comes to getting a reading from my husband, but it's back on form once I arrive at the office. I know Greg's lying as soon as he says he jogged to work, for example.

"How do you know that?" he says. "You been stalking me?"

"No," I say. "Didn't need to. You must have put those on in the lobby."

I point at his feet, and Greg looks incredulous, until he notices my shoes. They are soaked, whereas his trainers are bone dry. And it's pissing down outside.

"Oh, well," he says. "It was worth a try. I wanted to encourage you to get fit in readiness for our little jaunt to check on the loonies of Florence Road. Can't afford any passengers on such a dangerous mission, and I'm the only one with youth on my side, after all."

Luckily for him, the phones start ringing before I can reply. They don't stop until mid-afternoon, when Greg rushes out to buy himself "a healthy snack." I don't have an excuse to go out as my so-called lunch is waiting for me in the staff kitchen. More's the pity.

Marie-Louise calls while I'm trying to force myself to drink yet another mug of bloody Complan.

"What is going on, Molly?" she says.

That's what I'd like to know, too - though I hope Marie and I aren't talking about the same thing. I don't think she's even met Max, although anything's possible, I suppose.

"What d'you mean?" I say.

"Why are so many appointments going missing from the diary? Andrew has given me a verbal warning this morning - or, at least, that's what I think it was. In amongst the swearing."

"I don't know, Marie. Greg and I wondered that while you were off sick. We thought it wasn't you."

"I can't prove that, though - can I? I am the Diary Secretary, after all."

Marie sounds as if she's on the verge of tears - again - although she calms down a bit when I suggest she should print a copy of the diary every time she makes a change, as a half-soaked insurance policy.

After she has promised me not to resign, and has rung off, I fill Greg in on what has happened.

"Well, there's nothing else that we can to do to help today," he says. "Seeing as our prime suspect hasn't come to work again."

"If it is Vicky, how are we going to catch her out?" I say. "Assuming she doesn't drop dead of her self-inflicted hair-flicking injury?"

"Self-inflickted. Good one," says Greg. "And, in answer to your question: slowly, slowly, catchee monkey."

God knows what he's on about, but I'm pretty sure he's attempting a Burmese accent. Aung San Suu Kyi's release has gone right to his head.

He offers me a fortune cookie.

"These are your healthy snack?" I say.

"Brain food," he says. "Maybe they'll give us a clue as to what's really going on."

"I don't think I want to risk it," I say. "Just in case the cookie thinks I'm curious about something else."

The last thing I want to know is that I'm married to the Lucas North of Northwick, after all. "Bunkbed emergency" does sound a bit like code, now I come to think of it.