The Relative Importance Of Germaine Greer, Budget Cuts And Designer Clothes. Oh, And Of Life Itself.

So now Josh seems to have become a direct victim of the cuts. And I am sick of spending weekends in A&E.

"Do you have to go out tonight?" I say to him, as he leaves the house last night. "It's always on Saturday nights that you seem to get beaten up on your way home from the pub."

"I know," says Josh, gloomily. "That's why I'm not going there. I'm going round to Robbie's instead - on my new bike."

I get a sinking feeling I decide to ignore. I'd never make an elementary mistake like that at work.

"Kiss your mother before you go," I say.

"Can't," says Josh. "According to Germaine Greer, that would be teaching me to flirt with you."

"I think she was only referring to little girls kissing their fathers," I say.

"Then she was being sexist, too," says Josh. "As well as an idiot."

On that probably indisputable note, off he rides, into the sunset. Thank God he's never seen Greer's Beautiful Boy book. I can only imagine what he'd say about that.

All this talk of flirting makes me wonder whether Max will still be awake after Wallander has finished. He looks pretty alert, so I decide it's safe to wait until the programme's over, before making any flirtatious moves. This proves to be ill-advised.

We've just gone to bed, and I'm about to commence a preliminary manoeuvre, when the doorbell starts to ring. It doesn't stop until I get downstairs and open the door.

"Mrs Bennett?" says Robbie. "I don't want you to panic -"

Only a teenager would think that that would have the desired effect.

"What's happened?" I say, as clearly as I can, given that my chest doesn't seem to be expanding quite enough to let in any air.

"Josh has had a bit of an accident," says Robbie, glancing sideways down the street. "But - "

I don't wait for the rest of the sentence. I run into the road and look for Josh. There's no sign of him, anywhere.

"Where is he?" I say to Robbie, who looks very pale, now I come to think of it.

"At the hospital," he says.

Oh. Right. Thank God for that. If Josh has managed to cycle to the hospital, he can't be too badly injured, can he? I calm down slightly, and take the deepest breath I've managed since opening the door.

"I've brought his bike back for him," says Robbie, freaking me out all over again.

"So how the hell did he get to the hospital?" I say.

"Um," says Robbie. "Well, someone called an ambulance."

"Was he knocked out?" says Max, who's walking down the stairs, while doing his flies up at the same time.

"Yes," says Robbie. "And he was bleeding quite a lot, too."

I have no idea what happens to Robbie after that. Or to Josh's bike. I just grab the car keys and my handbag, push past him, and run towards the car. Max isn't far behind.

The journey to the hospital seems to take forever, even though we're going so fast. Max is driving, and for once, I don't say anything about his white van man approach to roundabouts. I'd be quite happy for him to drive straight across the damn things if it got me to my son any quicker.

You can tell how scared we both are, because we don't actually speak to each other at all.

"Our son's been brought in by ambulance," says Max to the receptionist in A&E. "Joshua Bennett. He fell off his bike."

"Oh, yes," she says, without needing to look anything up at all - so now I'm really terrified. "Through those doors, and second left."

As we rush along the corridor, a door opens up ahead, and a nurse wheels a bed across our path and into another room. I'm pretty sure that Max also notices that there's a patient in it, covered in drips and wearing a neck collar, though he doesn't mention it.

"Where's Josh Bennett?" he says to a passing doctor, who doesn't seem to hear, so Max repeats the question at the top of his voice.

"He's in here," comes a voice from behind a half-drawn curtain, and there, slumped on a trolley but thankfully not wearing a neck collar, is Josh. Or, at least, I think it's Josh. His head is so swathed in bandages, and his face so cut up, that I can hardly tell.

He gives me an apologetic look out of the one eye that isn't covered by the bandage, as the nurse says,

"Oh, we got that done just in time - didn't we, Josh?"

Josh murmurs in agreement, and then the nurse continues:

"He begged us to clean him up before you saw him."

"This is cleaned up?" says Max, giving me a sidelong glance.

I know exactly what he means. Josh is absolutely covered in blood. I bend over to kiss him on the cheek, but then realise that this isn't going to be as easy as it sounds, so I take his hand and squeeze it, instead.

"Ow," says Josh, at which point I spot the cuts and grazes on his hands.

"What the hell happened?" says Max. "Have you been drinking?"

"No," says Josh. "It was the surface of the road. I hit a sunken drain cover on Park Street, which jerked the wheel round, and then I couldn't get control of the bike, because I hit another row of drains straight afterwards. The last thing I remember is thinking, 'Oh, shit,' and heading over the handlebars."

"Bloody hell," says Max. "I know the drain covers you mean. They feel really bad, even in the car. And they've had yellow markings round them for months, so they should have been repaired by now."

He pauses while the nurse takes Josh's blood pressure, then carries on:

"I bet it's down to this government's sodding budget cuts."

Honestly, sometimes Max sounds just like a usual suspect. The only cut I'm worried about right now is the one that's still bleeding through Josh's bandages.

"Never mind that," I say. "How do you feel, Josh? Are you okay?"

"No," he says. "Look at this blood all over my new Stussy shirt, and on my shoes and jeans. How am I going to get that out?"

Honestly, talk about the warped priorities of the male of the species. First Max rants on about government policy; and then Josh is more worried about clothing than his injuries.

Mind you, I'm a bit worried about the cuts myself, on second thoughts. Maybe they might account for why the hospital seems so reluctant to x-ray Josh's head - unless they've decided there's no brain inside it to be damaged.

Bratz, Back-Stabbing, And Some Significant Omissions.

The Boss spends all day going on about how the Party needs to pull together to support Ed Miliband.

"Got to stop those bloody Blairites going behind his back," he says. "Unity, that's the thing."

"Have you had some sort of revelation?" says Greg. "Thought you believed in debate. You certainly seemed to when Blair was PM."

"Different times," says Andrew. "Loyalty's what counts now."

Honestly, that man is almost as shameless as Sarah Palin.

Talking of people going behind your back, I get a nasty surprise when I open the box of Christmas cards that has just arrived from the printer.

"What the hell?" I say, as I stare in disbelief at the most hideous card I have ever seen. "This isn't the one I chose."

"Oh, Vicky didn't like that," says Andrew. "Did you, Vicks? Said it wasn't pretty enough."

So much for the only perk of my job: choosing which entry wins in The Boss' annual "Design a Christmas card" competition. It's usually the highlight of my year. To add insult to injury, the new design stinks.

Instead of the quirky, imaginative one I chose, which was drawn by an autistic child in the special unit at Easemount First School, we now have a complete travesty of a card, courtesy of a twelve-year-old pupil at Northwick High School for Girls. Which is allegedly an Arts Academy. Let's just say that you wouldn't have to go further than the Bratz counter to spot her inspiration.

I'm so cross that I take revenge by giving Vicky the responsibility for handling the rest of the process, including updating the mailing list and printing the labels. She stops smirking pretty quickly at that point - and she hasn't even had the fun of trying to get Andrew to remember to sign all the cards in time to post them yet.

At least it's Josh's night off from the cinema, so that'll cheer me up. I don't seem to have seen him for weeks, so I'm looking forward to it but, when I get home, he's running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.

"I thought you were staying in tonight," I say.

"Nah," he says. "Don't be daft, Mum. I'm not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I'm taking Holly for a pizza and then we're going to see a film. Might as well get some use out of all these free tickets."

Then he goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which I contemplate the side of Max's head while he snores on the sofa. This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when Max's mobile starts ringing.

He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing. (I hate bloody Nokias and late-night phone-calls always make me nervous, and clumsy.)

"Mum," says Josh. "Where's Dad?"

"Asleep," I say. "Why? Are you okay? You sound funny."

"No, I'm not," he says. "Can you get him to come and pick me up? I can't walk."

"Why? Now what's happened?" I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.

"I think I've dislocated my knee. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it's bloody agony again. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me."

"Oh, for God's sake, Josh. Okay - but Dad won't be able to come. He's had too much wine to drive," I say. "Stay put 'til I get there."

Honestly, Josh is so accident-prone that we might as well get a season ticket for A&E. And it's going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That'll teach me to complain about doing nothing in the evenings.

I fish the keys out of Max's pocket, grab my coat and bag, and power walk to the car - but it isn't there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there's still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody hell.

There's nothing for it but to go back home.

"Max. Max! Wake up! The car's been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E," I say, while calling for a cab.

He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I'll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I've finished explaining that, the cab's outside.

"Max - you'll have to phone the Police and report the theft," I say. "I've got to go."

"Um," he says. "Yes, um."

"Yes, um, what? Hurry up - the meter's running!"

"Well, the car hasn't exactly been stolen," he says.

He won't meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He's still staring very hard at the floor when he answers:

"I may have lent it to someone for the weekend."

"Who?" I say, as the taxi driver beeps his horn for about the hundredth time.

"Ellen," he says.

I slam the door so hard on my way out that I think I may have shattered the glass.

So now here I am in the hospital cafe, typing on Holly's laptop and waiting for Josh to come out of X-Ray. Maybe I should ask the Radiologist to check if my heart is broken while she's at it.

A Highly-Incompetent Ninja Pays The Price.

Oh, great. Max and I go into town, more for a wander than to shop, as we are broke until payday. We leave Connie and Josh at home, arguing desultorily about whether university is a waste of time.

Max says that maybe we should try and arrange something for next weekend, and suggests we ask David and Susie if we can borrow their holiday cottage. Just the two of us. I have no idea what brought this on, but I'm thrilled - especially as it is entirely Max's own idea, and not the result of furious hinting.

If anything is likely to result in sex, this is it. Being twenty miles away from the kids would mean there'd be no possibility of being interrupted by one of them wanting us to rule on a stupid argument.

"Phone David now," I say. "Quick, before you change your mind!"

"Why would I change my mind?" says Max.

"Oh, I don't know. But something always crops up and then we end up doing nothing," I say. Max gives me a hug and picks up his phone.

David and Susie must be out on the razzle somewhere, as David's phone goes straight to answerphone. Max is about to hang up, but after a lot of nudging from me, he leaves a message asking if we can borrow the house. Yaay! I am so happy I am almost skipping as we start to make our way home. When we come out on the other side of the underpass, Max's phone rings. God, can that be David, already?

"You what?" says Max. There is a barely discernable note of panic in his voice. "He's done what?"

I stick my head up close to his, and can just make out Connie's voice - which is pitched rather higher than usual.

"Well, don't move him," says Max. "We're almost home." He breaks into a run. I follow suit - but he's too fast for me. When I get inside the house, Josh is lying on the floor, half inside the living room and half in the hall. He looks distinctly green, and is uncharacteristically quiet. Max is examining him.

"So what happened, Con?" he says.

"He was getting really stroppy about students, so I told him to piss off and leave me alone," says Connie.

"And?" Max is not looking amused.

"Well, he wouldn't." Connie's chin is sticking out - as it always does when she feels under attack.

"You thumped me," says Josh. (Thank God for that - at least he's capable of speech.)

"Not hard! And anyway, it was your bloody fault what happened." Connie is furious.

"Look," says Max, in a very uncharacteristically assertive way, "Josh's arm is blue - so we need to get him to A&E. I'll get the car."

As he heads for the door, I say, "What d'you think he's done?"

"I think he could have broken his arm and the bone might be cutting into his blood supply."

"Oh Christ," I say, and sit down on the stairs.

"Get his coat and a blanket, and I'll bring the car round," says Max. "And you can stay here while I take him to the hospital. You'll just wind him up if you come, 'cause you look so damned worried."

Gah. I deal with stressful situations every day of the week - why does my husband think I am useless in an emergency?

"I'm coming," I say. "Connie, you can cook dinner while we're gone. I'll phone you when we know what's wrong."

I'm not sure, but I could swear Connie says, "Serves him right," as Max and I manhandle Josh to the car.

We wait for hours in A&E. Josh perks up a bit while he's waiting, but he won't tell us any more about what happened. He sits there muttering,

"Connie's just so f*cking annoying."

He finally gets to see a doctor, who orders an X-Ray, but not before he has asked Josh to explain how the accident happened. Max and I look at him expectantly. Josh says nothing, and just hangs his head.

"Go on, tell him," says Max. "We're all waiting to hear this."

"Well, it's my sister, you see," Josh says to the doctor. "She's just really, really annoying."

"And?" says the doctor.

"She wanted me to go away, so she thumped me."

"What - hard enough to break your arm?" says the doctor. "What is she, some sort of prize-fighter?"

"No-o," says Josh. "I tried to kick her back -"

"Ah," says Max. "What sort of kick, exactly?"

"Well, a roundhouse kick, of course," says Josh, the family ninja.

"So why are you here in A&E with a possibly broken arm, when you were the one who kicked your sister?" says the doctor.

"I missed," says Josh. Very quietly. I'll give the doctor his due, he didn't laugh out loud. Though I'm pretty sure he sniggered.


We finally get home really late. Josh's arm is in a sling to support it. It's not broken, but very badly bruised. The doctor says he has probably temporarily damaged some of the nerves and the blood vessels have been affected, hence the attractive blue colour. Connie gives him a big hug, which makes him wince, and then she says,

"How did you tell them you did it, bro?"

"Told 'em I bloody well kicked you," says Josh.

"And that you missed and fell over - onto your own arm?" says Connie. She's enjoying this far too much - but then so am I.

"I suppose so," says Josh. "Now can you get me a drink? You're going to have to wait on me until my arm's better. I'd better phone you on my mobile whenever I need something."

That wipes the smile off Connie's face pretty effectively. And mine, once it occurs to me that we can't possibly leave these two alone while we have a dirty weekend. They'd probably murder each other, through incompetence, if nothing else. Bang goes my chance of rejuvenating my sex-life. I do wish I'd seen Josh's flying kick, though. Funniest thing that's happened all week.