The return of the prodigal wife, mother, daughter – and senior caseworker. Metaphorical tail between her legs.

Well, I'm finally back, though for God's sake don't talk to me about oil barons – or MPs.

I'm probably not worth talking to at all, now I come to think of it, seeing as I haven't got anything of interest to add to a conversation. Life seems to have gone completely back to normal, except that it's almost time for Christmas, and nothing about Christmas could ever be described as that.

Before you know it, the whole thing will be over, though – which would be great, if Christmas wasn't immediately followed by New Year's Eve, when you're supposed to review your successes and failures over the past twelve months, and then work out how to have rather more of the former than the latter in the coming year.

That shouldn't be too difficult, given my total lack of anything even approaching an achievement during 2013. Or 2012. Or...I'm bored with this now, so I'm not going to think about New Year's Eve any more, or Christmas, either, if I can help it – which I can't, as forgetting about Christmas seems to be prohibited.

When did the shops start banging on about the so-called festive season this year? I'm sure it was even earlier than usual, which is totally counter-productive, if the effect on me is anything to go by. I haven't bought a single card or present yet, and I still haven't developed a sense of urgency either – precisely because I'm so aware that the fuss about Christmas starts too early. It makes me feel I've got forever to prepare for it.

I didn't even react when Mum mentioned the C-word when she phoned last night, to say that she's already fed up with it – until she added that this lack of enthusiasm meant that she and Ted wanted to come to our house for Christmas Day, instead of us going to theirs, as we usually do. I nearly had a heart attack at that point, and so did Max. He's still worrying about it when we get up this morning.

"What the hell are we supposed to cook for their Christmas dinner?" he says, as I'm struggling to pull my thermal leggings over fleece-lined tights. "There can't be anything left that your mother's still willing to eat, what with all the health-scare stuff she reads."

"She said they'll bring things with them, to go with whatever we're all having," I say. "She suggested what she called a healthy combination of quiche, pizza, avocados and cottage cheese. I'm not quite sure how the first two made the cut."

"Well, they'll go brilliantly with turkey and all the trimmings," says Max, rolling his eyes. "Though at least I won't have to make vegetarian gravy, I suppose. I doubt even your Mum eats that with quiche."

I consider not responding to this, in an effort to avoid annoying Max further, but then decide I probably should. Respond, I mean, not make him more annoyed. (I'm working on the principle that honesty's the best policy from now on – the "from now on" part being the crucial factor, as that means that I don't have to mention Johnny.)

"Um, I think you will, Max," I say, wincing. "Ted's given up dairy, so he doesn't want the same as Mum. He wants vegetarian sausages...with gravy. He hasn't read that article she keeps quoting about soya and its effect on thyroid function yet."

"Well, obviously neither he nor your mum give a toss about the effect cooking their Christmas dinner will have on my health," says Max, demonstrating even less festive cheer than that with which Mum is currently endowed. "I can feel my blood pressure rising, at the thought of it."

His spirits look as if they're plunging in the opposite direction as he stalks off downstairs, turning the thermostat down as he passes it, and then flicking off all the light switches that Josh has left turned on – so I'd better think of something to cheer him up.

It's a bit of a challenge, in the middle of a recession, and with energy companies doing their best to bankrupt everyone bar themselves. Especially everyone blessed with a teenager whose only contribution to the cost of energy bills is to add to them – not that I can blame Josh for the latest rise in the price of gas and electricity. I'm pretty sure we've got Ed Miliband to thank for that.

If he'd had the sense to keep quiet about his plan to freeze the cost of energy, and waited to surprise the companies with it if he gets elected – I mean when he gets elected (must try much harder to sound as if I think that's likely) – then it wouldn't have occurred to them to raise their prices in anticipation, would it?

You'd think Ed and his "special" advisors would have thought of that, seeing as I have – and I'm only a lowly MPs' caseworker. (I put the apostrophe in MPs' after the P to start with, which resulted in "a lowly MP's caseworker", which was probably equally accurate.)

Anyway, I can't sit here tinkering with apostrophes when I'm supposed to be coming up with ways to cheer Max up...and there's no point me trying to do Ed Miliband's thinking for him, either. According to Mr Beales, the unions are already in charge of that.

I join Max in the kitchen, where he's staring hopelessly at a vegetarian cookbook I bought some time in the early 1980s, when all non-meat dishes were apparently brown and mushy-looking, according to the photographs. Max doesn't seem to find those at all inspiring.

"It could be worse," I say, rather too brightly, as Max looks distinctly optimistic for all of a second. "At least Dad's in Thailand this year, so you won't have to fight him for the remote control on Christmas Day."

Max doesn't even bother to pretend to be impressed.

"Is that really the best you could do, Mol?" he says. "I thought you were supposed to have political skills."

That's number one on my New Year's resolutions list, then, isn't it? Improve my political skills. Let's hope it's on Ed Miliband's, too. Oh, and The Boss's.

Spinelessness In The Face Of Provocation.

I am knackered. I know I've said it before but, honestly, snoring really should be grounds for divorce. I finally drag myself out of bed mid-morning, but just can't be bothered to get dressed. It's too cold to undress first, anyway.

So I'm still sitting around in my thermals and hideous fleece nightshirt - attractively topped off with both my own and Max's dressing gowns - at lunchtime, when the doorbell rings. Then Max invites Ellen to come in, the idiot.

I glare at him, while she produces a gift-wrapped plant pot and hands it to me.

"This is for you, Molly," she says. "As a thank-you for the loan of the car last weekend."

I'm not exactly sure what comes out of my mouth next, but it's something along the lines of, "Humph."

Gracious is my middle name where nymphomaniac neighbours are concerned. And I don't like Christmas cactuses anyway (or should that be cacti?). They never bloody flower, just sit there promising much and delivering very little. A bit like certain governments I could mention.

My lack of enthusiasm must be obvious, because Ellen says,

"Max said you weren't very happy about him lending it to me - but it was all my fault. You mustn't blame him."

She pats Max on the arm at the same time as saying this, and it's all I can do not to swat her hand away. And what gives her the right to tell me when to be cross with my own husband?

"Humph," I say again.

I'm getting grumpier by the minute, but in the absence of any proof that she is sleeping with Max, there's nothing I can do but try to pull myself together, which is challenging in this outfit.

Luckily, Ellen is off to do her Christmas shopping, so she doesn't stay long. I'm so relieved that I manage to avoid asking why she hasn't already done it, given that her school has been closed since the first hint of snow.

After she's gone, I unwrap the cactus and put it on the table, and then I start to feel a bit guilty for being so rude to her, despite the restraint I showed about school closures. What if she isn't up to anything with Max? That'd make me the bad guy - especially if you  take Johnny into account. Thank God I didn't have virtual sex with him the other day.

If I told idiot brother Robin about it, he'd no doubt start going on about karma, so I decide I'd better try and compensate for any of the bad stuff I may have earned, just in case. I shall lure Max into having real sex by virtue of wearing my new(ish) underwear in his honour.

Putting thermals on top of lace does rather spoil the effect but, as long as I whip them off quickly tonight, Max probably won't even notice what I'm wearing until I get down to my bra and knickers. Then speed will be of the essence if I'm to avoid freezing to death.

The safest bet is probably to turn the electric blanket up to maximum temperature, and dive in to bed as fast as I can. This should avert hypothermia, as long as we don't disturb the covers too much after that. Now the whole thing's starting to sound like a military operation, which could be a bit depressing if I thought about it too much.

I decide not to think about it too much and am very nice to Max for the rest of the day instead. I don't even remark on the whole bottle of wine he downs while he's cooking dinner. He does, though. As he drains his glass, he says,

"Don't worry, Mol. I know I always snore when I've had a drink - so I'll sleep in Connie's room tonight."

Oh, for God's sake. Begging would be far too humiliating, so it seems that the only thing I'm going to score today is a bloody cactus. And even that's been cultivated to remove its prickles.

There'd be a joke there, if I was in the mood to make it.

The Unreal Woman, Or The Headless Child Bride.

I have got to stop The Boss eating my food. If I get any smaller, I'm going to disappear, and then all that will be left is a pile of clothing, mainly comprised of the five million layers of thermal underwear I've had to resort to now that the weather's become so much colder.

Over the last few days, I've been barely able to move my arms to type, and yesterday Greg would not shut up about Weebles.

"I didn't find that analogy funny when Max first thought of it," I said. "So you lack even the virtue of originality."

Well, you look as if you're wearing a fat suit," said Greg. "Can you even breathe with all that thermal underwear crushing your rib cage?"

"Yes, of course I can. I just have to take shallower breaths. Being skinny is no laughing matter - as you'd know if you ever went to the gym more than twice a year."

"Oooh - defensive behaviour. Another sign of burnout," said Greg. He didn't stop mocking me until I threatened to tell Miss Chambers who had put the dog poo through her letterbox.

Mind you, now I'm not sure that I wouldn't rather be a Weeble than the alternative.

When I get out of the shower this morning, I realise that I've forgotten my dressing gown - so I have to hurtle into the bedroom wrapped only in a towel. A hand towel, as Josh has used all the bigger ones.

Speed is of the essence as, not only is it bloody freezing in our house, but you never know who you're going to meet on the landing: none of Josh's friends seem to have homes to go to, if the number of bodies asleep on his bedroom floor most mornings are anything to go by.

On my way through the bedroom door, the towel catches on the handle, so by the time I'm fully inside the room, I'm totally starkers. And facing the full-length mirror. Oh, my God.

Honestly, if you chopped my head off, you'd think I was about twelve years old. Gok would have a fit if he saw me. He'd have to give up his obsession with the "real woman" thing, and find an alternative phrase. Probably "unreal."

I don't like this idea at all, so I ask Max:

"Do you think I look like a real woman?"

"What?" he says, while hopping about on one foot and trying to put a sock on the other. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, do I look like a woman - or a child?"

"Well, a woman, I suppose."

I suppose? What the hell's that supposed to mean?

"What about if you imagine me without a head?" I say.

Max rolls his eyes.

"Do I have to? Headless isn't exactly normal, is it?"

Now I've found the hand-mirror, too, and I'm twisting about trying to see my back view. Max has stopped getting dressed and is staring at me in disbelief.

"Max - stop looking at me like that! Just humour me for a minute. Woman - or child - when missing my head?"

"Well, um, child, I suppose," he says. Then he pulls a face.

"Oh, thanks," I say. "Is it that bad?"

"Well, it makes me feel like a bit of a pervert," he says. "Being married to a headless child."

So there you have it. I bet that's why we have no sex! I am going to Boots on my way home from work, and I'm going to buy up their entire stock of Complan and eat the whole lot at once. Or drink it, anyway.

I know Complan tastes disgusting, but at least it's unlikely that Andrew will want to help himself to any, so that'll help the pounds pile on. Then I won't need any thermal underwear and my body might match my bloody head for once. These real women have no idea how lucky they are.

Short Sight, The Pox and Emanuelle in Nurse's Clothing.

God, what a total shambles. It seems that I am much better at affairs of state (at an admittedly-unimportant level) than at affairs of the heart.

When Max drops me off at the Marriott - which really is bloody miles out of Northwick - Greg is hiding in the lobby, waiting for me. So far, so good. He bundles me straight into the Gregmobile and drives me back into town.

Considering what a terrible driver Greg is, this is not as bad as it could have been, although there is one very hairy moment, when we almost catch up with Max, who is waiting at a set of lights. I don't think he notices us - but it is unnerving, all the same. To avoid any repetitions, we have to pootle along at about 40mph for the rest of the journey, which makes me late to meet Johnny.

I rush into the hotel, looking a bit windswept and very harassed, and am so busy trying to smooth my hair out that I walk straight into someone waiting at the reception desk.

"Excuse me," he says, in a very snooty way, and then, "Molly?"

"Johnny?"

God, he looks exactly like Putin. Same build, probably the same height - considerably shorter than Max but thankfully not a midget like me. Even the same air of authority, initially - but this doesn't really live up to expectations when he fails to get the hotel to sort out the error they've made with his booking. It turns out that he's been given a single room instead of the luxury double he'd booked. This is probably because he normally has someone like me to book his hotel accommodation, and is incapable of doing it properly himself. Let's hope the similarity with The Boss ends there.

Things improve when we sit down at our table. Johnny can't stop looking at me, and I feel really, really self-conscious, although the lights are so dim that, hopefully, he can't see my incipient beard. I relax a bit after a couple of gins, though - and then we eat, and everything is so nice. At least for a while.

We're just two people, talking: about life, our hopes, how we feel about the choices we've made. No-one mentions kids, or bills, what's for dinner or where the clean towels are. I haven't felt like this in years. Like a woman, instead of just a function.

When we've finished dessert, it's already quite late. Johnny leans back in his chair, then says,

"So, now what? Shall we go up to my room? No pressure - but I know I want to."

No pressure, my arse. Half a continent travelled, the vagaries of Heathrow and British Rail negotiated, a hotel cock-up and an a la carte dinner paid for. I could hardly say no, even if I wanted to. Though I'm not at all sure whether my shivering is due to excitement, nerves or just the omission of my thermal underwear in honour of the occasion.

He takes my hand as we walk along the corridor. It's the first time we've touched, and it feels more intimate than you'd think possible for such a small gesture. Then he opens the door to his room, flicks the overhead light off, and leads me inside. Oh God.

"So here we are," he says. "At last."

He pulls me towards him and leans forward to kiss me.

"Ouch," I say. My hair is caught in the metal hinge of his glasses. Untangling it seems to take ages, and he has to take the glasses off to do so. He puts them down on the chest of drawers, which can only be a good thing as I am sure I look much better without them. Then he moves in for another attempt at a kiss, misjudges the distance and almost headbuts me.

"Ow!"

He steps back, catches his foot on something, and promptly falls over the corner of the bed. There's a hell of a crash and I start laughing. I can't help it - it's a nervous thing with me: I always laugh when people fall over. Though I stop when I switch the light back on and see the blood on Johnny's forehead, and his deeply unamused expression. He must have hit the edge of the bedside table when he fell.

So just when I should have been turning into Emanuelle, I have to do a Florence Nightingale impression instead: cleaning the wound, and finding a plaster, while all the time Johnny's sitting there squinting. It's not a good look, but I try not to focus on that. I doubt he can focus on anything without his glasses, judging by how thick the lenses are. I can't see anything when I try them on in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood.

Eventually he's all patched up, and he shuffles over so that I can lie down beside him, and takes me in his arms - it's a good job I'm so small, as the bloody bed is tiny. He starts stroking my shoulder and kissing my neck. This is more like it. Then his mobile rings.

"I'd better get this," he says.

Half an hour later, he's still talking, though God knows what about. His side of the conversation seems restricted to questions about degrees of fever, and the number and location of someone's spots. It must be another Global Oil Company disaster. What on earth have they done now? Poisoned a water supply, or something?

I am dying for a cigarette, so I mime that I am going outside, but Johnny waves at me to wait. Then he says, into the receiver,

"Excuse me a moment, darling - room service is here." Then he covers the phone with his hand and says, "Molly, I'm really sorry about this. It sounds as if my daughter's got chicken pox."

He's on the phone to his wife. His wife. Oh, my God - what am I doing? While my husband is at home, waiting for me. I find my shoes and my bag, blow Johnny a kiss and walk out.

I phone a taxi from the hotel lobby, and am at home before Newsnight has ended. Max is asleep on the sofa, so I tiptoe upstairs and take a shower. I feel so grubby. Though at least I've already had chicken pox - not that I was likely to catch any other kind, given the absence of any exchange of bodily fluids. There wasn't even any nudity. I might as well have worn my thermal underwear.