A Bumper Crop of Metaphors, Despite The Inattention (And General Uncaring Attitude) of Max, Whose Middle Name Obviously Isn't Percy Thrower*.

Honestly, and without wishing to sound like Miss Chambers, sometimes I'm sure I'm the victim of a conspiracy: to ensure that I never have sex again.

To his credit, Johnny seems to be trying to rescue me from this cruel fate, when he emails some rather intriguing suggestions as to what we could do if we were alone in my office - but then The Boss decides to phone for a chat.

"I hope you're not drinking coffee," he says.

"Um, no," I say. Truthfully, seeing as Johnny's scenario was far more appealing than a mug of Nescafe.

"Or losing your temper, either," says Andrew. "You sound a bit irritable, which also increases your chances of having a stroke. Along with having sex - but at least you won't be doing that at work."

"No," I say. "There's absolutely no chance of that."

By the time Andrew's finished telling me everything that might kill me before I ever have sex again, I've completely lost the urge to have it at all, so I send Johnny an email which simply reads:

"Mission aborted due to unforeseen circumstances."

Which is also what could be said to happen to my attempt to persuade Max that we should earn another gold star by impressing him with my new underwear. It's not as if Johnny ever got to see it, so I suppose it still does count as new.

As do the stars, almost - seeing as the packet's still almost entirely full. I'd quite like to use some of them up before the glue dries out, which is not a metaphor, but might as well be. (They're coming thick and fast today. Unlike some people I could mention.)

Anyway, I'm relying on my knickers to work their magic, once I get home from spending the evening at the Easemount Bowling Club, whose members are worried that they'll soon be without a green. They go on about it at quite some length, so the whole thing seems to take forever.

When I finally make my escape - having signally failed to learn to bowl - I find Max in the garden watering the plants. Or so he says, even though it's almost dark. It's also the night for putting out the bins, (since the Council changed the collection days to cope with all these bank holidays we've been having), so this could be a rather more convincing explanation.

I look up at Ellen's bedroom window, just to check, but there's no sign of her, naked or otherwise - though she could have dived behind the curtains when she heard me arriving home. Max's demeanour is definitely odd, so something must be going on.

I shall have to lure Ellen back out into the open, if I am to know for sure - but she won't come out if she can see that I'm still on the look-out. Evasive action is urgently required.

"How's the garden doing, Max?" I say, wandering casually around, and trying to hide myself in a rather attractive purple shrub.

"Be careful," he says, at the same time as I say, "Ow."

That's just typical, isn't it? The only plant big enough to provide cover for a very small person, and it has to be a bloody Berberis. Prickles everywhere, and that is not an euphemism.

"What are you doing, Mol?" says Max. "You know that plant's spiky - that's why we planted it. To deter Steve Ellington from burgling us again."

"Allegedly," I say - meaning the burglary, and not the planting. Or not the planting of the Berberis, at any rate.

I wish we hadn't planted it now, seeing as it's just ripped my skirt, and my lacy pants - not that Max seems to notice them. He's too busy looking at me as if I am mad, so I dab the blood off my arm with the hem of my skirt, and look around for inspiration. There must be another plant big enough to lurk behind.

"What the hell is this?" I say, picking up a tangled brownish mass of foliage that appears to be comprehensively dead, albeit that it's in a pot.

"Oh," says Max. "Ah. Um - that's the plant you bought me for our anniversary. I think I may have forgotten to plant it. Or to water it, actually."

I look at him, then down at the dead plant, then back at him. I'm trying to avoid recognising this latest metaphor for my life, but the bloody things just will not stop making their presence felt.

"So," I say, very slowly. "I buy you a Passionflower for our anniversary. And then you kill it - by neglect?"

Max winces, as he nods his head.



*Percy Thrower - Nan's favourite television gardener - and not a disco star, despite what Kenny Everett may have claimed.

Saintly Sons, A Visit to the Optician & Max Demonstrates Great Sensitivity.

It seems that not every parent thinks their child is a problem. At the other end of the spectrum is Mrs Bloody Lomax, whose wretched son Stephen can apparently do no wrong. According to her, he has almost as many opinions as The Boss, and on about as many subjects - all of which he seems to know equally little about.

Nevertheless, Mrs L deems her son's every utterance to be of enormous significance to mankind - hence her almost daily phone calls to share his words of wisdom with a wider audience. I do wish she'd keep his bloody pronouncements to herself.

It's about time Greg took his turn to deal with her - but he's in the loo when she phones, the lucky bugger. He really needs to buy some more Imodium. Today she drones on and on about something or other that I don't bother to listen to, and then she says that she thinks Stephen would make a much better MP than The Boss.

I don't argue with her. There's no point, and anyway, she could be right. Stranger things have happened and open-mindedness is my new stock-in-trade, although I have never actually met the sainted Stephen, perfect son, scout master and accountant. All I know for sure is that he works for the county council, whose accounts didn't really stand up to scrutiny the last time I heard....

Talking of scrutiny, I go to the optician's at lunchtime for my annual eye test. Luckily for me, if not for Mum, she's been referred to the Glaucoma clinic at the hospital, and so my test is free* for once. This is very good news, as otherwise I wouldn't have been able to afford it and would soon have been squinting like Johnny was without his glasses. Maybe I should get Stephen to sort out my financial situation.

My eyesight's even worse than last time it was tested, but then I knew that already, given my recent inability to see my eyelashes in my 25x magnifying mirror. (Very challenging for mascara application.) The optician gives me the usual lecture about working on a computer all day being very hard on the eyes, and the need to take regular breaks.

"Tell me something I don't know," I say. Famous last words.

"Well, you need to make an appointment to see your GP," she says. "Look at this."

"Yuck," I say. "What is that?" It looks like one of those Lennart Nilsson photos of foetuses in the womb.

"Put your glasses back on," says the optician.

It turns out that the photograph is of the inside of my eye, and she says that the result indicates that I may have a major problem with my blood pressure. Marvellous. Now I'm really worried.

I tell Max about it when I get home from work, in the misguided belief that this may gain me some reassurance.

"Bloody hell," he says. "What a coincidence."

"What d'you mean?" I say.

"Well, I just ran into Frank from round the corner when I was parking the car - you know, the one whose house backs onto Ellen's?"

"Ye-es. And?"

"His wife dropped dead while we were away. Had a stroke. Undiagnosed high blood pressure - and she was only the same age as us."

"Great," I say. "Thanks for that."

I wonder what Saint Stephen would advise me to do about my husband. I may ask Mrs Lomax if he gives relationship advice, next time she phones. I just wonder how long it'll take Max to seek advice himself - on the subject of my life insurance.

*Specsavers tell me that your eye test is free if you have an immediate relative with glaucoma. Presumably because you yourself are doomed to the same fate.