Caught In The Fall-Out From The News Of The World Affair. Somehow Or Other.

Thank you so much, Rupert Murdoch. I am trying to enjoy my holiday.

I'm having a lie-in, in an attempt to amass as much beauty sleep as possible before Sunday night's school reunion, when Greg sends me a text, which I don't read.

Instead, I text him back:

"If this is about work, I don't want to know."

"It's an important message from The Boss," he says. "To tell you that he told you so."

Oh, God. Apparently, Andrew's decided that, if all these other people's phones were hacked, then his definitely must have been - as he's been claiming all along.

"He says that, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean that the bastards aren't out to get you," says Greg, when I get fed up of texting, and call to speak to him instead.

"Usually, it just means you're mad," I say. "Feel free to tell him so."

I don't know what's got into me. Ever since those few hours Max and I spent on Chesil Beach, work doesn't seem to have the same importance. Or appeal - if appeal is something it ever had.

"Couldn't we just sell everything, buy a camper van, and bugger off?" I ask Max, when he joins me at the table for breakfast.

"And live on what?" he says.

"Well, we're not doing too well at that, anyway," I say. "Not on my salary alone, since you stopped working."

Max gives me such a filthy look that I almost choke on my coffee.

"I didn't stop working," he says. "I was made redundant. Just like the staff at The News Of The World. That's what happens in the private sector. Moaning about pensions is a luxury only public servants can afford."

"It's no fun being a struggling pensioner like me," says Dad, putting aside his latest Thai travel brochure.

I decide the time is ripe to make yet another trip to Tesco. Preferably by myself.

When I get there, I spend ages wandering around the store, looking at the vast range of stuff they sell - and trying not to think about whether there'll be any other shops left for Max to work in if Tesco carry on like this.

By the time I've checked out their stock of stationery, clothes and electrical products, it's almost lunch-time. According to Dad, anyway. Routine becomes very important once you're retired.

I'd better text him to warn him I'm going to be late. That'll be so much easier than phoning him, and letting him give me the third degree.

"In a very long queue. Be about twenty minutes. Don't worry about my lunch. Will cook something when I get back."

I know the queue thing is a lie, but I do work for an MP, don't forget. Sometimes, telling the truth is highly inadvisable.

I drive back to Dad's house as quickly as I can, but it's almost 1:40pm by the time I arrive. And Dad is really not amused.

"Where the hell have you been?" he says. "Your egg on toast is nearly ruined."

He and I obviously do not define the word "nearly" in the same way. I have never eaten anything like that, in my life.

"I told you not to cook me anything," I say, chewing and chewing, but unable to swallow. "In the text I sent you earlier."

"No, you didn't," says Dad. "You just said you were in a queue."

No-one likes to be accused of lying about the thing they weren't lying about. I get out my phone, to show Dad what my message actually said.

He reads it, but doesn't give in.

"I only got the first sentence of that," he says, passing me his phone as evidence. "Look!"

I open the message, and there are all my sentences, as clear as day.

"Huh?" says Dad, when I point them out. "Where did all those come from?"

"I just scrolled down," I say.

"Scrolled down?"

Dad's unimpressed when I can't stop laughing - even after I've explained what scrolling is.

"I don't like using a mobile," he says. "Not to you, anyway."

"Why?" I say.

"Because journalists will be able to read everything I write," he says. "Seeing as you're bound to have been hacked, what with who you work for."

He'll never understand the relative unimportance of an opposition back-bencher, no matter how many times I try to explain. He's got even more in common with The Boss than I thought.

How To Convince A Complete Stranger That He's Mad, Or Yet Another* Reason Why Josh Should Never Be Allowed In Car Parks

Honestly, the simplest thing is fraught with hazards in my family. Max and I decide to go shopping this evening - at the Morrisons near where Josh works, instead of at our local Sainsburys or Tesco.

I have decided that going further afield will lessen the chances of my being spotted and harassed by constituents, and save me the bother of having to wear my balaclava. Now I wish I hadn't bothered.

"We'll pick Josh up from work, and then go and do a quick shop," says Max, which sounds like a reasonable plan at the time.

The trouble starts when Josh doesn't finish work when he's supposed to and then, when he does finally get into the car, he claims that he's too tired to traipse round Morrisons.

By now, I can't face it either. I just want to get home quickly in time to watch The Killing, though I'm not expecting to want to kill my son by the time it starts. Or not yet, I'm not.

"I suppose I'll have to go in by myself, then," says Max. "While you two lazy buggers stay in the car and lounge about."

Which is fine by me, or was  - until Josh suddenly opens the car door and gets out.

"Where are you going?"I say.

"Ssh," he says, then rushes over to the Photo Booth machine situated outside the shop. I watch as he fumbles around in the slot where the photos come out, before he comes running back to the car, yanks the door open and throws himself headlong onto the back seat.

"Got it," he says.

Before I can ask what he's got, I see a man pull back the curtain of the booth and step out. He goes to the slot and removes what is presumably a strip of photos, looks down at them, and then jerks his head up and starts scanning the car park. He doesn't look very happy at all.

"Who is that man, and what's he doing, Josh?" I say.

"Shut up, Mum, and tell me when he's gone." Josh seems to be fumbling about and trying to put something into his wallet.

"What have you got there?" I say, at the same time as I make a grab for it. Call it maternal instinct, but I just know when Josh is up to something.

I turn on the interior light, to find myself looking at a photograph of the man that I can see out of the car window. A single photograph, with one neatly torn edge.

"Josh," I say. "What is this? Why have you got a photo of that man over there?"

"He's the Photo Booth repair man," says Josh. "He gives me and the lads hours of fun."

"How?" I say - though I really should know bloody better.

Josh explains that he and his friends are regulars in the Morrisons car park. Which sounds very dodgy indeed, and doesn't get any better when it becomes apparent that their target is the poor repair man.

"He comes once or twice a month," says Josh. "And he gets into the Photo Booth, starts fiddling around with the machinery and then takes some photos of himself. Then he carries on working inside the booth for a while - with the curtain still drawn across the front. When he's finished, he picks up his photos to check whether they've come out okay."

"And your involvement in this is - ?" I say, though I'm not at all sure I really want to know.

"Well, as soon as the photos come out, one of us rushes over, and grabs them out of the machine," says Josh.

"What - you steal his photos?" I say.

"Not all of them," says Josh. "We just tear one off the strip and then put the others back into the slot. Confuses the hell out of him."

"Hand it over," I say. "Now, or you're grounded."

"Killjoy."

Josh glares at me as he passes something over the back seat.

"Joshua," I say, in disbelief. "There are twelve different photos here. How long has this been going on?"

"About six months," says Josh. "He's getting crosser every time it happens."

I can no longer deny the fact that I am, quite clearly, the parent of a juvenile delinquent.



*See here for another reason why Josh should never, ever be allowed into car parks without being accompanied by his parents.

Insults and Paranoia - A Little Something For The Weekend

Supermarket surgery this morning, and it's as bad as usual. Constituents who have nothing whatsoever to complain about - which is why they don't actually contact the office during the week - spot The Boss sitting under his banner in Tesco's foyer, while they're buying their weekly groceries.

Then they frantically rack their brains to dredge up any minor irritation to talk to him about, purely to be seen by their neighbours in the company of an MP, however unkempt and hungover said MP may look.

So today we have uneven pavements; puddles at the end of driveways; overgrown hedges, and litter. Each complaint will require me to write a letter to whichever is the most-relevant agency, and to send a copy to the constituent - together with a covering letter saying how nice it was to meet them. When we eventually receive replies from the County or City Councils, they'll be sent out with another personalised covering letter.

With the weather we've been having, there are four hazardous puddle complaints alone! Then there are all the beer-toting, polyester-clad, World Cup-crazed constituents who just want their photographs taken with The Boss, who insisted on wearing an England shirt this morning. There has to be more to life than this.

Taking me home at lunchtime, The Boss drives even more erratically than usual.

"Are you still drunk?" I ask.

"No," he says. "I have a lot on my mind."

I somehow doubt that, but I know a cue when I hear one.

"What's the matter, Andrew?" I try to sound as if I give a damn and, as usual, it works.

"Do you think I'm too trusting?" he asks.

"Um,  I don't know. Where is this going?"

"I think those shits in the local Party are out to get me again. I was set up at GC* last night." Andrew's eyes are looking like Mr Beales'. Here we go again.

"Set up how?" I say.

"Bastards wanted me to confirm that, now we're finally in opposition, I can - at last - be relied upon to toe the Party line. Outrageous. I think I may have to take steps to deal with them. I'm sure that swine Peter Carew is angling to steal my seat."

I don't quite know what to say to this. The Boss has recurrent bouts of paranoia anyway - like all the politicians I've ever met - but he doesn't usually look and sound quite so unsettled. I can't actually think of anyone in the Party - Pete Carew included - who'd have either the energy or the desire to usurp him, but then I don't share Andrew's longstanding belief that they'd all stab him in the back as soon as look at him.

"I don't want you or Greg talking to anyone from the Party from now on, Molly," he says. "Not even the staff - you can't trust any of 'em."

"But they're in the next office -"

He glares at me, and almost crashes into a woman with a pushchair, who's standing at a Zebra crossing. I decide it's safer to shut up, and live to enjoy what's left of the weekend. I'll deal with this latest lunacy on Monday.

In the evening, Max and I have dinner with Susie and David, to celebrate David's company having just been sold. For three million pounds. To give him his due, David does resist the temptation to remind me that I warned him he'd never make a penny if he set up a courier company, on the basis that the market was already saturated; but he does say,

" Molly, you are the biggest waste of potential I have ever known."

Honestly, David is supposed to be my best friend. Max says afterwards that I should have asked what David meant. I say I don't want to know.


*GC: General Committee, regular meeting of local Labour Party big-hitters, to whom The Boss has to present his GC report, explaining what he's been up to at Westminster. Usually drafted on a napkin from the buffet car during Andrew's journey home on Thursday evenings, and then given to me to decipher, completely re-write to remove all references to jollies, and then pass to Party staff to print and disseminate at the start of the meeting.

Not Enough Money For Dealing With Nutters

Why, why, why don't I work at Westminster? Everyone there is spending today basking in the excitement of the State Opening of Parliament. Meanwhile it's Groundhog Day here in the provinces.

All the usual suspects phone first thing, including Miss Chambers. We need noise limiters like they have in call centres, because that woman is slowly but surely wrecking my hearing.

Now she thinks her next-door neighbours are stealing her electricity. She wants them arrested, and if she doesn't get what she wants, she'll scream and scream 'til she makes herself sick. Or me deaf - whichever happens first.

While she works up to full volume, I put the phone down on the desk and go and make a cuppa - but when I get back from the kitchen, I can hear she's still screaming, so I go out for a cigarette.

Even after that, she's still at it when I stick my head back into my office, so I go to the loo. When I've finally run out of places to go and things to do, I resort to blocking the sound by listening to my iPod.

This works a treat until Greg comes in from the outside office, removes one of my headphones, and says,

'For Christ's sake, is that Miss C? Can't you get her off the phone? I can hear her at my bloody desk and she's doing my head in.'

'Oh, sorry,' I say.

There's nothing for it, but the final solution, then. I approach the handset - with extreme caution - and pick it up, while holding it well away from me. I start making whistling and chirping noises, followed by banging the phone on the desk a few times too, for good measure.

Then I put the mouthpiece carefully to my lips whilst swivelling the earpiece away from my ear.

'Hello? Hello? Miss Chambers? I can't hear you.' (This is a complete lie as the whole building can hear the damned woman by now. No wonder most agencies have banned her from phoning them.)

Miss C hits supersonic. It's time.

"Oh, this phone's not working. We've been cut off.'

I slam the phone down and switch it to answer-phone, quickly, before she rings back. There is a loud chorus of "Barking!" from all the surrounding offices, then applause.

I wish, not for the first time, that I had a nice little job at Tesco. Maybe I could get a job there? At least then I might meet some people during the working day who weren't certifiable. I decide to take an early lunchbreak and find out. It is nearly 11:00am, after all.

After discovering that Tesco don't need any new employees, I spend far too much in Primark, as usual. I often wonder if it might be an idea to buy fewer clothes at a higher price, but always rule this out pretty quickly. Miss Chambers equals daily stress, which equals the need for immediate retail therapy - so shopping anywhere other than Primark would bankrupt me. Maybe I could get a job in Primark?

I am cheered by this prospect until I return to my desk, to find twenty-eight messages on the answer-phone. I was only gone for an hour, for God's sake! Nineteen are from Miss Chambers, becoming ever more glass-shattering with each one.

The other nine are from The Boss, who wants to know if there's anything we need to speak to him about. There isn't, as always. I make a mental note to find him something safe and uncontroversial to do for the rest of the day, before he gets bored and starts giving opinions to the Press on anything they ask.

Today's shaping up to be a double Primark day - I wonder how much they pay? It can't actually be much less than I earn. I phone the union and ask how my earnings compare to shop work.

'Well, as you're one of the very lowest-paid employees on the House of Commons payroll, Molly, I'd get that Primark application in pronto,' says Martin, brightly.

One of the lowest paid? Lowest paid? In the whole House of Commons? That place is full of cleaners and catering staff, many imported from the Philippines, and I'm the lowest paid? For putting up with the likes of Miss Chambers all day?

I am collecting a Primark application form on my way home, if they're still open. I have a degree and specialist training and I am too damned good to be working for an MP.

Why I Hate Fridays

Today's really not a good day at work, even though Greg is highly-impressed with my achievements. First I manage to lose an arsonist in the lift and then I collect a bomber on the stairs.

It all starts when I go downstairs to collect the arsonist for his surgery appointment, only to find him in a wheelchair, apparently due to a recent arson attack that went wrong.

He has a posse of carers with him, which leaves no room for me in the lift, so I give strict instructions that the group should go up to the third floor and wait for me there.

Then I run like a lunatic up the six half-flights of stairs. (Note to self: reconsider recent decision not to give up smoking. Anti-Nanny State rebellion is all very well, but being unable to breathe isn't.)

I get to the top (eventually) and wait for the lift to arrive. The light shows that it is on the second floor - oh, and going down. So where are they? I run around the third floor seeking the wheeled arsonist, but there's no sign of him. so it's back to the lift. Oh, hell - now the basement light is on.

I run back down six flights of stairs - God, my breathing's getting worse - but there's still no sign of the twisted fire-starter anywhere, or of his posse. There's nothing for it but to start running back upstairs again, but then I'm stopped on the second-floor landing by man brandishing a Tesco carrier bag and demanding to know where the MP's office is.

"Why?" I ask. Such stunning presence of mind.

"Because I've got a bomb here for the lying bastard," comes the reply.

The bomber is at least eighty and seems pretty shaky, so I direct him politely in the wrong direction, (towards the ground floor and the security doors that some f*ckwit obviously let him through earlier), then run up the remaining three flights and back into the office.

"Phone the Police!" I gasp at Greg. "Arsonist in the basement and bomber on the stairs."

To his credit, Greg merely raises his eyebrows before picking up the phone and dialling. I collapse in a chair, while The Boss continues to talk to someone on his mobile about his reasons for deciding not to stand for the Labour Party leadership. I don't think he listens to a word I say.

Half an hour later, a Police Constable brings me a very irritated arsonist and team, all of whom have apparently been lost in the underground car park for the last forty-five minutes. The Boss agrees to write to the manager of the arsonist's bail hostel to query the decision to refuse to allow smoking in the bedrooms.

Having been captured by the same Police Constable a short while later - he wasn't really built for speed - the ageing bomber accepts a cup of tea and sympathy, and is finally escorted off the premises, being allowed to keep his Tesco bag into the bargain. (Six tins of catfood and a packet of custard creams.)

Then The Boss says, "Nice to be back to normal, eh, Molly?" and goes off for his newly-arranged working lunch with the political editor of The Northwick Press, who doubles as the paper's restaurant critic. Does Andrew ever notice anything?

I try to tell Max all about it when I get home but, although he makes noises in all the right places and waits for me to finish, he then says what a bad day he's had with an enormously fat customer and a collapsing sofa.

It occurs to me that there are people in the world who are having intelligent conversations about philosophy, or semiotics, or feminism  - right this minute. Why is it that I'm not one of them? I'm sure I was intended to be.