There's bad news and good news this morning, which is an improvement on the usual wholly-negative situation.
The phone rings almost as soon as we enter the office, and Greg loses at our version of rock, paper, scissors* so he has to answer it. Within seconds he's banging his head on the desk.
"Who is it?" I say.
Greg puts his finger to his lips, and then mouths something that looks like, "Mea mrmnghn."
Then he says,
"Well, there's nothing we can do for you now - but I do hope you're happy in your new home."
Then he slams the phone down without waiting for a reply, jumps to his feet and does a weird tribal-style dance around the office. Several times, and accompanied by a grunting chorus, which seems to involve the words, "oh yes, yes, yes."
Vicky looks appalled when she walks in and catches him at it. I think she raises her eyebrows at me but, given how exaggerated they normally look, it's rather hard to tell.
"Don't ask me what's wrong with him," I say. "He hasn't stopped whooping and dancing for the last five minutes. Though I shall trip him up when he next goes past. He's making me feel dizzy."
Greg comes to a halt, pauses for effect, and then says,
"That, my dear Molly, was our favourite constituent."
"Who?" I say. "Mr Bradley?"
"No, you idiot," says Greg. "Can't you spot irony when it's staring you in the face? It was the marvellous Mr Meeeurghn, the most demanding man in Northwick. As well as quite possibly the most dangerously insane."
Now it's my turn to bang my head on the desk, while making moaning noises.
"No-o-o," I say. "I was hoping he'd died. Well, maybe not died exactly, but I did think there was a chance he'd got amnesia since his accident, and had forgotten all about us. But now he's back, and I think I may be going to cry."
"Stop being so melodramatic," says Greg, who's a fine one to talk. "He's not back - that's the whole beauty of it."
I look puzzled, while Vicky just contemplates her nails. I have no idea why she finds them perennially interesting.
"The Council agreed it was too dangerous for Mr Meeeurghn to move back into his flat when he got out of hospital - seeing as it was his neighbour who ran him over."
Greg really doesn't need to speak as slowly as he is, for goodness' sake. I am not an idiot, whatever the general consensus may be.
"With me so far?" he says, adding insult to injury.
I stick two fingers up in the air, at which Vicky tuts and starts brushing her hair.
"So Mr Meeeurghn has been moved to a new flat," says Greg.
"Which is worthy of all that terrible dancing because?"
"It's not in our constituency!" says Greg. "Even better, he's moved to Northwick West, so now he's become that LibDem's problem. Couldn't happen to a nicer person."
Greg starts dancing again and, once I've stopped laughing, I join in too. Things are definitely looking up around here. One loony down, and only another 2,500 to go.
I tell Johnny the good news when I email him after lunch to discuss the arrangements for our rendezvous next week.
"You'll be pleased to hear that my half of Northwick has just become a much safer place to visit," I say.
"No, I won't," says Johnny. "I'm afraid it's irrelevant."
Oh, honestly, is he going to chicken out of our date now? I know it's usually me who does that but, at the rate we're going, we won't manage to get into bed until we're eighty, when we'll probably have to spend most of the time re-adjusting our artificial hips and re-bandaging our ulcers.
"Why?" I say. "Has your trip to the UK been cancelled?"
"No," says Johnny. "But I can't come to Northwick. You're going to have to meet me at Heathrow this time."
"We've already been through that," I say.
Honestly, talk about Mr M's amnesia - has Johnny forgotten that I haven't got a good reason to be anywhere near an airport if anyone should spot me there? Whereas he can go where he likes, as no-one has a clue who he is in the UK, anyway. Unless they mistake him for Putin - in which case they'd probably decide to keep quiet about it.
"But why?" I say. "It isn't as if anyone keeps tabs on you, seeing as you spend half your life travelling the world."
"That's where you're wrong," says Johnny. "My wife bought me an iPhone for Christmas."
He follows this sentence with one of those emoticons. I think his kids have just taught him how to use them, as his emails have been peppered with stupid faces ever since Christmas. This one's sad, but I figure they all are really.
"Nice for some," I say. "I was given a block of cheese."
A smiley face indicates that Johnny thinks I'm joking. He has no idea how the other half live.
"Very funny," he says. "But she's made me get that 4Square app for it, so that she can tell where I am at any given time. Anywhere in the bloody world."
I don't think Johnny's very happy with my reply, given that it merely asks how he thinks I could get hold of a cheap iPhone for Max. And how to persuade the Government to issue them to Mr Meeeurghn and the rest of the usual suspects too.
It would cost a lot, admittedly - but just think of the peace of mind it might bring. Unless you're Alan Johnson, of course, and you've already got Ed Balls keeping one of his (rather scary) eyes on you.
*Rock, Paper, Scissors - this is a link to the usual version, but Greg and I don't have time for that when we're deciding who has to answer the phone. So we just pump our hands once, then go for it. I always win because, unlike Greg, I listen to my instincts.
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
The Significance Of Talking To Someone Low-Paid As If They Were A Husky.
God, my tooth hurts. I can hardly think straight - and I can't even afford to go to the dentist. Why isn't NHS dentistry free at the point of delivery, like every other form of treatment? I can never understand it.
"It won't just be dentists that we'll have to pay to see soon," says Max, in a doom-laden voice. "What with these bloody NHS reforms. Do they think we're stupid?"
"Um," I say - which is about all I'm capable of, given the pain caused by moving my jaw. Not that I'm talking to Max anyway, given the petrol fiasco.
"Do the Tories really think we've forgotten what they did to the NHS last time? It's like the bloody 80s all over again," he says.
Then he glowers at the TV, and changes channel.
"I've had enough of the news," he says. "It's not as if it's ever good these days."
"I've had enough of my job too," says Josh, as he comes into the room. "And I bloody hate the general public."
I know exactly what he means but, as he's only just started working, I probably shouldn't encourage him. Even if that does mean saying a full sentence. I am a responsible parent, after all.
"That's a bit strong, Josh," I say. "What's happened to make you feel like that?"
"Where do you want me to start?"
Josh sighs even more loudly than Max does when I moan about the amount of TV we watch, and then goes on to explain that he had to serve a really unpleasant man just before his shift finished.
Apparently the guy wanted seven ice-creams, one for each of his five children - or snotty nosed kids, as Josh puts it - and two more for himself and his wife.
"Well, that doesn't sound too bad," I say. "Seeing as most of the profits in cinemas are made from over-priced food and drink, aren't they?"
"Yeah," says Josh. "But he'd left it 'til about a minute before the film started, and the ice cream was frozen so hard it was almost impossible to get out. So there I am, struggling to do it as fast as I can, when the scoop breaks. You won't believe what he said to me then."
Max and I both look curious, one of us far more convincingly than the other.
"Mush," says Josh. "Mush! As if I was a bloody dog."
"Rude bugger. He sounds a right chav to me," says Max, who's genuinely paying attention now. "Though I don't know how anyone can afford to go to the cinema these days, let alone buy seven ice-creams while they're at it."
"And cokes," says Josh. "Large ones. But he wasn't short of money, Dad. He was loaded. He pulled a great wad of notes out of his pocket and made a big deal of unfolding it in front of me, while muttering 'pay peanuts, get monkeys.'"
Oh, dear God, Max is right, isn't he? Only nine months since we got a Tory government and we're already back in Thatcher's 1980s. Max looks at me and says,
"You thinking what I'm thinking, Mol?"
"Um," I say. "Loadsamoney."
*Loadsamoney: if you're lucky enough to have been too young to live through the 80s, then here's an explanation of Harry Enfield's plasterer. I may suggest Josh considers learning a trade, once I can speak properly again. I have a feeling it would be much more useful than Film Studies, and probably more lucrative too.
"It won't just be dentists that we'll have to pay to see soon," says Max, in a doom-laden voice. "What with these bloody NHS reforms. Do they think we're stupid?"
"Um," I say - which is about all I'm capable of, given the pain caused by moving my jaw. Not that I'm talking to Max anyway, given the petrol fiasco.
"Do the Tories really think we've forgotten what they did to the NHS last time? It's like the bloody 80s all over again," he says.
Then he glowers at the TV, and changes channel.
"I've had enough of the news," he says. "It's not as if it's ever good these days."
"I've had enough of my job too," says Josh, as he comes into the room. "And I bloody hate the general public."
I know exactly what he means but, as he's only just started working, I probably shouldn't encourage him. Even if that does mean saying a full sentence. I am a responsible parent, after all.
"That's a bit strong, Josh," I say. "What's happened to make you feel like that?"
"Where do you want me to start?"
Josh sighs even more loudly than Max does when I moan about the amount of TV we watch, and then goes on to explain that he had to serve a really unpleasant man just before his shift finished.
Apparently the guy wanted seven ice-creams, one for each of his five children - or snotty nosed kids, as Josh puts it - and two more for himself and his wife.
"Well, that doesn't sound too bad," I say. "Seeing as most of the profits in cinemas are made from over-priced food and drink, aren't they?"
"Yeah," says Josh. "But he'd left it 'til about a minute before the film started, and the ice cream was frozen so hard it was almost impossible to get out. So there I am, struggling to do it as fast as I can, when the scoop breaks. You won't believe what he said to me then."
Max and I both look curious, one of us far more convincingly than the other.
"Mush," says Josh. "Mush! As if I was a bloody dog."
"Rude bugger. He sounds a right chav to me," says Max, who's genuinely paying attention now. "Though I don't know how anyone can afford to go to the cinema these days, let alone buy seven ice-creams while they're at it."
"And cokes," says Josh. "Large ones. But he wasn't short of money, Dad. He was loaded. He pulled a great wad of notes out of his pocket and made a big deal of unfolding it in front of me, while muttering 'pay peanuts, get monkeys.'"
Oh, dear God, Max is right, isn't he? Only nine months since we got a Tory government and we're already back in Thatcher's 1980s. Max looks at me and says,
"You thinking what I'm thinking, Mol?"
"Um," I say. "Loadsamoney."
*Loadsamoney: if you're lucky enough to have been too young to live through the 80s, then here's an explanation of Harry Enfield's plasterer. I may suggest Josh considers learning a trade, once I can speak properly again. I have a feeling it would be much more useful than Film Studies, and probably more lucrative too.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Spontaneity, Prime Numbers And Filibustering. Not In That Order.
Honestly, sometimes Lords of the Realm get a bit above themselves. Talk about trying to make MPs' staff feel completely worthless!
Apparently we're all supposed to be invisible now, as well as underpaid and unappreciated. Not to mention being expected to donate our lunches to any passing MP, at least one of whom is quite patently suffering from a bad case of worms.
Greg's no more amused by the whole thing than I am.
"Did Carlotta text you about what Lord Howard said in the Lords?" he says, as soon as he arrives at work this morning. "She woke me up in the middle of the night."
"Yes, me too," I say. "I couldn't believe it. What a stupid man he is - unless he was talking in his sleep, of course."
"What on earth are you two talking about?" says Vicky. "Asleep? In the House of Lords? That's what peers normally do, isn't it?"
"Yes, but not in beds with duvets," I say. "Last night they were basically filibustering the Voting System Bill. They even resorted to discussing prime numbers at one point, or so Carlotta said."
For someone who claims to be interested in politics, rather than in just flirting with susceptible backbench MPs, Vicky's awfully badly-informed sometimes.
"What's filibustering?" she says. For God's sake, where does The Boss find these people?
Anyway, once I've explained, Vicky still looks none the wiser but, to her credit, returns to the really important point:
"So what did Lord Howard say about MPs' staff that annoyed you two so much?"
"He said - and I quote - that constituents will be upset if they think that MPs' staff are dealing with their concerns," I say.
"Seems the concept of voters wanting to be told the truth hasn't quite filtered through to everyone yet," says Greg. "Unless MPs are just worried about being had up under the Trades Descriptions Act. Maybe we should re-think using Andrew's auto-signature on 'his' letters, even though it'd be obvious to anyone but a muppet that it's only printed."
I'm not sure about that, actually. Constituents aren't half as aware of how MPs' offices work as we sometimes think they are. Even perfectly sensible ones seem to think that it really is their MP who handles their cases and that we caseworkers just take notes and then pass the information along. To the intellectual giants for whom we work.
It's probably part of the same syndrome as constituents' equally unshakeable belief - which they somehow sustain even while their television screens are showing live coverage of their MP sitting in the Commons Chamber during PMQs - that he or she is in their constituency seven days a bloody week.
"Too right," says Greg, when I mention it to him. "How many of the local tuition fees protests have been held on Thursdays when the House is sitting, for God's sake? You'd think university students could work out that it's only the poor old downtrodden staff that are stuck in the constituency offices mid-week."
Exactly. Poor old us - manning the barricades and not even recognised for our contribution. I can almost hear the violins. Unless Igor's outside with his balalaika.
"We have to know our place," says Greg, and goes out to buy extra chocolate, while I decide to cheer myself up by emailing Johnny. This doesn't make me feel any less downtrodden as, as soon as I tell him all about Max's mysterious fuel purchase, he's not impressed by my intelligence either.
"You're an idiot, Molly," he says. Admittedly affectionately, as far as I can tell, but even so...
"I am not," I say. "Max did have what could have been an innocent explanation."
"Your husband is clearly having an affair with that nymphomaniac, and you know it. Which makes your reluctance to take things further with me a bit ridiculous, don't you think? "
I don't think hitting a woman when she's down is very gentlemanly, but I don't say so. And I can't deny that Johnny has got a point.
I should face facts, accept that Max is definitely cheating, and get my own back, instead of always believing daft excuses about visits to Mrs Bloom - who just happens to live near Stalborough. Or so Max claimed when I confronted him late last night.
"I'm flying in to the UK next Wednesday," says Johnny. "So let's meet up again. We've been messing about for months, and I'm losing patience. Not to mention my sanity. You can't expect a man to live on emails and out-of-focus photographs for ever, however crazy about you I am."
God, I'm such a sucker for a compliment these days. Probably due to never getting any credit for anything I do - for which thanks, Lord Howard. I blame him for what happens next, which is that I decide that my life is sadly lacking in spontaneity, as well as acts of revenge.
"Okay, then," I say. "Let's do it."
As soon as I've pressed send, my stomach starts churning, and I want to get the email back. Why can't someone hurry up and invent a computer programme for that? It would save no end of people's bacon, not least that of MPs and inexperienced staff. Not that there's much chance of it happening any time soon - not now that Steve Jobs is on medical leave again.
So, after confirming that the offending email really is showing in my sent mail, and hasn't unaccountably but fortuitously hidden itself in my drafts folder instead, I sit and re-read it. My stomach feels a bit funny, and I really don't think I should clench my teeth like that.
"Argh, argh, argh," I say, as I re-read it for a second time. The noise may have been rather louder than I intended.
"What's up?" says Greg, appearing in the doorway. "And why the hell are you pulling that agonised face?"
I can't answer as by now I'm in literal as well as psychological pain. Can you crack a back tooth just by grimacing at your own stupidity?
"What's wrong with her?" says Vicky. As if I'm not even present. She'd make a good assistant to Lord Howard, now I come to think of it.
"Mol's doing the constituency office version of filbustering," says Greg. "Stress-related filling-busting."
Ha, ha, bloody ha. I'd hit back with a crushing rejoinder if I could bear to move my jaw.
Apparently we're all supposed to be invisible now, as well as underpaid and unappreciated. Not to mention being expected to donate our lunches to any passing MP, at least one of whom is quite patently suffering from a bad case of worms.
Greg's no more amused by the whole thing than I am.
"Did Carlotta text you about what Lord Howard said in the Lords?" he says, as soon as he arrives at work this morning. "She woke me up in the middle of the night."
"Yes, me too," I say. "I couldn't believe it. What a stupid man he is - unless he was talking in his sleep, of course."
"What on earth are you two talking about?" says Vicky. "Asleep? In the House of Lords? That's what peers normally do, isn't it?"
"Yes, but not in beds with duvets," I say. "Last night they were basically filibustering the Voting System Bill. They even resorted to discussing prime numbers at one point, or so Carlotta said."
For someone who claims to be interested in politics, rather than in just flirting with susceptible backbench MPs, Vicky's awfully badly-informed sometimes.
"What's filibustering?" she says. For God's sake, where does The Boss find these people?
Anyway, once I've explained, Vicky still looks none the wiser but, to her credit, returns to the really important point:
"So what did Lord Howard say about MPs' staff that annoyed you two so much?"
"He said - and I quote - that constituents will be upset if they think that MPs' staff are dealing with their concerns," I say.
"Seems the concept of voters wanting to be told the truth hasn't quite filtered through to everyone yet," says Greg. "Unless MPs are just worried about being had up under the Trades Descriptions Act. Maybe we should re-think using Andrew's auto-signature on 'his' letters, even though it'd be obvious to anyone but a muppet that it's only printed."
I'm not sure about that, actually. Constituents aren't half as aware of how MPs' offices work as we sometimes think they are. Even perfectly sensible ones seem to think that it really is their MP who handles their cases and that we caseworkers just take notes and then pass the information along. To the intellectual giants for whom we work.
It's probably part of the same syndrome as constituents' equally unshakeable belief - which they somehow sustain even while their television screens are showing live coverage of their MP sitting in the Commons Chamber during PMQs - that he or she is in their constituency seven days a bloody week.
"Too right," says Greg, when I mention it to him. "How many of the local tuition fees protests have been held on Thursdays when the House is sitting, for God's sake? You'd think university students could work out that it's only the poor old downtrodden staff that are stuck in the constituency offices mid-week."
Exactly. Poor old us - manning the barricades and not even recognised for our contribution. I can almost hear the violins. Unless Igor's outside with his balalaika.
"We have to know our place," says Greg, and goes out to buy extra chocolate, while I decide to cheer myself up by emailing Johnny. This doesn't make me feel any less downtrodden as, as soon as I tell him all about Max's mysterious fuel purchase, he's not impressed by my intelligence either.
"You're an idiot, Molly," he says. Admittedly affectionately, as far as I can tell, but even so...
"I am not," I say. "Max did have what could have been an innocent explanation."
"Your husband is clearly having an affair with that nymphomaniac, and you know it. Which makes your reluctance to take things further with me a bit ridiculous, don't you think? "
I don't think hitting a woman when she's down is very gentlemanly, but I don't say so. And I can't deny that Johnny has got a point.
I should face facts, accept that Max is definitely cheating, and get my own back, instead of always believing daft excuses about visits to Mrs Bloom - who just happens to live near Stalborough. Or so Max claimed when I confronted him late last night.
"I'm flying in to the UK next Wednesday," says Johnny. "So let's meet up again. We've been messing about for months, and I'm losing patience. Not to mention my sanity. You can't expect a man to live on emails and out-of-focus photographs for ever, however crazy about you I am."
God, I'm such a sucker for a compliment these days. Probably due to never getting any credit for anything I do - for which thanks, Lord Howard. I blame him for what happens next, which is that I decide that my life is sadly lacking in spontaneity, as well as acts of revenge.
"Okay, then," I say. "Let's do it."
As soon as I've pressed send, my stomach starts churning, and I want to get the email back. Why can't someone hurry up and invent a computer programme for that? It would save no end of people's bacon, not least that of MPs and inexperienced staff. Not that there's much chance of it happening any time soon - not now that Steve Jobs is on medical leave again.
So, after confirming that the offending email really is showing in my sent mail, and hasn't unaccountably but fortuitously hidden itself in my drafts folder instead, I sit and re-read it. My stomach feels a bit funny, and I really don't think I should clench my teeth like that.
"Argh, argh, argh," I say, as I re-read it for a second time. The noise may have been rather louder than I intended.
"What's up?" says Greg, appearing in the doorway. "And why the hell are you pulling that agonised face?"
I can't answer as by now I'm in literal as well as psychological pain. Can you crack a back tooth just by grimacing at your own stupidity?
"What's wrong with her?" says Vicky. As if I'm not even present. She'd make a good assistant to Lord Howard, now I come to think of it.
"Mol's doing the constituency office version of filbustering," says Greg. "Stress-related filling-busting."
Ha, ha, bloody ha. I'd hit back with a crushing rejoinder if I could bear to move my jaw.
Monday, 17 January 2011
In A Dry Season: An Absence Of Saliva And Conversational Skills.
I have no idea what nonsense I've written on behalf of any of the constituents today, as I can't stop wondering where the hell Max was on Friday night. Or how I'm going to find out without causing an enormous row.
Max leaves early for work this morning, so it's as if he knows I'm about to ask a very awkward question. Sometimes male intuition is under-rated, although it doesn't seem to apply to teenage boys, unfortunately - as becomes only too apparent when I ask Josh if he knows where Max was that night.
He says that he hasn't a clue, because he was at Holly's that evening, and didn't get home much before I did.
"Dad was here when I arrived, though," he says. "And, anyway, why do you want to know?"
"No reason," I say. Probably in a totally unconvincing manner, but luckily Josh is in a hurry, so he doesn't press me for an explanation.
In retrospect, this is a wise decision: unlike male intuition, explanations are vastly over-rated, if you ask me. Seeing as I think I may have just got one.
I'm on my way home, when I hear footsteps running up behind me, and someone says,
"Hey, Molly! Wait up."
Oh, God, it's Ellen. The very last person in the universe I wanted to see while I'm trying to work out what my husband's up to. I do manage a smile, which feels like a rictus and probably doesn't look much better, but Ellen doesn't seem to notice.
"Did you hear about Susannah York?" she says. "Very sad, isn't it?"
"Yes," I say. "A great campaigner, and she was in some really good films in her day."
Ellen's fallen into step beside me, so it looks as if I'm going to have company all the way home. Just what I didn't need. I light a cigarette in an effort to cope, and refuse to think about what Nan used to say about people who smoked in the street.
"She was a beauty, too," says Ellen. "Lots of people say I look like her, you know."
"Oh, do they?" I say. "You remind me of someone famous, but I don't think it's her."
It's a good job people don't have speech bubbles coming out of their heads, or mine would be shouting: James Blunt!
"You do too," says Ellen. "Remind me of someone famous, I mean. Now who on earth is it?"
I have no idea so I just wait for Ellen to decide. It doesn't take long - more's the bloody pity.
"Lena Zavaroni!" she says. Then she sees my face. "Before she got sick, of course."
"So we both look like dead people, then." I say.
Given that Ellen is claiming to look like a sex symbol, I can't dredge up much enthusiasm for being likened to a child star who died of anorexia, so that's all I can think of to say. Not that my reticence makes any difference. The woman is oblivious to disapproval.
"Oh, we've got more in common than that, Molly," she says. "That's why we get on so well."
Then she winks at me, which is very disturbing indeed. What sort of woman winks at another, for God's sake?
I'm still considering the answer when we turn into our street. Up ahead, I can see Max, who is in our garden putting the recycling out. He looks up, spots me and Ellen, and scuttles back inside the house. Hardly the behaviour of an innocent man.
"How's the head?" says Ellen. "Did the paracetamol help? Sorry I could only lend you a few, but I had a terrible hangover on Saturday morning too, so I needed the rest of the packet myself."
"Big night, was it, then?" I say.
"Oh, not really. Just went for a meal with the man I've been seeing. At that restaurant in Stalborough that was in the paper. You know, the one that's just got the Michelin star?"
I don't reply for ages, until I realise that Ellen's starting to look a bit unnerved but, even then, I only grunt in answer to her question, as I can't seem to form any actual words. Probably because I suddenly have no saliva, and my tongue seems to be stuck.
I probably look brain-dead, too, even though my mind is racing - with the thought that Ellen was in Stalborough on Friday night. The same Stalborough that's only a couple of miles from where Max bought the petrol.
Luckily, seeing as the silence is getting embarrassing, there's not much further to walk and, when I reach our gate, I open it and hurtle up the path leaving Ellen standing on the pavement outside.
"Bye, Molly," she says. "See you for coffee soon?"
I nod, wave and let myself into the house. It's a pretty minimalistic way to say goodbye, but all my energy is concentrated on what the hell I'm going to say to Max.
"Hi, darling," he says, as I walk into the hallway. "Sorry I didn't wait outside when I spotted you, but I'm in a hurry. Got to nip out."
As he leans forward to kiss me on the cheek, I notice he's already got his coat on, and a bag in his hand.
"What?" I say. "Why? You've already finished work. Where have you got to go?"
"Mrs Bloom's," he says. "She bought a big display unit from us and it was damaged when the deliverymen unpacked it. So she's not a happy bunny and I've got to go and try to make it usable until its replacement can be made."
"What?" I say again. "Why? I mean, why now? Why not earlier?"
Repetitive and inarticulate, I know, but it's the best I can do in the circumstances. Max doesn't seem to notice, anyway, as he just jingles the car keys and says:
"She had a hospital appointment this afternoon, so she couldn't be there to let me in until now. I came home early and prepared tea, but now I've got to go. Bye!"
He's out of the house before I can say the words "petrol" or "Friday night" - so now there's nothing to do but wait for him to come back before I can ask him what on earth he's been up to.
Except to try to recall the rest of my vocabulary, I suppose. And remove my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
Max leaves early for work this morning, so it's as if he knows I'm about to ask a very awkward question. Sometimes male intuition is under-rated, although it doesn't seem to apply to teenage boys, unfortunately - as becomes only too apparent when I ask Josh if he knows where Max was that night.
He says that he hasn't a clue, because he was at Holly's that evening, and didn't get home much before I did.
"Dad was here when I arrived, though," he says. "And, anyway, why do you want to know?"
"No reason," I say. Probably in a totally unconvincing manner, but luckily Josh is in a hurry, so he doesn't press me for an explanation.
In retrospect, this is a wise decision: unlike male intuition, explanations are vastly over-rated, if you ask me. Seeing as I think I may have just got one.
I'm on my way home, when I hear footsteps running up behind me, and someone says,
"Hey, Molly! Wait up."
Oh, God, it's Ellen. The very last person in the universe I wanted to see while I'm trying to work out what my husband's up to. I do manage a smile, which feels like a rictus and probably doesn't look much better, but Ellen doesn't seem to notice.
"Did you hear about Susannah York?" she says. "Very sad, isn't it?"
"Yes," I say. "A great campaigner, and she was in some really good films in her day."
Ellen's fallen into step beside me, so it looks as if I'm going to have company all the way home. Just what I didn't need. I light a cigarette in an effort to cope, and refuse to think about what Nan used to say about people who smoked in the street.
"She was a beauty, too," says Ellen. "Lots of people say I look like her, you know."
"Oh, do they?" I say. "You remind me of someone famous, but I don't think it's her."
It's a good job people don't have speech bubbles coming out of their heads, or mine would be shouting: James Blunt!
"You do too," says Ellen. "Remind me of someone famous, I mean. Now who on earth is it?"
I have no idea so I just wait for Ellen to decide. It doesn't take long - more's the bloody pity.
"Lena Zavaroni!" she says. Then she sees my face. "Before she got sick, of course."
"So we both look like dead people, then." I say.
Given that Ellen is claiming to look like a sex symbol, I can't dredge up much enthusiasm for being likened to a child star who died of anorexia, so that's all I can think of to say. Not that my reticence makes any difference. The woman is oblivious to disapproval.
"Oh, we've got more in common than that, Molly," she says. "That's why we get on so well."
Then she winks at me, which is very disturbing indeed. What sort of woman winks at another, for God's sake?
I'm still considering the answer when we turn into our street. Up ahead, I can see Max, who is in our garden putting the recycling out. He looks up, spots me and Ellen, and scuttles back inside the house. Hardly the behaviour of an innocent man.
"How's the head?" says Ellen. "Did the paracetamol help? Sorry I could only lend you a few, but I had a terrible hangover on Saturday morning too, so I needed the rest of the packet myself."
"Big night, was it, then?" I say.
"Oh, not really. Just went for a meal with the man I've been seeing. At that restaurant in Stalborough that was in the paper. You know, the one that's just got the Michelin star?"
I don't reply for ages, until I realise that Ellen's starting to look a bit unnerved but, even then, I only grunt in answer to her question, as I can't seem to form any actual words. Probably because I suddenly have no saliva, and my tongue seems to be stuck.
I probably look brain-dead, too, even though my mind is racing - with the thought that Ellen was in Stalborough on Friday night. The same Stalborough that's only a couple of miles from where Max bought the petrol.
Luckily, seeing as the silence is getting embarrassing, there's not much further to walk and, when I reach our gate, I open it and hurtle up the path leaving Ellen standing on the pavement outside.
"Bye, Molly," she says. "See you for coffee soon?"
I nod, wave and let myself into the house. It's a pretty minimalistic way to say goodbye, but all my energy is concentrated on what the hell I'm going to say to Max.
"Hi, darling," he says, as I walk into the hallway. "Sorry I didn't wait outside when I spotted you, but I'm in a hurry. Got to nip out."
As he leans forward to kiss me on the cheek, I notice he's already got his coat on, and a bag in his hand.
"What?" I say. "Why? You've already finished work. Where have you got to go?"
"Mrs Bloom's," he says. "She bought a big display unit from us and it was damaged when the deliverymen unpacked it. So she's not a happy bunny and I've got to go and try to make it usable until its replacement can be made."
"What?" I say again. "Why? I mean, why now? Why not earlier?"
Repetitive and inarticulate, I know, but it's the best I can do in the circumstances. Max doesn't seem to notice, anyway, as he just jingles the car keys and says:
"She had a hospital appointment this afternoon, so she couldn't be there to let me in until now. I came home early and prepared tea, but now I've got to go. Bye!"
He's out of the house before I can say the words "petrol" or "Friday night" - so now there's nothing to do but wait for him to come back before I can ask him what on earth he's been up to.
Except to try to recall the rest of my vocabulary, I suppose. And remove my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Multiculturalism In Action: Coming To A Car Park Near You.
God, what a day. Who'd have thought a car boot sale could turn out to be so hazardous? I could kill Max for suggesting it, though he blames me. No change there, then.
"If you hadn't got so drunk on Friday, and given yourself a two-day hangover, we wouldn't have to do a car boot to get the money to buy you Paracetamol," he says.
"Well, if Josh hadn't refused to go back to Ellen's to borrow some more, it wouldn't be an issue," I say. "I don't know why she only gave him two tablets when he asked her yesterday. She should understand a hangover better than anyone, after all."
Max rolls his eyes, as if I have no reason to dislike Ellen. Honestly - talk about a short memory!
"I'll go and ask her, then," he says, but I'm not encouraging that. The less Max sees of Ellen the better, as far as I'm concerned. Even when she is wearing clothes.
"Josh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you went back for more," I say. "Go and ask her. Please. I can't face a car boot at this time in the morning."
"No, I won't," says Josh. "I am not your drugs mule, and Ellen scares the pants off me. She's got a thing for toy-boys, remember? And I meet the criteria, unlike some people."
Josh looks pointedly at Max, who scowls in response and then sulks until we've finished loading the car with all the rubbish we could find during a hasty search of the loft last night.
His mood doesn't improve when we arrive at Northwick Park'n'Ride, and realise that we haven't got enough money to pay for the pitch. I have to negotiate with the man at the gate to let us in, and to come and collect our fee in an hour's time.
"Christ knows if we'll have managed to raise £7:00 by then," says Max. "Or ever, given the crap we've brought - and all the stalls that are already here. Too much competition for limited customers, by the look of it."
"Well, we'd better unpack as fast as we can, then, hadn't we?" I say. "As soon as we get set up, you can go into super salesman mode, make some money and I can finally get rid of this bloody headache."
Things never go according to plan, though - do they? The minute we open the boot of the car, four or five Eastern European guys appear from nowhere, and start rummaging through the boxes. It's like a swarm of black leather jackets and jeans worn with proper shoes.
"What are you looking for?" Max asks the apparent leader of the pack, in a weak attempt to regain control of the situation.
"Mobile phones?" says the man. "You got mobiles in here?"
As soon as I say that we don't, the men disappear - as quickly as they arrived. In fact, it's almost as if they were never there at all and, for one very disconcerting moment, I wonder if I imagined them. Maybe I've got alcohol-induced hallucinations, or something?
"For God's sake, Mol. Stop standing there and help me with this," says Max. "You look like a Guppy with your mouth open like that."
I rise above the insult and do as I'm told, but only because I can't think of a cutting rejoinder. And because I don't have a choice - though I bet a certain International Director of a Global Oil Company isn't spending his Sunday morning wrestling with a folding table and a mound of boxes in a car park.
As soon as we've got the table set up and we begin to unpack, we start arguing again. Why don't men appreciate the importance of arranging things to their best possible advantage? That's probably why they can't see the point in make-up, now I come to think of it.
"Do you have to just chuck everything on the table willy-nilly?" I say. "I'm trying to make our stock look attractive."
"It's a car boot, Molly," says Max. "At 6:00am on a Sunday morning in a car park. So I don't think window dressing is really necessary."
I decide to prove him wrong by virtue of a controlled experiment - which involves an artistic arrangement of the things on the left-hand side of the table while leaving those on the right-hand side in a total mess, to see which of us is right; but my scientific approach is ruined by the inconvenient arrival of some more customers. Honestly, why can't people ever put things back where they found them?
Now I know how the staff in Benetton used to feel when I kept unfolding jumpers and then making a crappy job of folding them back up again - back in the days when all my clothes didn't come from Primark. Not that folding's much of an issue there, is it? Maybe customers chucking everything on the floor is just a reflection of their bargain hunting mentality.
I really must get this telekinesis thing under control. No sooner have I begun thinking about bargain hunters, than our stall is suddenly surrounded by a large group of dark-haired men, again all wearing jeans but this time with trainers on their feet. They're pulling suitcases with wheels on, and their burka-clad wives follow behind, watching closely as the men pick up various items and ask us, "How much for this?"
"A pound," says Max, as one of them inspects a brand new wireless router we bought by mistake on eBay last year.
"No, no, no," says the man. "Too much. I give you ten pence."
He throws a coin onto the table and makes as if to move away, though he's still holding the router.
Max starts to say something, when he's interrupted by a booming voice from very close by. It's the guy manning the stall next door to ours.
"Tell 'em to fuck right off," he says. "Bloody load of f*cking vultures."
"Too right, George," says another man, in a horribly-familar voice. "Don't know who these people think they are. Coming over here and trying to rip off hard-working Brits like us."
Oh, dear God, what the hell is going on? And how on earth have we been caught up in a potential race riot? Max and I look at each other and squirm, but luckily everyone's forgotten about us anyway.
Our customer abandons the router as he and his friends leave our stall and head next door, where they square up to the stall-holder and his partner-in-crime. Who, incredibly, turns out to be Reg Bloody Beales. Is nowhere safe?
There follows a lot of pushing and shouting, while I take the opportunity to open the car door and to throw myself face down onto the back seat.
"What on earth d'you think you're doing?" says Max. "You can't go to sleep now. I'm not dealing with this mob by myself, even if you have still got a bloody hangover."
"Ssh," I say. "Mad constituent. Got to hide."
I'll say this for Max, he doesn't ask for details during an emergency. Instead, he walks back to the stall and carries on without me, while I lie very still and try to become invisible. I may have dozed off for a while, actually, as I nearly jump out of my skin when Max knocks on the window.
"You can come out now," he says. "They've all gone, and even the stall-holder's packed up and is about to leave."
"Oh, thank God for that," I say. "I thought there was going to be a fight. It certainly sounded like it."
"There was," says Max. "But after the guy with the blue suitcase landed the first punch, his mates pulled him away and the bloke that you know did a runner. Well, not a runner, exactly: am I imagining it, or did he ride off on a horse?"
Oh God, so Reg has replaced his lorry with a horse and cart, though I'm not sure the roads will be any safer for that. Or any public spaces, actually. And why can't I ever escape the usual suspects - even on a Sunday - no matter where I go?
Mind you, things could be worse, I suppose. I could be a diplomat. It's been like the United Nations here in Northwick Park'n'Ride today, and no-one seems to understand each other at all. Not even me and Max.
"How much money have you taken?" I say. "Can we go home yet?"
"Enough to pay for the pitch and some painkillers," he says. "As well as food for the next couple of days. So we won't starve just yet, no thanks to you."
I feel suitably guilty until Max drops me off at Sainsburys to buy some Paracetamol, but then I'm still so puzzled by how we ran out of money so quickly, that I get a mini-statement from the cash machine. Now I wish I hadn't.
It shows that the last person to make a withdrawal from the account was not me - the unjustly accused - but Max. At a petrol station somewhere miles away; and on Friday night, while I was at the Party social and I thought he was at home.
It's going to take all my diplomatic skills to avoid mentioning it until I've had some time to assess the situation. At which point I bet Max will wish that he was the one who travelled by horse. At least they don't leave a paper trail.
"If you hadn't got so drunk on Friday, and given yourself a two-day hangover, we wouldn't have to do a car boot to get the money to buy you Paracetamol," he says.
"Well, if Josh hadn't refused to go back to Ellen's to borrow some more, it wouldn't be an issue," I say. "I don't know why she only gave him two tablets when he asked her yesterday. She should understand a hangover better than anyone, after all."
Max rolls his eyes, as if I have no reason to dislike Ellen. Honestly - talk about a short memory!
"I'll go and ask her, then," he says, but I'm not encouraging that. The less Max sees of Ellen the better, as far as I'm concerned. Even when she is wearing clothes.
"Josh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you went back for more," I say. "Go and ask her. Please. I can't face a car boot at this time in the morning."
"No, I won't," says Josh. "I am not your drugs mule, and Ellen scares the pants off me. She's got a thing for toy-boys, remember? And I meet the criteria, unlike some people."
Josh looks pointedly at Max, who scowls in response and then sulks until we've finished loading the car with all the rubbish we could find during a hasty search of the loft last night.
His mood doesn't improve when we arrive at Northwick Park'n'Ride, and realise that we haven't got enough money to pay for the pitch. I have to negotiate with the man at the gate to let us in, and to come and collect our fee in an hour's time.
"Christ knows if we'll have managed to raise £7:00 by then," says Max. "Or ever, given the crap we've brought - and all the stalls that are already here. Too much competition for limited customers, by the look of it."
"Well, we'd better unpack as fast as we can, then, hadn't we?" I say. "As soon as we get set up, you can go into super salesman mode, make some money and I can finally get rid of this bloody headache."
Things never go according to plan, though - do they? The minute we open the boot of the car, four or five Eastern European guys appear from nowhere, and start rummaging through the boxes. It's like a swarm of black leather jackets and jeans worn with proper shoes.
"What are you looking for?" Max asks the apparent leader of the pack, in a weak attempt to regain control of the situation.
"Mobile phones?" says the man. "You got mobiles in here?"
As soon as I say that we don't, the men disappear - as quickly as they arrived. In fact, it's almost as if they were never there at all and, for one very disconcerting moment, I wonder if I imagined them. Maybe I've got alcohol-induced hallucinations, or something?
"For God's sake, Mol. Stop standing there and help me with this," says Max. "You look like a Guppy with your mouth open like that."
I rise above the insult and do as I'm told, but only because I can't think of a cutting rejoinder. And because I don't have a choice - though I bet a certain International Director of a Global Oil Company isn't spending his Sunday morning wrestling with a folding table and a mound of boxes in a car park.
As soon as we've got the table set up and we begin to unpack, we start arguing again. Why don't men appreciate the importance of arranging things to their best possible advantage? That's probably why they can't see the point in make-up, now I come to think of it.
"Do you have to just chuck everything on the table willy-nilly?" I say. "I'm trying to make our stock look attractive."
"It's a car boot, Molly," says Max. "At 6:00am on a Sunday morning in a car park. So I don't think window dressing is really necessary."
I decide to prove him wrong by virtue of a controlled experiment - which involves an artistic arrangement of the things on the left-hand side of the table while leaving those on the right-hand side in a total mess, to see which of us is right; but my scientific approach is ruined by the inconvenient arrival of some more customers. Honestly, why can't people ever put things back where they found them?
Now I know how the staff in Benetton used to feel when I kept unfolding jumpers and then making a crappy job of folding them back up again - back in the days when all my clothes didn't come from Primark. Not that folding's much of an issue there, is it? Maybe customers chucking everything on the floor is just a reflection of their bargain hunting mentality.
I really must get this telekinesis thing under control. No sooner have I begun thinking about bargain hunters, than our stall is suddenly surrounded by a large group of dark-haired men, again all wearing jeans but this time with trainers on their feet. They're pulling suitcases with wheels on, and their burka-clad wives follow behind, watching closely as the men pick up various items and ask us, "How much for this?"
"A pound," says Max, as one of them inspects a brand new wireless router we bought by mistake on eBay last year.
"No, no, no," says the man. "Too much. I give you ten pence."
He throws a coin onto the table and makes as if to move away, though he's still holding the router.
Max starts to say something, when he's interrupted by a booming voice from very close by. It's the guy manning the stall next door to ours.
"Tell 'em to fuck right off," he says. "Bloody load of f*cking vultures."
"Too right, George," says another man, in a horribly-familar voice. "Don't know who these people think they are. Coming over here and trying to rip off hard-working Brits like us."
Oh, dear God, what the hell is going on? And how on earth have we been caught up in a potential race riot? Max and I look at each other and squirm, but luckily everyone's forgotten about us anyway.
Our customer abandons the router as he and his friends leave our stall and head next door, where they square up to the stall-holder and his partner-in-crime. Who, incredibly, turns out to be Reg Bloody Beales. Is nowhere safe?
There follows a lot of pushing and shouting, while I take the opportunity to open the car door and to throw myself face down onto the back seat.
"What on earth d'you think you're doing?" says Max. "You can't go to sleep now. I'm not dealing with this mob by myself, even if you have still got a bloody hangover."
"Ssh," I say. "Mad constituent. Got to hide."
I'll say this for Max, he doesn't ask for details during an emergency. Instead, he walks back to the stall and carries on without me, while I lie very still and try to become invisible. I may have dozed off for a while, actually, as I nearly jump out of my skin when Max knocks on the window.
"You can come out now," he says. "They've all gone, and even the stall-holder's packed up and is about to leave."
"Oh, thank God for that," I say. "I thought there was going to be a fight. It certainly sounded like it."
"There was," says Max. "But after the guy with the blue suitcase landed the first punch, his mates pulled him away and the bloke that you know did a runner. Well, not a runner, exactly: am I imagining it, or did he ride off on a horse?"
Oh God, so Reg has replaced his lorry with a horse and cart, though I'm not sure the roads will be any safer for that. Or any public spaces, actually. And why can't I ever escape the usual suspects - even on a Sunday - no matter where I go?
Mind you, things could be worse, I suppose. I could be a diplomat. It's been like the United Nations here in Northwick Park'n'Ride today, and no-one seems to understand each other at all. Not even me and Max.
"How much money have you taken?" I say. "Can we go home yet?"
"Enough to pay for the pitch and some painkillers," he says. "As well as food for the next couple of days. So we won't starve just yet, no thanks to you."
I feel suitably guilty until Max drops me off at Sainsburys to buy some Paracetamol, but then I'm still so puzzled by how we ran out of money so quickly, that I get a mini-statement from the cash machine. Now I wish I hadn't.
It shows that the last person to make a withdrawal from the account was not me - the unjustly accused - but Max. At a petrol station somewhere miles away; and on Friday night, while I was at the Party social and I thought he was at home.
It's going to take all my diplomatic skills to avoid mentioning it until I've had some time to assess the situation. At which point I bet Max will wish that he was the one who travelled by horse. At least they don't leave a paper trail.
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Life's Unhelpful Lessons: The Unreconstructed Male is Alive And Well, And Hanging Out in Northwick CLP.
Oh, God, my head hurts. Why do I do it? I am far too old to drink red wine if I'm to stand any chance of avoiding a three day hangover after a night out.
And what the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just order a gin and tonic instead of red wine whenever I go to a Labour Party social? It's pathetic. I only do it to stop members thinking that I'm giving myself airs and graces, just because I work for the MP. As if that was even remotely possible, given my pathetic excuse for a salary.
Talking of which - in an admittedly tangential kind of way - it doesn't seem as if everyone in the Party understands the meaning of the word broke. Greg and I had to spend half the night listening to Pete Carew banging on about his holiday home in France, while Billy Jeffries argued the case for Tuscany.
Local councillors' allowances must be more generous than I thought, that's all I can say. Either that, or being a self-employed consultant with expertise in a pointless subject must pay very well indeed. I made the mistake of asking Pete what the hell life coaching was, and nearly lost the will to live when he explained. Maybe his clients pay him to keep quiet.
I'd happily have followed suit but, when I tried to withdraw another ten pounds from the cash machine, it seemed to have run out of money. Wouldn't you think bankers could at least re-stock the damn things to earn their bonuses?
Mind you, it would have taken more than I earn to pay everyone who was being boring last night to shut up, even if I could have got hold of any cash. Pete and Billy weren't half as bad as some of the other men, including The Boss. He spent the evening assessing the merits of various single malts, and trying to decide which of the new Party members was the most attractive.
"See what I mean?" said Greg. "That's why Andrew was so keen to have all the volunteers invited: he wanted all the young women who've joined the Party since the General Election to be here. He's taking an unhealthy interest in their development, if you ask me."
"Seems he's not the only one," I said. "Who are those two girls over there? Jim Bradley can't take his eyes off them, even though they're young enough to be his grand-daughters."
"That's because someone told him they were lesbians," said Greg. "He's obviously watched too much porn and hasn't grasped that life rarely mirrors art. Probably thinks he'll get to take them home with him afterwards. To discuss our policy agenda while wearing no clothes."
I think that mental image may have been the point at which I decided there was no option but to borrow some money to buy more wine.
"Oh, my God, Greg," I said, when I returned from the bar and gave him his change. "I still feel a bit sick. Do you have to be so crude?"
"That's nothing," he said. "Jim's no worse than the others. Pete Carew keeps asking the girls to stuff envelopes, just so that he can watch them lick the stamps. And then he stands there twirling that ridiculous moustache while they do it. It's bloody horrible to watch."
Eeurgh. Honestly, sometimes I despair of the local Party. Or of the men in it, anyway. Last night was supposed to be about celebrating Debbie Abrahams' win at Oldham and planning the next stage in the fightback against the cuts. And there's a revolution going on in Tunisia, for God's sake, and yet all the men of Northwick *CLP could think about was cleavage!
I said as much to The Boss, who pretended he was listening to me, but obviously wasn't.
"For Christ's sake, Andrew - stop looking down that girl's blouse," I said. "You're supposed to be a role model and, as for the rest of you - haven't you ever heard of feminism?"
"We used to call it women's liberation," said Pete Carew. "And a very good thing it was, too. Especially all the bra burning. Let it all hang loose, that's what I say."
"You wouldn't if you'd ever been stuck in a lift with *Ann Widdecombe," said Greg. "I'm sure that's what originally caused my *PTSD. I still can't go into Portcullis House without getting flashbacks."
At that point, thank God, Joan decided to draw the raffle, so everyone was spared further details about the size of Widdy's bosoms, but Greg still looked a bit stressed by the memory - even when he won the first prize. I don't think he felt that a free life coaching session with Pete was something to look forward to.
When he offered to give it to me instead, I probably should have accepted. It's not as if I've mastered how to run my life, after all. Especially since it turns out that the cash machine hadn't run out of money as I'd thought - but Max and I had.
Our last twenty quid, and I spent it on giving myself a headache and watching a bunch of voyeurs in action. Some people might consider than money well spent, but I don't think I'm one of them. And nor is Max.
"Bloody hell, Molly. I can't believe you've left us with no money 'til the end of the month," he says when I drag myself out of bed just before lunchtime today. "You don't even like red wine. Or Party socials."
He's right, but I didn't do it on purpose - and there's no need to go on about it now, is there? Not when my head hurts so much. Haven't I been punished enough?
When I stagger to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet in search of Paracetamol, I find that the answer is a resounding no.
If life coaching could teach teenage sons not to take the last tablet and replace the empty packet in the box, I'd book Josh in tomorrow.
*CLP - Constituency Labour Party. Enough said.
*Ann Widdecombe, former Tory MP, well-known for the size of her boobs, amongst other larger-than-life things.
*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Commonly cited by Greg when he wants to take a day off.
And what the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just order a gin and tonic instead of red wine whenever I go to a Labour Party social? It's pathetic. I only do it to stop members thinking that I'm giving myself airs and graces, just because I work for the MP. As if that was even remotely possible, given my pathetic excuse for a salary.
Talking of which - in an admittedly tangential kind of way - it doesn't seem as if everyone in the Party understands the meaning of the word broke. Greg and I had to spend half the night listening to Pete Carew banging on about his holiday home in France, while Billy Jeffries argued the case for Tuscany.
Local councillors' allowances must be more generous than I thought, that's all I can say. Either that, or being a self-employed consultant with expertise in a pointless subject must pay very well indeed. I made the mistake of asking Pete what the hell life coaching was, and nearly lost the will to live when he explained. Maybe his clients pay him to keep quiet.
I'd happily have followed suit but, when I tried to withdraw another ten pounds from the cash machine, it seemed to have run out of money. Wouldn't you think bankers could at least re-stock the damn things to earn their bonuses?
Mind you, it would have taken more than I earn to pay everyone who was being boring last night to shut up, even if I could have got hold of any cash. Pete and Billy weren't half as bad as some of the other men, including The Boss. He spent the evening assessing the merits of various single malts, and trying to decide which of the new Party members was the most attractive.
"See what I mean?" said Greg. "That's why Andrew was so keen to have all the volunteers invited: he wanted all the young women who've joined the Party since the General Election to be here. He's taking an unhealthy interest in their development, if you ask me."
"Seems he's not the only one," I said. "Who are those two girls over there? Jim Bradley can't take his eyes off them, even though they're young enough to be his grand-daughters."
"That's because someone told him they were lesbians," said Greg. "He's obviously watched too much porn and hasn't grasped that life rarely mirrors art. Probably thinks he'll get to take them home with him afterwards. To discuss our policy agenda while wearing no clothes."
I think that mental image may have been the point at which I decided there was no option but to borrow some money to buy more wine.
"Oh, my God, Greg," I said, when I returned from the bar and gave him his change. "I still feel a bit sick. Do you have to be so crude?"
"That's nothing," he said. "Jim's no worse than the others. Pete Carew keeps asking the girls to stuff envelopes, just so that he can watch them lick the stamps. And then he stands there twirling that ridiculous moustache while they do it. It's bloody horrible to watch."
Eeurgh. Honestly, sometimes I despair of the local Party. Or of the men in it, anyway. Last night was supposed to be about celebrating Debbie Abrahams' win at Oldham and planning the next stage in the fightback against the cuts. And there's a revolution going on in Tunisia, for God's sake, and yet all the men of Northwick *CLP could think about was cleavage!
I said as much to The Boss, who pretended he was listening to me, but obviously wasn't.
"For Christ's sake, Andrew - stop looking down that girl's blouse," I said. "You're supposed to be a role model and, as for the rest of you - haven't you ever heard of feminism?"
"We used to call it women's liberation," said Pete Carew. "And a very good thing it was, too. Especially all the bra burning. Let it all hang loose, that's what I say."
"You wouldn't if you'd ever been stuck in a lift with *Ann Widdecombe," said Greg. "I'm sure that's what originally caused my *PTSD. I still can't go into Portcullis House without getting flashbacks."
At that point, thank God, Joan decided to draw the raffle, so everyone was spared further details about the size of Widdy's bosoms, but Greg still looked a bit stressed by the memory - even when he won the first prize. I don't think he felt that a free life coaching session with Pete was something to look forward to.
When he offered to give it to me instead, I probably should have accepted. It's not as if I've mastered how to run my life, after all. Especially since it turns out that the cash machine hadn't run out of money as I'd thought - but Max and I had.
Our last twenty quid, and I spent it on giving myself a headache and watching a bunch of voyeurs in action. Some people might consider than money well spent, but I don't think I'm one of them. And nor is Max.
"Bloody hell, Molly. I can't believe you've left us with no money 'til the end of the month," he says when I drag myself out of bed just before lunchtime today. "You don't even like red wine. Or Party socials."
He's right, but I didn't do it on purpose - and there's no need to go on about it now, is there? Not when my head hurts so much. Haven't I been punished enough?
When I stagger to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet in search of Paracetamol, I find that the answer is a resounding no.
If life coaching could teach teenage sons not to take the last tablet and replace the empty packet in the box, I'd book Josh in tomorrow.
*CLP - Constituency Labour Party. Enough said.
*Ann Widdecombe, former Tory MP, well-known for the size of her boobs, amongst other larger-than-life things.
*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Commonly cited by Greg when he wants to take a day off.
Friday, 14 January 2011
Sleep Deprivation Due To Electoral Success. Not To Mention Michael Gove & Norman Lamb.
"Comrades - the fightback has begun!" says The Boss when he arrives this morning.
"Hrmph," says Greg who, like me, stayed up too late last night watching the election result from Oldham East and Saddleworth.
Andrew glares at him, so then Greg tries a bit harder. He punches the air, but so feebly that it comes across as camp, rather than triumphalist.
"You look like shit," says Andrew. Who doesn't look any better himself, but appears not to own a mirror.
I do, and I can confirm that I look the worst of all of us, which I ascribe not only to being knackered, but to the as-yet unresolved trauma of finding myself agreeing with Michael Gove during part of last night's Question Time.
I don't quite know what happened but, one minute he was spouting the usual pompous rubbish in that ghastly voice of his, and the next he'd turned into Pob the Evangelist. For a man who looks like a very cold fish indeed - probably because his adoptive father was something to do with them - I wasn't expecting such passion and intensity.
I suddenly found that I wished Josh's education had reflected Gove's vision, rather than what he actually got: an A-Level in Film Studies and a job at the cinema shovelling popcorn. Then I spent the next hour worrying that I was having a breakdown or some sort of secular crisis of faith, and I couldn't concentrate at all by the time the TV coverage of the election result finally started.
When it did, I couldn't believe who was on the panel. Nor could Max, who took one look and then said what he always says in these circumstances:
"Hrmph," says Greg who, like me, stayed up too late last night watching the election result from Oldham East and Saddleworth.
Andrew glares at him, so then Greg tries a bit harder. He punches the air, but so feebly that it comes across as camp, rather than triumphalist.
"You look like shit," says Andrew. Who doesn't look any better himself, but appears not to own a mirror.
I do, and I can confirm that I look the worst of all of us, which I ascribe not only to being knackered, but to the as-yet unresolved trauma of finding myself agreeing with Michael Gove during part of last night's Question Time.
I don't quite know what happened but, one minute he was spouting the usual pompous rubbish in that ghastly voice of his, and the next he'd turned into Pob the Evangelist. For a man who looks like a very cold fish indeed - probably because his adoptive father was something to do with them - I wasn't expecting such passion and intensity.
I suddenly found that I wished Josh's education had reflected Gove's vision, rather than what he actually got: an A-Level in Film Studies and a job at the cinema shovelling popcorn. Then I spent the next hour worrying that I was having a breakdown or some sort of secular crisis of faith, and I couldn't concentrate at all by the time the TV coverage of the election result finally started.
When it did, I couldn't believe who was on the panel. Nor could Max, who took one look and then said what he always says in these circumstances:
"Oh, God. Norman Bloody Lamb."
It's like Groundhog Day. The same series of questions always follow this initial statement. Every single time Norman appears on TV.
"Why the hell doesn't that man even have a house in his constituency?" Max says. "Does he think he's too good to live in the same place as the people he serves?"
"How many times do I have to tell you?" I say. "I don't know. I've never met the man, and I only heard about it from someone else - so don't shout at me."
Mind you, if I think Max's shouting is bad, I'd better keep my Michael Gove epiphany to myself, and hope it wears off when I've had a good night's sleep. The Boss would kill me if he heard about it - even though he's a product of the sort of education to which Gove was referring.
And I'm not likely to get much sleep again tonight. Unless it's due to a drunken coma.
"Drinks this evening to celebrate," says Andrew, once surgery finishes. "Seeing as we couldn't be there in Oldham last night. I'll meet you in the George at 7:00pm. Go and invite everyone in the Party office too, Molly. Make sure you include everyone who's in there."
Then he wanders off to a meeting with the local Patient Liaison group, taking Vicky with him. I don't bother to ask why, as I'm so glad to see the back of her. It's pretty obvious that she didn't stay up too late last night. Dewy skin and bright eyes are occasionally very annoying to behold.
Greg puts his head down on his desk as soon as the door closes behind them. Then he pretends to snore.
"Oh, God," I say. "I know how you feel. I really want an early night tonight. I had no idea what anyone was talking about during surgery, as I kept starting to doze off and then jerking awake just as my head dropped forward."
"I bet that was attractive," says Greg. "But we haven't got a choice, anyway. His Master's Voice has spoken so we've got to go to the pub."
He's right, of course. And just because we're tired doesn't mean that winning the election isn't very good news. As is Andrew's unusual behaviour.
"The Boss even said to invite everyone," I say. "Maybe that means he's finally stopped thinking that everyone in the Party's out to get him?"
"Oh, I don't think that's his motivation," says Greg. "Haven't you been into their office this week?"
"No," I say. "Why?"
"Go and see for yourself."
I haven't got time, though - so I make Greg go and deliver Andrew's message while I try to finish today's surgery letters. By the time I've finally posted them, he's asleep on the sofa in the Oprah Room, though I shall have to go and wake him up soon. It's almost 6:40pm now, and we'll have to leave for the pub in a minute.
I'll just see if concealer will hide the bags under my eyes a bit first, while Greg's not looking. And laughing. There's nothing worse than someone who thinks he's a comedian watching you try to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, after all. Except finding yourself agreeing with a very odd Tory by accident, of course.
It's like Groundhog Day. The same series of questions always follow this initial statement. Every single time Norman appears on TV.
"Why the hell doesn't that man even have a house in his constituency?" Max says. "Does he think he's too good to live in the same place as the people he serves?"
"How many times do I have to tell you?" I say. "I don't know. I've never met the man, and I only heard about it from someone else - so don't shout at me."
Mind you, if I think Max's shouting is bad, I'd better keep my Michael Gove epiphany to myself, and hope it wears off when I've had a good night's sleep. The Boss would kill me if he heard about it - even though he's a product of the sort of education to which Gove was referring.
And I'm not likely to get much sleep again tonight. Unless it's due to a drunken coma.
"Drinks this evening to celebrate," says Andrew, once surgery finishes. "Seeing as we couldn't be there in Oldham last night. I'll meet you in the George at 7:00pm. Go and invite everyone in the Party office too, Molly. Make sure you include everyone who's in there."
Then he wanders off to a meeting with the local Patient Liaison group, taking Vicky with him. I don't bother to ask why, as I'm so glad to see the back of her. It's pretty obvious that she didn't stay up too late last night. Dewy skin and bright eyes are occasionally very annoying to behold.
Greg puts his head down on his desk as soon as the door closes behind them. Then he pretends to snore.
"Oh, God," I say. "I know how you feel. I really want an early night tonight. I had no idea what anyone was talking about during surgery, as I kept starting to doze off and then jerking awake just as my head dropped forward."
"I bet that was attractive," says Greg. "But we haven't got a choice, anyway. His Master's Voice has spoken so we've got to go to the pub."
He's right, of course. And just because we're tired doesn't mean that winning the election isn't very good news. As is Andrew's unusual behaviour.
"The Boss even said to invite everyone," I say. "Maybe that means he's finally stopped thinking that everyone in the Party's out to get him?"
"Oh, I don't think that's his motivation," says Greg. "Haven't you been into their office this week?"
"No," I say. "Why?"
"Go and see for yourself."
I haven't got time, though - so I make Greg go and deliver Andrew's message while I try to finish today's surgery letters. By the time I've finally posted them, he's asleep on the sofa in the Oprah Room, though I shall have to go and wake him up soon. It's almost 6:40pm now, and we'll have to leave for the pub in a minute.
I'll just see if concealer will hide the bags under my eyes a bit first, while Greg's not looking. And laughing. There's nothing worse than someone who thinks he's a comedian watching you try to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, after all. Except finding yourself agreeing with a very odd Tory by accident, of course.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
You Couldn't Make It Up. Though I Bloody Well Wish I Was.
Oh, dear God. Northwick is far too small and incestuous. No wonder everyone's slept with everyone else. (Though I really hope that only applies to my generation, and not to my children's.)
Mum phones me at work in the morning to ask if I want to meet her for lunch today. I don't particularly, as she's bound to ask me how Dad is, but I agree anyway. Sometimes good manners is such a curse.
I leave work in plenty of time and I'm on my way to the cafe when I spot Miss Chambers standing outside it, so I duck into the nearest doorway and hide. I'd like to retain at least a vestige of my hearing, so I'm not prepared to encounter her voluntarily, not even if it does make me late for an appointment.
I wait for about five minutes, risking the occasional peek around the wall, until I see Miss C start to walk away, thankfully in the opposite direction from where I'm standing.
It's only when I step out from my hiding place that I see that the person she has been talking to is my mother. My mother! How the hell did that happen?
I rush towards Mum, and hustle her into the cafe.
"Be careful, dear," she says. "Mind my broken wrist."
"You're lucky that's all that's wrong with you, if you will go talking to any old nutter you meet in the street," I say. "You need to be much more careful, especially given my job. Though I can't understand how that woman knew you were related to me."
"What woman?" says Mum. "Oh, do you mean Carol? Carol Chambers?"
Oh, good God. It's worse than I thought. They're on first-name terms, and my mother is being groomed by our most nightmare constituent. Probably to punish me for hanging up whenever the screaming starts.
"Yes, Miss Bloody Chambers," I say. "Though I probably shouldn't even confirm her name to you. Constituent confidentiality and all that."
Mum looks at me as if I am the madwoman. There is no justice.
"What are you talking about, Molly?" she says. "Constituent? Do you know Carol, then?"
This whole thing is becoming too surreal for words. Of course I know Miss Chambers, though I wish I bloody didn't. And, anyway, the big question is how she knows Mum, so I ask exactly that.
"She's my new cleaner," says Mum. "I had to get one when I broke my wrist. And Carol came with excellent references."
I bet she did. Probably written by a bunch of fellow mentalists. (I can tell I'm losing the plot because I've started thinking in teenage-speak. Politically-incorrect teenage-speak.)
"Well, you'll have to tell her you've changed your mind," I say.
"Don't be silly, Molly. She knows I haven't," says Mum. "She started yesterday and she did a fantastic job. She seems quite obsessional about cleaning, actually."
"And not just about that," I say, under my breath. "Not by a very long chalk."
Then I look at my poor, unsuspecting mother and can't think what to say next, so I pour the tea instead.
"You look awfully pale," says Mum. "Are you feeling all right?"
"No," I say. "I'm not. I can't tell you why, but you have to get rid of that woman. Pronto. Especially before she spots all the family photos."
"Don't be so dramatic, dear," says Mum. "You're getting carried away. And anyway, Carol's already seen them. She said you looked familiar, now I come to think of it."
I think Greg might be right that these are panic attacks and not hot flushes. I just hope he can think of a way to make them stop - because I'm buggered if I can.
Mum phones me at work in the morning to ask if I want to meet her for lunch today. I don't particularly, as she's bound to ask me how Dad is, but I agree anyway. Sometimes good manners is such a curse.
I leave work in plenty of time and I'm on my way to the cafe when I spot Miss Chambers standing outside it, so I duck into the nearest doorway and hide. I'd like to retain at least a vestige of my hearing, so I'm not prepared to encounter her voluntarily, not even if it does make me late for an appointment.
I wait for about five minutes, risking the occasional peek around the wall, until I see Miss C start to walk away, thankfully in the opposite direction from where I'm standing.
It's only when I step out from my hiding place that I see that the person she has been talking to is my mother. My mother! How the hell did that happen?
I rush towards Mum, and hustle her into the cafe.
"Be careful, dear," she says. "Mind my broken wrist."
"You're lucky that's all that's wrong with you, if you will go talking to any old nutter you meet in the street," I say. "You need to be much more careful, especially given my job. Though I can't understand how that woman knew you were related to me."
"What woman?" says Mum. "Oh, do you mean Carol? Carol Chambers?"
Oh, good God. It's worse than I thought. They're on first-name terms, and my mother is being groomed by our most nightmare constituent. Probably to punish me for hanging up whenever the screaming starts.
"Yes, Miss Bloody Chambers," I say. "Though I probably shouldn't even confirm her name to you. Constituent confidentiality and all that."
Mum looks at me as if I am the madwoman. There is no justice.
"What are you talking about, Molly?" she says. "Constituent? Do you know Carol, then?"
This whole thing is becoming too surreal for words. Of course I know Miss Chambers, though I wish I bloody didn't. And, anyway, the big question is how she knows Mum, so I ask exactly that.
"She's my new cleaner," says Mum. "I had to get one when I broke my wrist. And Carol came with excellent references."
I bet she did. Probably written by a bunch of fellow mentalists. (I can tell I'm losing the plot because I've started thinking in teenage-speak. Politically-incorrect teenage-speak.)
"Well, you'll have to tell her you've changed your mind," I say.
"Don't be silly, Molly. She knows I haven't," says Mum. "She started yesterday and she did a fantastic job. She seems quite obsessional about cleaning, actually."
"And not just about that," I say, under my breath. "Not by a very long chalk."
Then I look at my poor, unsuspecting mother and can't think what to say next, so I pour the tea instead.
"You look awfully pale," says Mum. "Are you feeling all right?"
"No," I say. "I'm not. I can't tell you why, but you have to get rid of that woman. Pronto. Especially before she spots all the family photos."
"Don't be so dramatic, dear," says Mum. "You're getting carried away. And anyway, Carol's already seen them. She said you looked familiar, now I come to think of it."
I think Greg might be right that these are panic attacks and not hot flushes. I just hope he can think of a way to make them stop - because I'm buggered if I can.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot. And Then Not, Not, Not.
Bloody hell, I've got to do something about Max's snoring. He woke me up God knows how many times last night. By 5:00am I was plotting to kill him, and I wasn't intending it to be quick and painless, either.
Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.
"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."
"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."
I look at him in disbelief.
"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."
"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."
Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.
Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.
Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?
"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."
"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."
Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.
"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"
"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."
"Oh," says Greg. "Her."
It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.
Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.
"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."
"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."
I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.
Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.
"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."
"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."
I look at him in disbelief.
"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."
"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."
Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.
Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.
Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?
"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."
"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."
Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.
"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"
"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."
"Oh," says Greg. "Her."
It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.
Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.
"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."
"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."
I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
By-Election Fever Grips The Office, For A Few Minutes At Least.
The private line's ringing when Greg and I arrive at work this morning, which is never a good start.
"I can't talk to Andrew until I've had a coffee," I say. "I haven't got the energy. You answer it, Greg. Youth is on your side."
Greg pulls a face but does as he's told. For once. Though, in retrospect, I'm not sure that this wasn't a mistake. He listens to The Boss for all of thirty seconds, then says,
"For God's sake, Andrew - you're not campaigning now. It's me you're talking to. And we all know you can never trust the polls."
"What was that about?" I say, as Greg hangs up and rolls his eyes in despair.
"Idiot must have thought he was talking to the Press, or something," says Greg. "Boasting about the latest ComRes poll and saying we were going to win at Oldham, for f*cksake. Has he forgotten you should never write a LibDem off at a by-election?"
That's true, but Greg's just in a mood because he couldn't go and help in the campaign. He thinks that he's indispensable in an election, especially since The Boss retained his seat against all the odds.
"We need all hands on deck there," he says. "It's a bugger I don't have enough annual leave left to go."
Given that that's because we both had to take most of it to help out in the General Election campaign, I can't say I'm too upset about it. Unlike Greg, who obviously is.
"Why does The Boss have to be so bloody scrupulous about it, all of a sudden?" he says.
"Because he's got to be squeaky clean," I say. "Considering that he's made so many complaints about the LibDems' election expenses over the years. And, anyway, I'd like to save some holiday for something more pleasant than campaigning."
Like a trip to Russia, for example. I don't mention that, though, as Vicky's just arrived. Late, as usual.
"Why don't MPs and Ministers have to take leave in order to campaign?" she says. "Seeing as Constituency Staff have to. It doesn't seem fair."
This may well be the first sensible question that she has ever asked, and it's just a shame that Greg and I don't know the answer. We look blankly at each other, and then shrug - simultaneously.
To anyone with any sensitivity at all, it would be apparent that, as far as we're concerned, the subject's now closed, but Vicky has never been one to take a hint.
"How do they get away with it when they're being paid by the taxpayer?" she says. "There are hordes of MPs descending on Oldham every day."
"Well, except for Tory MPs," says Greg. "Though they will keep denying that they've made a pact with the LibDems not to try too hard to win the seat. Talking of which - did you catch up with The Politics Show last night, Molly?"
"Yes," I say. "I'm sure Chris Grayling didn't even know the name of the Tory candidate. That embarrassed smirk reminded me of Josh when he's in the wrong."
Actually, though, I haven't seen Josh looking guilty for a while. Maybe he's finally growing up, now he's left school and has to face the reality of working life. This ought to be a good thing but, after this evening's events, I think he may be taking it too far. He's gone from irresponsible teenager to Victor Meldrew in the blink of an eye.
When I get home from work, very late after a lengthy lecture from Edmund Beales about how we should all start carrying guns in the UK, Max still isn't back from work. Josh is, but he's ranting like a maniac. Or like Mr Beales, anyway, which is probably pretty much the same thing.
"Smell this," he says, shoving a microwaved meal under my nose.
"Yuck," I say. "What the hell is that? It smells like a chemical spill."
I push the container out of the way, while hoping I haven't got any of whatever it contains on the end of my nose. It really stinks.
"It's Taste The Difference* Chilli Con Carne," says Josh. "I can taste the f*cking difference all right. It's disgusting."
"Well, maybe it's out of date."
Josh looks at me as if I am an idiot, then says,
"I only bought it ten minutes ago. Seeing as neither you nor Dad were here to cook tea, and I haven't eaten all day."
"The service is lousy in this hotel, isn't it?" I say. (You can't always come up with an original response, after all.) "Let me see the packet."
As Josh passes it to me, I notice that there is a vein throbbing in his temple. I've seen that before, but never in a member of my own family, so I really hope my son's not turning into a mad constituent now. That would be all I need.
"Well, the date's okay," I say. "But it says it's new and improved. Maybe that's why it tastes and smells so weird?"
"Humph," says Josh. "I told you I don't like change. Especially when it's always for the worse."
Let's just hope the voters of *Oldham and Saddleworth feel the same way. As long as they don't object to Ed* on those grounds, too.
*For those of you not in the UK; or those of you who are, but who have unaccountably lost all interest in politics: explanation re the Oldham & Saddleworth by-election here.
* Taste The Difference Chilli Con Carne - I can't say Josh recommends it, because he really, really doesn't.
*Ed - Ed Miliband, new(ish) leader of The Labour Party. Opponents would probably claim that a Labour defeat at Oldham was a signal that the electorate are rejecting him. Possibly on the grounds of his perceived resemblance to Wallace. This may, or may not, be true of some within the Party, too.
"I can't talk to Andrew until I've had a coffee," I say. "I haven't got the energy. You answer it, Greg. Youth is on your side."
Greg pulls a face but does as he's told. For once. Though, in retrospect, I'm not sure that this wasn't a mistake. He listens to The Boss for all of thirty seconds, then says,
"For God's sake, Andrew - you're not campaigning now. It's me you're talking to. And we all know you can never trust the polls."
"What was that about?" I say, as Greg hangs up and rolls his eyes in despair.
"Idiot must have thought he was talking to the Press, or something," says Greg. "Boasting about the latest ComRes poll and saying we were going to win at Oldham, for f*cksake. Has he forgotten you should never write a LibDem off at a by-election?"
That's true, but Greg's just in a mood because he couldn't go and help in the campaign. He thinks that he's indispensable in an election, especially since The Boss retained his seat against all the odds.
"We need all hands on deck there," he says. "It's a bugger I don't have enough annual leave left to go."
Given that that's because we both had to take most of it to help out in the General Election campaign, I can't say I'm too upset about it. Unlike Greg, who obviously is.
"Why does The Boss have to be so bloody scrupulous about it, all of a sudden?" he says.
"Because he's got to be squeaky clean," I say. "Considering that he's made so many complaints about the LibDems' election expenses over the years. And, anyway, I'd like to save some holiday for something more pleasant than campaigning."
Like a trip to Russia, for example. I don't mention that, though, as Vicky's just arrived. Late, as usual.
"Why don't MPs and Ministers have to take leave in order to campaign?" she says. "Seeing as Constituency Staff have to. It doesn't seem fair."
This may well be the first sensible question that she has ever asked, and it's just a shame that Greg and I don't know the answer. We look blankly at each other, and then shrug - simultaneously.
To anyone with any sensitivity at all, it would be apparent that, as far as we're concerned, the subject's now closed, but Vicky has never been one to take a hint.
"How do they get away with it when they're being paid by the taxpayer?" she says. "There are hordes of MPs descending on Oldham every day."
"Well, except for Tory MPs," says Greg. "Though they will keep denying that they've made a pact with the LibDems not to try too hard to win the seat. Talking of which - did you catch up with The Politics Show last night, Molly?"
"Yes," I say. "I'm sure Chris Grayling didn't even know the name of the Tory candidate. That embarrassed smirk reminded me of Josh when he's in the wrong."
Actually, though, I haven't seen Josh looking guilty for a while. Maybe he's finally growing up, now he's left school and has to face the reality of working life. This ought to be a good thing but, after this evening's events, I think he may be taking it too far. He's gone from irresponsible teenager to Victor Meldrew in the blink of an eye.
When I get home from work, very late after a lengthy lecture from Edmund Beales about how we should all start carrying guns in the UK, Max still isn't back from work. Josh is, but he's ranting like a maniac. Or like Mr Beales, anyway, which is probably pretty much the same thing.
"Smell this," he says, shoving a microwaved meal under my nose.
"Yuck," I say. "What the hell is that? It smells like a chemical spill."
I push the container out of the way, while hoping I haven't got any of whatever it contains on the end of my nose. It really stinks.
"It's Taste The Difference* Chilli Con Carne," says Josh. "I can taste the f*cking difference all right. It's disgusting."
"Well, maybe it's out of date."
Josh looks at me as if I am an idiot, then says,
"I only bought it ten minutes ago. Seeing as neither you nor Dad were here to cook tea, and I haven't eaten all day."
"The service is lousy in this hotel, isn't it?" I say. (You can't always come up with an original response, after all.) "Let me see the packet."
As Josh passes it to me, I notice that there is a vein throbbing in his temple. I've seen that before, but never in a member of my own family, so I really hope my son's not turning into a mad constituent now. That would be all I need.
"Well, the date's okay," I say. "But it says it's new and improved. Maybe that's why it tastes and smells so weird?"
"Humph," says Josh. "I told you I don't like change. Especially when it's always for the worse."
Let's just hope the voters of *Oldham and Saddleworth feel the same way. As long as they don't object to Ed* on those grounds, too.
*For those of you not in the UK; or those of you who are, but who have unaccountably lost all interest in politics: explanation re the Oldham & Saddleworth by-election here.
* Taste The Difference Chilli Con Carne - I can't say Josh recommends it, because he really, really doesn't.
*Ed - Ed Miliband, new(ish) leader of The Labour Party. Opponents would probably claim that a Labour defeat at Oldham was a signal that the electorate are rejecting him. Possibly on the grounds of his perceived resemblance to Wallace. This may, or may not, be true of some within the Party, too.
Monday, 10 January 2011
Steptoe* And Daughter Versus Burlesque And Doctor Zhivago: A Difficult Choice At The Best Of Times.
The morning starts badly when Reg Beales phones first thing.
"Got an answer from the Minister about my HGV licence yet?" he says.
"No, of course not," I say. "I only wrote the letter on Thursday. I shouldn't think I'll hear anything for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more."
Reg does one of those super-exaggerated sighs, and then goes quiet. For ages. Eventually, I can't stand it any longer, so I crack first.
"Are you still there?" I say, though I know he is. I can hear his bloody breathing.
"Yes," says Reg. "I'm thinking."
I can well imagine that this takes every ounce of energy that his brain can muster but, even so, I'm not expecting the eventual outcome of the exercise:
"Right, that's decided it then," he says. "I haven't got time to wait, so I'm going to have to take alternative action."
"Oh, God. Like what?" I say, mindful of recent events in Tucson. I wouldn't put anything past anyone called Beales at the best of times.
"I'll have to get a horse and cart," he says.
Greg thinks it's funny, until I remind him that Reg is part of The Home Delivery Network and that it's therefore likely that future copies of The Phone Directory or Freeman's Catalogue will be accompanied by a large pile of manure.
"Mum won't put up with any of that on her driveway," he says. "And anyway, don't you need a licence to drive a horse?"
"How would I know?" I say. "It's not exactly something we come across very often."
And, anyway, I don't care if you do. That's Reg's problem - or Greg's Mum's - whereas I'm thinking about something much more important: trying to decide what to spend my Christmas money on, once I've taken all my unwanted presents back.
"Sexy underwear," says Johnny, in his first email of the day. "Fast-release. And photogenic, just in case I never get to see you wearing it in the flesh."
So, at lunchtime, I trot dutifully off to the shops. (Note the horse-related imagery - I'm still amused by the idea of Reg riding around in a horse and cart.) Though, actually, I'm not so much trotting as staggering, as I'm rather over-burdened by the coat-stand and book shelf that Max bought me for Christmas.
They probably weigh more than I do, as well as being considerably taller, at least in the case of the coat-stand. Not for the first time, I wonder what Max was thinking when he bought the damned things.
Anyway, once I've returned my presents and got the money back, I head to Primark's underwear section. What the hell has happened to that? The whole place is full of completely over-the-top corsets. It's like Burlesque on acid: a nightmare in pink and black satin. Christina Aguilera and Dita Von Teese have a lot to answer for, though I doubt their corsets were made of polyester.
I can't even bear to try any of it on, as it feels horrible and, anyway, I'd feel stupid wearing it, so I abandon that idea and head for Gap's sale instead. Where I find a huge knitted cardigan coat thing, which is really snuggly and warm. I ignore the fact that it's four sizes too big, because it's £15:00 instead of £65:00. And at least it allows for all the thermal underwear underneath.
I'm quite chuffed with my bargain, until I tell Johnny what I've bought. He's disgusted with me, even though I'd have thought that he of all people would appreciate the need for warm clothing. He tries to persuade me to take the cardigan back and get a corset instead.
"I'd look stupid in one of those," I say. "Like mutton dressed as lamb."
"You're such an idiot," he says. Which I don't think was intended as an insult, so then I start wondering if I did make the right choice. Maybe I wouldn't look as ridiculous in sexy underwear as I think I would?
I'm still dithering when I get home from work, so I decide to see what Max's opinion is.
"I nearly bought a corset today," I say.
"What on earth for?" he says. "You're not fat."
"Not that kind of corset," I say. "A sexy one. But I wasn't sure about it, so I bought a big cardigan instead. It's very warm."
I get it out of the bag and put it on, to demonstrate. It's an awful lot bigger than it seemed in the shop, unless I've shrunk since lunchtime. I don't think I have - but I do look like an extra from Oliver, or a particularly short rag and bone man.
"Hmm," says Max, glancing away from the TV. "Yes, very nice. And much more sensible than a corset."
Honestly, now I know I've made the wrong decision. I may not actually be shrinking, but my self-esteem sure as hell is. Who wants to be sensible instead of sexy? Though at least I can get a job working for Reg Beales if I lose mine.
I'd look the part perfectly, riding along in his cart and ringing a bell, while wearing a cardi big enough for four people. It's a far cry from Lara riding along in the Russian snow and wearing her fur coat, though, isn't it? Probably over a bloody corset and nothing else, now I come to think of it.
*Steptoe - From Steptoe and Son, for those of you too young to remember it. Imagine me in my cardi, with a flat cap on, riding along in Steptoe's cart, and you'll get the picture...
"Got an answer from the Minister about my HGV licence yet?" he says.
"No, of course not," I say. "I only wrote the letter on Thursday. I shouldn't think I'll hear anything for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more."
Reg does one of those super-exaggerated sighs, and then goes quiet. For ages. Eventually, I can't stand it any longer, so I crack first.
"Are you still there?" I say, though I know he is. I can hear his bloody breathing.
"Yes," says Reg. "I'm thinking."
I can well imagine that this takes every ounce of energy that his brain can muster but, even so, I'm not expecting the eventual outcome of the exercise:
"Right, that's decided it then," he says. "I haven't got time to wait, so I'm going to have to take alternative action."
"Oh, God. Like what?" I say, mindful of recent events in Tucson. I wouldn't put anything past anyone called Beales at the best of times.
"I'll have to get a horse and cart," he says.
Greg thinks it's funny, until I remind him that Reg is part of The Home Delivery Network and that it's therefore likely that future copies of The Phone Directory or Freeman's Catalogue will be accompanied by a large pile of manure.
"Mum won't put up with any of that on her driveway," he says. "And anyway, don't you need a licence to drive a horse?"
"How would I know?" I say. "It's not exactly something we come across very often."
And, anyway, I don't care if you do. That's Reg's problem - or Greg's Mum's - whereas I'm thinking about something much more important: trying to decide what to spend my Christmas money on, once I've taken all my unwanted presents back.
"Sexy underwear," says Johnny, in his first email of the day. "Fast-release. And photogenic, just in case I never get to see you wearing it in the flesh."
So, at lunchtime, I trot dutifully off to the shops. (Note the horse-related imagery - I'm still amused by the idea of Reg riding around in a horse and cart.) Though, actually, I'm not so much trotting as staggering, as I'm rather over-burdened by the coat-stand and book shelf that Max bought me for Christmas.
They probably weigh more than I do, as well as being considerably taller, at least in the case of the coat-stand. Not for the first time, I wonder what Max was thinking when he bought the damned things.
Anyway, once I've returned my presents and got the money back, I head to Primark's underwear section. What the hell has happened to that? The whole place is full of completely over-the-top corsets. It's like Burlesque on acid: a nightmare in pink and black satin. Christina Aguilera and Dita Von Teese have a lot to answer for, though I doubt their corsets were made of polyester.
I can't even bear to try any of it on, as it feels horrible and, anyway, I'd feel stupid wearing it, so I abandon that idea and head for Gap's sale instead. Where I find a huge knitted cardigan coat thing, which is really snuggly and warm. I ignore the fact that it's four sizes too big, because it's £15:00 instead of £65:00. And at least it allows for all the thermal underwear underneath.
I'm quite chuffed with my bargain, until I tell Johnny what I've bought. He's disgusted with me, even though I'd have thought that he of all people would appreciate the need for warm clothing. He tries to persuade me to take the cardigan back and get a corset instead.
"I'd look stupid in one of those," I say. "Like mutton dressed as lamb."
"You're such an idiot," he says. Which I don't think was intended as an insult, so then I start wondering if I did make the right choice. Maybe I wouldn't look as ridiculous in sexy underwear as I think I would?
I'm still dithering when I get home from work, so I decide to see what Max's opinion is.
"I nearly bought a corset today," I say.
"What on earth for?" he says. "You're not fat."
"Not that kind of corset," I say. "A sexy one. But I wasn't sure about it, so I bought a big cardigan instead. It's very warm."
I get it out of the bag and put it on, to demonstrate. It's an awful lot bigger than it seemed in the shop, unless I've shrunk since lunchtime. I don't think I have - but I do look like an extra from Oliver, or a particularly short rag and bone man.
"Hmm," says Max, glancing away from the TV. "Yes, very nice. And much more sensible than a corset."
Honestly, now I know I've made the wrong decision. I may not actually be shrinking, but my self-esteem sure as hell is. Who wants to be sensible instead of sexy? Though at least I can get a job working for Reg Beales if I lose mine.
I'd look the part perfectly, riding along in his cart and ringing a bell, while wearing a cardi big enough for four people. It's a far cry from Lara riding along in the Russian snow and wearing her fur coat, though, isn't it? Probably over a bloody corset and nothing else, now I come to think of it.
*Steptoe - From Steptoe and Son, for those of you too young to remember it. Imagine me in my cardi, with a flat cap on, riding along in Steptoe's cart, and you'll get the picture...
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Why Politicians, And Fathers, Should Be Careful What They Say.
Dad must have talked Dinah up. I do wish she wouldn't phone me on Sunday mornings, though - especially to talk about politicians and their aides getting shot.
"Did you hear what happened in Tucson?" she says. "I thought of you and those stupid supermarket surgeries as soon as I heard."
"So did I," I say. "It was terrible. Now can we change the subject, please? Seeing as thinking about it isn't likely to make the prospect of going to work tomorrow any easier to face."
Taking a hint has never been Dinah's forte.
"True," she says. "But you do need to be careful, Mol. There are nutters everywhere - especially in politics. Have you seen what Nadine Dorries has done now? I've just read her blog."
"I know," I say. "I suppose we should be glad Dad's not a politician. God knows how many times we'd have been put through what John Butler's daughter was."
"Huh. I'd tell Dad where to get off if he ever wanted me to issue a statement on his love-life. It's bad enough when he does that thing with putting new step-mothers on the phone to us."
"God, yes," I say, as Dinah and I both light cigarettes in the face of the recollections that that conjures up.
Every time Dad gets a new woman, he phones to tell us all about her, and then insists on putting her on the phone to introduce us. So then we have to make agonisingly strained conversation with someone we've never met and - if we're honest - have absolutely no interest in ever meeting.
Last time he did it to me, with the woman who was to become Stepmother Mk III, he prefaced the handover with,
"Here you are, Molly - speak to your new mother."
"I already have a mother, thank you very much," I said. "And two substitutes in case Mum decides to do a runner."
Only then did I realise that Dad had already passed the phone over, so relations with Stepmother Mk III didn't exactly get off to a good start. Given how long she lasted, I suppose it was probably a portent, not that Dad's sensitive to those. He's the living embodiment of the triumph of hope over experience, which probably explains why Dinah and I are exactly the opposite.
"Suppose we'd better thank our lucky stars Porn-Poon's in Thailand," says Dinah. "At least he can't stick her on the phone very easily. Especially as I get the impression that her English is confined to a fairly narrow subject area. Though, now I come to think of it, Dad did tell me to get Skype last time I spoke to him."
"Oh, bloody hell," I say. "If he wants us to talk to the Thai bride, he'll be bound to want us to go along with this stupid pretence that the relationship is a love match, instead of an economic transaction. I don't think I can do it. Not when I have to deal with so many of them at work as well."
"Well, you'll have to," says Dinah. "According to Dad, it's Romeo and Juliet all over again - but across a cultural divide. Not to mention an age gap that defies belief. As far as he's concerned, you and I are just cynics, Molly - with no appreciation of what it is to be in love. Talking of which, since when do people say they're in a romantic relationship for f*ck's sake?"
So now we're back to Nadine, then. I'm not sure if this is worse, or better.
"I don't know," I say. "I'm married, remember? Romance has become an alien concept."
"Like common sense in middle-aged men," says Dinah. "Look at Paul McCartney."
"What's he got to do with it?"
Sometimes following the thread of a conversation with Dinah is even harder than with the usual suspects, but she never makes allowances.
"Oh, honestly, Molly," she says. "Keep up, for God's sake. Heather Mills and Nadine Dorries were obviously separated at birth. You've only got to look at them."
This makes me laugh for all of two seconds, until I realise that Max probably counts as a middle-aged man. They're probably all susceptible to a lack of common sense. I seem to remember Connie telling me that they can't help it, because it's all down to biology - not that that is any bloody comfort.
Now I'm wondering what Max will say to the press if and when he dumps me for a blonde. Probably something to do with the abuse he suffers by having to live with a woman with an incipient beard and rather tragic underwear. And I can't imagine what Josh will have to say.
Although, on second thoughts, I can: he'd tell me that I need to get a sense of proportion. Things could be much worse, couldn't they? After all, I don't work for an American politician, and I wasn't caught up in yesterday's events at the Tucson Safeway store, thank God. And I'm not the parent of the nine-year-old child who died, or related to the other poor people who were killed and injured.
If evidence was needed to prove that people should be more careful about what they say, then Sarah Palin seems to have just provided it. Both Dad and Nadine Dorries look like rank amateurs in comparison.
"Did you hear what happened in Tucson?" she says. "I thought of you and those stupid supermarket surgeries as soon as I heard."
"So did I," I say. "It was terrible. Now can we change the subject, please? Seeing as thinking about it isn't likely to make the prospect of going to work tomorrow any easier to face."
Taking a hint has never been Dinah's forte.
"True," she says. "But you do need to be careful, Mol. There are nutters everywhere - especially in politics. Have you seen what Nadine Dorries has done now? I've just read her blog."
"I know," I say. "I suppose we should be glad Dad's not a politician. God knows how many times we'd have been put through what John Butler's daughter was."
"Huh. I'd tell Dad where to get off if he ever wanted me to issue a statement on his love-life. It's bad enough when he does that thing with putting new step-mothers on the phone to us."
"God, yes," I say, as Dinah and I both light cigarettes in the face of the recollections that that conjures up.
Every time Dad gets a new woman, he phones to tell us all about her, and then insists on putting her on the phone to introduce us. So then we have to make agonisingly strained conversation with someone we've never met and - if we're honest - have absolutely no interest in ever meeting.
Last time he did it to me, with the woman who was to become Stepmother Mk III, he prefaced the handover with,
"Here you are, Molly - speak to your new mother."
"I already have a mother, thank you very much," I said. "And two substitutes in case Mum decides to do a runner."
Only then did I realise that Dad had already passed the phone over, so relations with Stepmother Mk III didn't exactly get off to a good start. Given how long she lasted, I suppose it was probably a portent, not that Dad's sensitive to those. He's the living embodiment of the triumph of hope over experience, which probably explains why Dinah and I are exactly the opposite.
"Suppose we'd better thank our lucky stars Porn-Poon's in Thailand," says Dinah. "At least he can't stick her on the phone very easily. Especially as I get the impression that her English is confined to a fairly narrow subject area. Though, now I come to think of it, Dad did tell me to get Skype last time I spoke to him."
"Oh, bloody hell," I say. "If he wants us to talk to the Thai bride, he'll be bound to want us to go along with this stupid pretence that the relationship is a love match, instead of an economic transaction. I don't think I can do it. Not when I have to deal with so many of them at work as well."
"Well, you'll have to," says Dinah. "According to Dad, it's Romeo and Juliet all over again - but across a cultural divide. Not to mention an age gap that defies belief. As far as he's concerned, you and I are just cynics, Molly - with no appreciation of what it is to be in love. Talking of which, since when do people say they're in a romantic relationship for f*ck's sake?"
So now we're back to Nadine, then. I'm not sure if this is worse, or better.
"I don't know," I say. "I'm married, remember? Romance has become an alien concept."
"Like common sense in middle-aged men," says Dinah. "Look at Paul McCartney."
"What's he got to do with it?"
Sometimes following the thread of a conversation with Dinah is even harder than with the usual suspects, but she never makes allowances.
"Oh, honestly, Molly," she says. "Keep up, for God's sake. Heather Mills and Nadine Dorries were obviously separated at birth. You've only got to look at them."
This makes me laugh for all of two seconds, until I realise that Max probably counts as a middle-aged man. They're probably all susceptible to a lack of common sense. I seem to remember Connie telling me that they can't help it, because it's all down to biology - not that that is any bloody comfort.
Now I'm wondering what Max will say to the press if and when he dumps me for a blonde. Probably something to do with the abuse he suffers by having to live with a woman with an incipient beard and rather tragic underwear. And I can't imagine what Josh will have to say.
Although, on second thoughts, I can: he'd tell me that I need to get a sense of proportion. Things could be much worse, couldn't they? After all, I don't work for an American politician, and I wasn't caught up in yesterday's events at the Tucson Safeway store, thank God. And I'm not the parent of the nine-year-old child who died, or related to the other poor people who were killed and injured.
If evidence was needed to prove that people should be more careful about what they say, then Sarah Palin seems to have just provided it. Both Dad and Nadine Dorries look like rank amateurs in comparison.
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Bunny Boiling, The Green Goddess* Of Northwick and Offender Profiling.
The clearest indicator that it's the New Year is that all the single people I know are on a mission, or two missions, actually: to get fit, and to get themselves a boyfriend or girlfriend. The profits of gyms and dating websites must be going through the roof.
I feel quite left out, though I suppose I could always try some form of keep-fit as part of my mission to improve my sex-life. Probably something with a more externally-obvious effect than Kegel exercises. I can hardly wear a sign on my head advertising that I do those, after all.
I decide to experiment with the exercise ball Connie bought for Max a few years ago but, although I finally find it hidden in the cupboard under the stairs, it's gone completely flat and, by the time I've pumped it back up, I'm exhausted.
Then, when I try to sit on it, I promptly roll off backwards and end up stuck between the ball and the wall, while Max tries not to laugh. I don't know what he thinks he's got to laugh about, though - he was so offended that Connie thought he needed to exercise that I don't think he's ever used the damned thing.
"Stop laughing and help me," I say. "I can't get any purchase with my feet. This bloody ball keeps moving."
"Can't," he says, "I'm on the phone. Oh, hi, Sam. How are you, mate?"
Oh, bloody hell. I could be here all day if I can't get a grip - which is not something that's easy to do while stuck atop a giant purple ball. It won't stay in one place long enough for me to gain any equilibrium and I'm still wriggling around ineffectually when Josh comes in to the room.
After he's done his share of pointing and laughing, he finally comes to the rescue and pulls me to my feet. I'm quite touched by this, until he says,
"Mum, aren't you too old to be starting an exercise programme without seeing your doctor first?"
"No," I say, though now Josh has mentioned it, I'm not so sure. Pride does come before a fall - and it's certainly impossible to maintain it after one. Knowing my luck, I'll break a hip next time I fall off, or tear all my stomach muscles simultaneously. Once I can actually find the buggers.
It's probably safer to content myself with searching YouTube for videos on how to use the ball for now - so I join Max on the sofa and open my laptop. This has the added advantage of allowing me to eavesdrop on his conversation with Sam.
"What? You want Molly to do it?" he says. "Are you sure that's wise? You know she's compulsively truthful."
Since when has that been a bad thing, for God's sake? Everyone should try it. Especially husbands. I glare at Max, but he just waves at me dismissively and continues:
"And are you sure you want to keep going with this online dating thing anyway? You know you're a bloody loony magnet. Mol and I watched that Love, Virtually thing on Channel 4 last night and those women scared the shit out of me."
That's true, actually. Max went white when the women using the websites started talking about how they cyber-stalk their dates, and even paler when one of them said that she was "immediately" suspicious of her new boyfriend because he "had sixteen female friends on Facebook". (She didn't say that any of them were Thai, so I don't think we were talking about a Dad-style scenario, either.)
Max kept repeating, "Only sixteen?" and Josh just sat there muttering at the presenter:
"Yes, well, you can't get a long-term relationship out of this, anyway - can you? Not seeing as it's your job to blog about bloody internet dating."
Honestly, Josh is such a cynic. I can't think who he gets it from. I was quite enjoying the whole Bunny-boiling thing myself, as I figured it might make Max far more grateful for what he's got: i.e. me.
I don't think he made the connection, though, so then I had to point it out to him - which rather diluted its effectiveness.
"Well, whatever site those women were on is probably called mentally-disturbed-dating.com," he said. "But I'm sure they're not typical of all the single women out there."
I really didn't like how positive he seemed to be about this at the time, and I still don't when I recall it now. It sounded far too much like the voice of experience, but I haven't got time to think about what it might mean at the moment as, when Max hangs up the phone, he announces that he's just promised that I will write Sam's profile for www.mysinglefriend.com And that I'll have it finished by this evening.
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Why've I got to do it tonight? It's only another dating site, after all. What's so bloody urgent?"
"Well, Sam says he hasn't had sex in ages," says Max. "Weeks, if not months."
"Perhaps he's finally ready for marriage, then," I say.
It's probably a good job Josh got me off the exercise ball when he did as, judging by his expression, I think Max would have been more than happy to have left me there all night.
*Green Goddess - Diana Moran, purveyor of relentless cheerfulness in the godforsaken early hours, back in the days when I could still find my stomach muscles. This video is worth watching just for her saying, "Take the rhythm, the lovely rhythm." Innocent times, before the advent of www.mentally-disturbed-dating.com
I feel quite left out, though I suppose I could always try some form of keep-fit as part of my mission to improve my sex-life. Probably something with a more externally-obvious effect than Kegel exercises. I can hardly wear a sign on my head advertising that I do those, after all.
I decide to experiment with the exercise ball Connie bought for Max a few years ago but, although I finally find it hidden in the cupboard under the stairs, it's gone completely flat and, by the time I've pumped it back up, I'm exhausted.
Then, when I try to sit on it, I promptly roll off backwards and end up stuck between the ball and the wall, while Max tries not to laugh. I don't know what he thinks he's got to laugh about, though - he was so offended that Connie thought he needed to exercise that I don't think he's ever used the damned thing.
"Stop laughing and help me," I say. "I can't get any purchase with my feet. This bloody ball keeps moving."
"Can't," he says, "I'm on the phone. Oh, hi, Sam. How are you, mate?"
Oh, bloody hell. I could be here all day if I can't get a grip - which is not something that's easy to do while stuck atop a giant purple ball. It won't stay in one place long enough for me to gain any equilibrium and I'm still wriggling around ineffectually when Josh comes in to the room.
After he's done his share of pointing and laughing, he finally comes to the rescue and pulls me to my feet. I'm quite touched by this, until he says,
"Mum, aren't you too old to be starting an exercise programme without seeing your doctor first?"
"No," I say, though now Josh has mentioned it, I'm not so sure. Pride does come before a fall - and it's certainly impossible to maintain it after one. Knowing my luck, I'll break a hip next time I fall off, or tear all my stomach muscles simultaneously. Once I can actually find the buggers.
It's probably safer to content myself with searching YouTube for videos on how to use the ball for now - so I join Max on the sofa and open my laptop. This has the added advantage of allowing me to eavesdrop on his conversation with Sam.
"What? You want Molly to do it?" he says. "Are you sure that's wise? You know she's compulsively truthful."
Since when has that been a bad thing, for God's sake? Everyone should try it. Especially husbands. I glare at Max, but he just waves at me dismissively and continues:
"And are you sure you want to keep going with this online dating thing anyway? You know you're a bloody loony magnet. Mol and I watched that Love, Virtually thing on Channel 4 last night and those women scared the shit out of me."
That's true, actually. Max went white when the women using the websites started talking about how they cyber-stalk their dates, and even paler when one of them said that she was "immediately" suspicious of her new boyfriend because he "had sixteen female friends on Facebook". (She didn't say that any of them were Thai, so I don't think we were talking about a Dad-style scenario, either.)
Max kept repeating, "Only sixteen?" and Josh just sat there muttering at the presenter:
"Yes, well, you can't get a long-term relationship out of this, anyway - can you? Not seeing as it's your job to blog about bloody internet dating."
Honestly, Josh is such a cynic. I can't think who he gets it from. I was quite enjoying the whole Bunny-boiling thing myself, as I figured it might make Max far more grateful for what he's got: i.e. me.
I don't think he made the connection, though, so then I had to point it out to him - which rather diluted its effectiveness.
"Well, whatever site those women were on is probably called mentally-disturbed-dating.com," he said. "But I'm sure they're not typical of all the single women out there."
I really didn't like how positive he seemed to be about this at the time, and I still don't when I recall it now. It sounded far too much like the voice of experience, but I haven't got time to think about what it might mean at the moment as, when Max hangs up the phone, he announces that he's just promised that I will write Sam's profile for www.mysinglefriend.com And that I'll have it finished by this evening.
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Why've I got to do it tonight? It's only another dating site, after all. What's so bloody urgent?"
"Well, Sam says he hasn't had sex in ages," says Max. "Weeks, if not months."
"Perhaps he's finally ready for marriage, then," I say.
It's probably a good job Josh got me off the exercise ball when he did as, judging by his expression, I think Max would have been more than happy to have left me there all night.
*Green Goddess - Diana Moran, purveyor of relentless cheerfulness in the godforsaken early hours, back in the days when I could still find my stomach muscles. This video is worth watching just for her saying, "Take the rhythm, the lovely rhythm." Innocent times, before the advent of www.mentally-disturbed-dating.com
Friday, 7 January 2011
Profit And Loss, And The Significance Of Polo Necks
I'm getting a bit worried about Max's job. Mainly because of the way he behaved when John Lewis announced the rise in their profits the other night.
He re-wound twice to make sure the news report said 9.7%, then put his head in his hands and did nothing but repeat the figure for the rest of the evening.
He's still on about it this morning, when we walk into work together:
"They did say profit - not loss - on the news, didn't they?" he says.
"Yes," I say.
It doesn't look as if this is what Max wanted to hear. He groans, then says:
"Well, how the hell did John Lewis manage that? It can't have been from sales of bloody furniture. God knows we're not selling any."
When I ask if things are that bad, he just shakes his head and changes the subject. To how secure I think my job is, what with the Vicky situation.
"God knows," I say. "She hasn't been in to the office yet this week, so I haven't mentioned her in the hope that I won't talk her up."
That was obviously a decision I should have stuck to. Now I'm starting to believe that I really do have telekinetic powers as, when I arrive at the office, who should be sitting in the Oprah Room? Only Miss Vick the Bloody Hair-Flick. Her smile still looks like a piranha's.
"Morning, Molly," she says. "See you haven't used your beauty salon vouchers yet."
Honestly - what use is telekinesis if it won't work when you try to make someone drop dead? Carrie never had this problem.
I abandon the attempt to kill Vicky by the power of thought, stalk into my office and slam the door. Or I try to, but The Boss has left a pile of papers in the way, so the door just hits those and rebounds in a most unsatisfying manner.
I kick the desk and pretend it's Vicky instead, but that doesn't really make me feel any better, and the day doesn't improve when Greg brings up the subject of Reg and Edmund Beales.
"I've just realised who they look like," he says.
"Each other?" I say.
"Very funny, Molly. Obviously they look like each other - they're bloody twins. But who else?"
I look blank so Greg gives me a clue. Regardless of whether I want one or not.
"Someone who's been in the news recently," he says. "With a bad combover."
"Well, that could apply to any number of middle-aged men," I say. "You'll have to do better than that."
"Christopher Jefferies, you fool. It's obvious."
I tell Greg we're not supposed to be talking about Mr Jefferies if we don't want to upset the Attorney General, and try to change the subject, but Greg's on a roll.
"He looks like all the usual suspects, actually," he says. "Even Miss Chambers."
"Now you're pushing it," I say. "Any resemblance is purely down to Miss C's penchant for polo-necks."
"My point exactly," says Greg. "Dead giveaway. The sartorial equivalent of the Twilight Zone theme. Especially when worn by the elderly. Reg Beales had one on yesterday, if you remember."
I do, but I try not to think about it for the rest of the day. Or about eccentric men. I succeed, until I get home from work and Dad phones.
"Some people are so bloody insensitive," he says, apropos a greeting.
"Yes, I suppose they are," I say. Dad usually being one of them. "Why?"
"I went to see my neighbours last night for a New Year tipple, and told them all about Porn-Poon."
"Ah," I say. "And?"
"They called me a dirty old man! Bloody outrageous."
I have no idea what to say to that - or rather I do, but Dad won't like the result, so I resort to asking another question instead:
"Well, what were they referring to?" I say. Disingenuousness is a key skill in the armoury of an MP's staffer, after all.
"God knows," says Dad. "It was after I told them that everyone looks the same age in the dark."
How I wish he would stop saying that. Now I feel as if I'm going down with the dreaded Norovirus. Nauseous is an understatement.
It's obviously time for a change of subject - which seems to have been the order of the day, now I come to think of it.
"Did you get anything nice for Christmas?" I say.
"Not really. I told everyone that all I wanted for Christmas was my lovely Porn-Poon," says Dad. "But Dinah did buy me a very nice polo-neck jumper."
I must remember to congratulate my sister on her foresight, the next time she phones.
He re-wound twice to make sure the news report said 9.7%, then put his head in his hands and did nothing but repeat the figure for the rest of the evening.
He's still on about it this morning, when we walk into work together:
"They did say profit - not loss - on the news, didn't they?" he says.
"Yes," I say.
It doesn't look as if this is what Max wanted to hear. He groans, then says:
"Well, how the hell did John Lewis manage that? It can't have been from sales of bloody furniture. God knows we're not selling any."
When I ask if things are that bad, he just shakes his head and changes the subject. To how secure I think my job is, what with the Vicky situation.
"God knows," I say. "She hasn't been in to the office yet this week, so I haven't mentioned her in the hope that I won't talk her up."
That was obviously a decision I should have stuck to. Now I'm starting to believe that I really do have telekinetic powers as, when I arrive at the office, who should be sitting in the Oprah Room? Only Miss Vick the Bloody Hair-Flick. Her smile still looks like a piranha's.
"Morning, Molly," she says. "See you haven't used your beauty salon vouchers yet."
Honestly - what use is telekinesis if it won't work when you try to make someone drop dead? Carrie never had this problem.
I abandon the attempt to kill Vicky by the power of thought, stalk into my office and slam the door. Or I try to, but The Boss has left a pile of papers in the way, so the door just hits those and rebounds in a most unsatisfying manner.
I kick the desk and pretend it's Vicky instead, but that doesn't really make me feel any better, and the day doesn't improve when Greg brings up the subject of Reg and Edmund Beales.
"I've just realised who they look like," he says.
"Each other?" I say.
"Very funny, Molly. Obviously they look like each other - they're bloody twins. But who else?"
I look blank so Greg gives me a clue. Regardless of whether I want one or not.
"Someone who's been in the news recently," he says. "With a bad combover."
"Well, that could apply to any number of middle-aged men," I say. "You'll have to do better than that."
"Christopher Jefferies, you fool. It's obvious."
I tell Greg we're not supposed to be talking about Mr Jefferies if we don't want to upset the Attorney General, and try to change the subject, but Greg's on a roll.
"He looks like all the usual suspects, actually," he says. "Even Miss Chambers."
"Now you're pushing it," I say. "Any resemblance is purely down to Miss C's penchant for polo-necks."
"My point exactly," says Greg. "Dead giveaway. The sartorial equivalent of the Twilight Zone theme. Especially when worn by the elderly. Reg Beales had one on yesterday, if you remember."
I do, but I try not to think about it for the rest of the day. Or about eccentric men. I succeed, until I get home from work and Dad phones.
"Some people are so bloody insensitive," he says, apropos a greeting.
"Yes, I suppose they are," I say. Dad usually being one of them. "Why?"
"I went to see my neighbours last night for a New Year tipple, and told them all about Porn-Poon."
"Ah," I say. "And?"
"They called me a dirty old man! Bloody outrageous."
I have no idea what to say to that - or rather I do, but Dad won't like the result, so I resort to asking another question instead:
"Well, what were they referring to?" I say. Disingenuousness is a key skill in the armoury of an MP's staffer, after all.
"God knows," says Dad. "It was after I told them that everyone looks the same age in the dark."
How I wish he would stop saying that. Now I feel as if I'm going down with the dreaded Norovirus. Nauseous is an understatement.
It's obviously time for a change of subject - which seems to have been the order of the day, now I come to think of it.
"Did you get anything nice for Christmas?" I say.
"Not really. I told everyone that all I wanted for Christmas was my lovely Porn-Poon," says Dad. "But Dinah did buy me a very nice polo-neck jumper."
I must remember to congratulate my sister on her foresight, the next time she phones.
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Hacking, Paranoia And A New Use For Green Ink
God, I wish this phone hacking story would go away. It only encourages The Boss's paranoia. Now he's convinced that his calls are being tapped again.
He mentions his theory to a local journalist this morning, despite my frantic head-shaking - but, luckily, the journo doesn't even bother to write it down. Maybe he's already tried listening in to Andrew's calls and only narrowly escaped being bored to death.
It's not as if anyone in their right mind would ever want to listen to an MP's voicemail. Or not to a backbench MP's, anyway. I can hardly bear to do it myself, given the number of demented messages that get left overnight. Usually a combination of incoherent screeching, alien sightings and death threats.
Mind you, I'd be quite happy for The News Of The World to hack into my telephone conversations - if their reporters made themselves useful by speaking to constituents while they were at it. I'd love to see how they'd cope with Miss Chambers, Mr Meeeurghn or even Mr Beales.
Talking of Mr Beales, I have a very nasty shock at lunchtime, when someone calls from the lobby on the intercom.
"I need to speak to my MP," says the man. "It's an emergency."
When I ask for further details, he doesn't reply, so there's no choice but for me to go downstairs and investigate. Well, I suppose there would be a choice if the MP in question didn't have a mouthful of my sandwich and apparently no intention of moving until he's eaten the whole thing. The end of Recess can't come soon enough to stop me starving to death.
When I reach the lobby, there is Mr Beales, pacing round and round in circles and muttering to himself.
"Oh," I say. "I didn't realise it was you. Your voice didn't sound familiar."
"That's because we haven't met," says the man, extending a clammy hand. "Reg Beales. My brother told me to come and see you. Said you'd be able to help."
Oh, dear God. There are two of them? Is there no end to life's cruel jokes?
I stand there like a complete idiot, with my mouth hanging open in disbelief, while Reg continues:
"It's the penalty points system. It's bloody unfair, that's what it is, and it needs changing. Sharpish."
"I've already explained to your brother that there's nothing I can do about his speeding ticket - because he was speeding," I say. "And as for the charge of dangerous driving, he admits himself that he did hit the policeman - "
"I'm not talking about our Edmund," says Reg. "It's me. I've just got another three points for speeding, so now I'm up to twelve. So I'm going to lose my HGV licence and my business if nothing's done. And it's not my fault."
Honestly, it must run in the family. Probably some weird form of ADHD or something. A total inability to learn from experience, or to take responsibility for one's actions. But Reg seems to be expecting a reply, so I try to be patient. (That was another of my stupid New Year's resolutions.)
"So what do you think should be done about it, then?" I say.
"They need to change the rules," says Reg. "HGV drivers should be allowed to get twice as many points as ordinary drivers before they lose their licences, because they have to drive more miles. And it's their livelihoods on the line."
"Not to mention the lives of the general public," I say, under my breath. I can't think of anything more acceptable to add out loud, so I'm quite relieved when Greg walks through the door, and saves me the bother.
He looks at Reg, does a double-take, and then says,
"Molly, we're late for that meeting."
Sometimes, Greg isn't half as daft as he looks. His timely intervention enables me to make a quick escape, although I do have to promise to write to Mike Penning at the DfT to put forward Reg's suggestion about doubling the penalty points allowance for HGV drivers.
I'm just hoping the Minister won't think it's a good idea and decide to implement it. You never can tell with the Coalition, which is a bit unnerving to say the least.
"We need a code," says Greg, when I tell him all about it.
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Not you as well. No-one cares what The Boss says when he's on the phone. Half of it's unintelligible anyway."
"No, not to stop hacking, Molly, you loon. To indicate to the Minister that we know that what we've just written is ridiculous, and that the constituent in question is barking mad."
Now that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we should start printing our own letters in green ink. I wonder if it's more expensive than black?
He mentions his theory to a local journalist this morning, despite my frantic head-shaking - but, luckily, the journo doesn't even bother to write it down. Maybe he's already tried listening in to Andrew's calls and only narrowly escaped being bored to death.
It's not as if anyone in their right mind would ever want to listen to an MP's voicemail. Or not to a backbench MP's, anyway. I can hardly bear to do it myself, given the number of demented messages that get left overnight. Usually a combination of incoherent screeching, alien sightings and death threats.
Mind you, I'd be quite happy for The News Of The World to hack into my telephone conversations - if their reporters made themselves useful by speaking to constituents while they were at it. I'd love to see how they'd cope with Miss Chambers, Mr Meeeurghn or even Mr Beales.
Talking of Mr Beales, I have a very nasty shock at lunchtime, when someone calls from the lobby on the intercom.
"I need to speak to my MP," says the man. "It's an emergency."
When I ask for further details, he doesn't reply, so there's no choice but for me to go downstairs and investigate. Well, I suppose there would be a choice if the MP in question didn't have a mouthful of my sandwich and apparently no intention of moving until he's eaten the whole thing. The end of Recess can't come soon enough to stop me starving to death.
When I reach the lobby, there is Mr Beales, pacing round and round in circles and muttering to himself.
"Oh," I say. "I didn't realise it was you. Your voice didn't sound familiar."
"That's because we haven't met," says the man, extending a clammy hand. "Reg Beales. My brother told me to come and see you. Said you'd be able to help."
Oh, dear God. There are two of them? Is there no end to life's cruel jokes?
I stand there like a complete idiot, with my mouth hanging open in disbelief, while Reg continues:
"It's the penalty points system. It's bloody unfair, that's what it is, and it needs changing. Sharpish."
"I've already explained to your brother that there's nothing I can do about his speeding ticket - because he was speeding," I say. "And as for the charge of dangerous driving, he admits himself that he did hit the policeman - "
"I'm not talking about our Edmund," says Reg. "It's me. I've just got another three points for speeding, so now I'm up to twelve. So I'm going to lose my HGV licence and my business if nothing's done. And it's not my fault."
Honestly, it must run in the family. Probably some weird form of ADHD or something. A total inability to learn from experience, or to take responsibility for one's actions. But Reg seems to be expecting a reply, so I try to be patient. (That was another of my stupid New Year's resolutions.)
"So what do you think should be done about it, then?" I say.
"They need to change the rules," says Reg. "HGV drivers should be allowed to get twice as many points as ordinary drivers before they lose their licences, because they have to drive more miles. And it's their livelihoods on the line."
"Not to mention the lives of the general public," I say, under my breath. I can't think of anything more acceptable to add out loud, so I'm quite relieved when Greg walks through the door, and saves me the bother.
He looks at Reg, does a double-take, and then says,
"Molly, we're late for that meeting."
Sometimes, Greg isn't half as daft as he looks. His timely intervention enables me to make a quick escape, although I do have to promise to write to Mike Penning at the DfT to put forward Reg's suggestion about doubling the penalty points allowance for HGV drivers.
I'm just hoping the Minister won't think it's a good idea and decide to implement it. You never can tell with the Coalition, which is a bit unnerving to say the least.
"We need a code," says Greg, when I tell him all about it.
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Not you as well. No-one cares what The Boss says when he's on the phone. Half of it's unintelligible anyway."
"No, not to stop hacking, Molly, you loon. To indicate to the Minister that we know that what we've just written is ridiculous, and that the constituent in question is barking mad."
Now that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we should start printing our own letters in green ink. I wonder if it's more expensive than black?
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
The Added Value of VAT, Annoying Haggling And A Rather Bloody New Year.
"Happy New Year" doesn't have quite the same ring to it when it's followed immediately by, "though I doubt it actually will be." That's what almost all the usual suspects say when they ring today.
I'm still feeling quite positive about 2011, though - given that Max appears to have made it his resolution to have more sex. And with me, as far as I can tell.
Not that things looked very promising on New Year's Eve, which was shaping up to be a total disaster before the clock struck twelve. Max looked knackered when he got home from work - late - and he was in a foul mood.
"What's the matter with you?" I said.
"I'm sick of customers being stroppy, coming in just before closing time, and trying to haggle the price of everything down," he said. "All because they think we're desperate to make sales before the VAT increase."
"Well, I suppose it's understandable," I said. "Isn't it? They know times are tough for retailers and that you need the sales."
"Well, yeah - but it's hardly helpful when the only price they're willing to pay would mean that we made a bloody loss, is it?"
With that, Max promptly fell asleep on the sofa and didn't wake up again until 11:45pm, when he seemed surprised that I wasn't very enthusiastic about his suggestion that we watch the celebrations on television.
Given that the National Lottery draw was on at the time, and that its idiotic presenter always makes me feel murderous even when we have a lottery ticket - which we didn't - I thought I'd been a model of restraint but, even so, you could have cut the tension with a knife by the time Big Ben started to strike.
The situation was only saved by a text from Josh saying, "Happy New Year, motherf*ckers" and advising us that he was staying at Holly's overnight. By the time we'd finished laughing at the first part of the message, it seems Max had realised the implications of the second.
Honestly, trying to maintain a sex-life when you're the parents of teenagers is like being bloody teenagers yourselves. You have to grab every opportunity when it presents itself.
"So Josh is away all night," said Max. "And Connie's not here either. Shall we go to bed?"
"But you've only just woken up," I said.
"Who said anything about sleeping?" said Max. With what I think was unfeigned enthusiasm.
So, for once, fireworks made it to the Bennett bedroom, which was an unexpectedly good start to the New Year, and now I'm clinging to the belief that it was also a portent of great things to come. (Which is not intended as one of those smutty innuendos that seem to be increasingly common on Facebook status updates.)
Constituents don't seem to share my optimism, though. Or my uncharacteristically good humour. They're all consumed with irritation at the rise in VAT instead - as is Greg, who apparently managed to miss a couple of designer bargains when he went shopping on Bank Holiday Monday. Probably through overdoing the haggling.
"Suppose you'll be all right, though - won't you, Molly?" he says. "There's still no VAT on children's clothes."
"Josh and Connie are far too big to wear those," I say. "Don't be daft."
"Yeah, but you're not, are you?"
Greg thinks he's so funny, but this is no laughing matter as far as I'm concerned.
"No, I'm not - but I can't say I fancy wearing things covered in glitter and cartoon characters." I say. "It's already quite hard enough to persuade constituents to take you seriously when you're a woman working in politics as it is. Not to mention MPs. And colleagues with a warped sense of humour."
Greg laughs and pretends to play an imaginary violin, while I scowl at him. What would he know? No-one ever assumes I'm his superior, even though I am, or refers to him as a bloody secretary, after all.
I get my revenge when he takes the next call, though. His face is green by the time he replaces the receiver.
"Who was that?" I say. "You look as if you're going to be sick."
"I may well be," he says. "It was that god-awful Selena Roddick."
Selena is an anarchist feminist activist whose spiritual home will always be Greenham Common. You have to admire her single-mindedness, if not her sense of humour. Or her dress sense.
"What did she want?" I say.
"VAT-exemption for sanitary towels," says Greg. "She's planning on sending George Osborne some used ones to get her point across."
"I'd have thought that would have made you laugh, not go green and look as if you're going to throw up. As long as she's not sending any here as well?"
"No, she isn't. But that wasn't the end of it."
Greg goes on to explain that Selena's considering starting a campaign to force the Coalition's hand:
"Based on passive resistance. She says she's always had a thing about Gandhi."
"So what exactly will that involve?" I say.
"None of you women using any protection at all," says Greg, wincing as he speaks. "She says there'll be a trail of blood until Tampax and sanitary towels are made VAT-free."
Oh, dear God. I can't say I'm looking forward to that. What with everyone sneezing, and the wretched Norovirus, there are far too many rogue bodily fluids flying around already. It seems this VAT increase may lead to all sorts of unintended consequences.
Mind you, I suppose one of those might be an increase in the sexual activity of the nation - or at least of me and Max - seeing as sex was still tax-exempt the last time I looked. Not that it wouldn't qualify as adding value. I might even be prepared to haggle for a better deal myself.
I'm still feeling quite positive about 2011, though - given that Max appears to have made it his resolution to have more sex. And with me, as far as I can tell.
Not that things looked very promising on New Year's Eve, which was shaping up to be a total disaster before the clock struck twelve. Max looked knackered when he got home from work - late - and he was in a foul mood.
"What's the matter with you?" I said.
"I'm sick of customers being stroppy, coming in just before closing time, and trying to haggle the price of everything down," he said. "All because they think we're desperate to make sales before the VAT increase."
"Well, I suppose it's understandable," I said. "Isn't it? They know times are tough for retailers and that you need the sales."
"Well, yeah - but it's hardly helpful when the only price they're willing to pay would mean that we made a bloody loss, is it?"
With that, Max promptly fell asleep on the sofa and didn't wake up again until 11:45pm, when he seemed surprised that I wasn't very enthusiastic about his suggestion that we watch the celebrations on television.
Given that the National Lottery draw was on at the time, and that its idiotic presenter always makes me feel murderous even when we have a lottery ticket - which we didn't - I thought I'd been a model of restraint but, even so, you could have cut the tension with a knife by the time Big Ben started to strike.
The situation was only saved by a text from Josh saying, "Happy New Year, motherf*ckers" and advising us that he was staying at Holly's overnight. By the time we'd finished laughing at the first part of the message, it seems Max had realised the implications of the second.
Honestly, trying to maintain a sex-life when you're the parents of teenagers is like being bloody teenagers yourselves. You have to grab every opportunity when it presents itself.
"So Josh is away all night," said Max. "And Connie's not here either. Shall we go to bed?"
"But you've only just woken up," I said.
"Who said anything about sleeping?" said Max. With what I think was unfeigned enthusiasm.
So, for once, fireworks made it to the Bennett bedroom, which was an unexpectedly good start to the New Year, and now I'm clinging to the belief that it was also a portent of great things to come. (Which is not intended as one of those smutty innuendos that seem to be increasingly common on Facebook status updates.)
Constituents don't seem to share my optimism, though. Or my uncharacteristically good humour. They're all consumed with irritation at the rise in VAT instead - as is Greg, who apparently managed to miss a couple of designer bargains when he went shopping on Bank Holiday Monday. Probably through overdoing the haggling.
"Suppose you'll be all right, though - won't you, Molly?" he says. "There's still no VAT on children's clothes."
"Josh and Connie are far too big to wear those," I say. "Don't be daft."
"Yeah, but you're not, are you?"
Greg thinks he's so funny, but this is no laughing matter as far as I'm concerned.
"No, I'm not - but I can't say I fancy wearing things covered in glitter and cartoon characters." I say. "It's already quite hard enough to persuade constituents to take you seriously when you're a woman working in politics as it is. Not to mention MPs. And colleagues with a warped sense of humour."
Greg laughs and pretends to play an imaginary violin, while I scowl at him. What would he know? No-one ever assumes I'm his superior, even though I am, or refers to him as a bloody secretary, after all.
I get my revenge when he takes the next call, though. His face is green by the time he replaces the receiver.
"Who was that?" I say. "You look as if you're going to be sick."
"I may well be," he says. "It was that god-awful Selena Roddick."
Selena is an anarchist feminist activist whose spiritual home will always be Greenham Common. You have to admire her single-mindedness, if not her sense of humour. Or her dress sense.
"What did she want?" I say.
"VAT-exemption for sanitary towels," says Greg. "She's planning on sending George Osborne some used ones to get her point across."
"I'd have thought that would have made you laugh, not go green and look as if you're going to throw up. As long as she's not sending any here as well?"
"No, she isn't. But that wasn't the end of it."
Greg goes on to explain that Selena's considering starting a campaign to force the Coalition's hand:
"Based on passive resistance. She says she's always had a thing about Gandhi."
"So what exactly will that involve?" I say.
"None of you women using any protection at all," says Greg, wincing as he speaks. "She says there'll be a trail of blood until Tampax and sanitary towels are made VAT-free."
Oh, dear God. I can't say I'm looking forward to that. What with everyone sneezing, and the wretched Norovirus, there are far too many rogue bodily fluids flying around already. It seems this VAT increase may lead to all sorts of unintended consequences.
Mind you, I suppose one of those might be an increase in the sexual activity of the nation - or at least of me and Max - seeing as sex was still tax-exempt the last time I looked. Not that it wouldn't qualify as adding value. I might even be prepared to haggle for a better deal myself.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Back To Life, Back To Reality. And Not In A Good Way.
Well, I'm back in the land of the living. Or of the utterly insane, to be more accurate. And I've gone right off politics - if that's what my job actually involves, which I rather doubt. I'm sure I've got more in common with psychiatric social workers than with MPs.
Anyway, the only advantage to having a shitty first day back at work is that now Christmas doesn't seem half as bad as it did at the time.
"What presents did you get, then, Mol?" says Greg, when he arrives this morning.
"A coat-stand, a shelf and a block of Caerphilly cheese," I say.
"Oh," says Greg. Which may well be the shortest sentence he's ever uttered.
At least the cheese had the virtue of being personal, though. And it was only an emergency gift, according to Connie, who was its donor.
"Unlike Dad or Josh, I ordered your proper present weeks before Christmas - and it was something I knew you actually wanted," she said. "And then Amazon couldn't even manage to deliver the bloody thing. I'll never trust them again."
"Well, it has been snowing everywhere," I said. "So I suppose it's been a pretty challenging time."
"Wouldn't have been half so bloody challenging if they'd sent the parcel to the right country," said Connie. "I'm writing a letter of complaint. Want to hear it?"
"No," I said. "I'm on holiday. That would just be like listening to a moaning constituent."
Honestly, I might as well have saved my breath. Connie had already started reading aloud:
"Given that you have inexplicably sent my mother's present to Scotland instead of to England, as per the address given, I fail to see how snow could have been a factor in your incompetence."
I'm still absurdly proud of her use of 'inexplicably' for some reason. Probably because it sums up the whole of the so-called festive season.
It remains inexplicable why Max was already asleep on the sofa by 9:00pm on Christmas Eve when we were supposed to be playing games and bonding as a family; why Connie and Josh had had an enormous row by 11:00am on Christmas Day and why, according to Connie, Max resembles a mis-shapen potato when he's drunk.
"He looks more like someone who's been let out of the day centre without his carer to me," said Josh. "And how can it take him five and a half hours to cook Christmas dinner?"
"Drinking two bottles of wine by yourself can't be rushed," said Max. "And anyway, I'm fine. Now let's crack open that After Dinner Quiz box. Then we can bond like you all said you wanted to."
"Of what is helminthology the study?"
As usual, and without any prior consultation, Josh, the self-appointed Magnus Magnusson* of Northwick, had decided he was going to read out the questions. Democracy is a concept that remains stubbornly beyond his grasp.
"No idea," said Connie and I simultaneously. "Give us a clue."
"Like you two," said Josh.
"Women?" I said.
"Geniuses?" said Connie.
"Parasitic worms," said Josh.
This should have provided an early indicator as to how the rest of the game was going to pan out, and led to pre-emptive action, but I never learn. I must be more of an optimist than I thought.
Josh's next question was directed at Max:
"Dad - what is the oldest vegetable?"
"Molly," said Max. He didn't even miss a beat.
Coming from a man who looks like Mr Potato Head, I'd have been a bit more careful with the plant-based insults if I was him.
*Magnus Magnusson - presenter of BBC Mastermind for twenty-five years, and a lot more polite a quizmaster than Josh.
Anyway, the only advantage to having a shitty first day back at work is that now Christmas doesn't seem half as bad as it did at the time.
"What presents did you get, then, Mol?" says Greg, when he arrives this morning.
"A coat-stand, a shelf and a block of Caerphilly cheese," I say.
"Oh," says Greg. Which may well be the shortest sentence he's ever uttered.
At least the cheese had the virtue of being personal, though. And it was only an emergency gift, according to Connie, who was its donor.
"Unlike Dad or Josh, I ordered your proper present weeks before Christmas - and it was something I knew you actually wanted," she said. "And then Amazon couldn't even manage to deliver the bloody thing. I'll never trust them again."
"Well, it has been snowing everywhere," I said. "So I suppose it's been a pretty challenging time."
"Wouldn't have been half so bloody challenging if they'd sent the parcel to the right country," said Connie. "I'm writing a letter of complaint. Want to hear it?"
"No," I said. "I'm on holiday. That would just be like listening to a moaning constituent."
Honestly, I might as well have saved my breath. Connie had already started reading aloud:
"Given that you have inexplicably sent my mother's present to Scotland instead of to England, as per the address given, I fail to see how snow could have been a factor in your incompetence."
I'm still absurdly proud of her use of 'inexplicably' for some reason. Probably because it sums up the whole of the so-called festive season.
It remains inexplicable why Max was already asleep on the sofa by 9:00pm on Christmas Eve when we were supposed to be playing games and bonding as a family; why Connie and Josh had had an enormous row by 11:00am on Christmas Day and why, according to Connie, Max resembles a mis-shapen potato when he's drunk.
"He looks more like someone who's been let out of the day centre without his carer to me," said Josh. "And how can it take him five and a half hours to cook Christmas dinner?"
"Drinking two bottles of wine by yourself can't be rushed," said Max. "And anyway, I'm fine. Now let's crack open that After Dinner Quiz box. Then we can bond like you all said you wanted to."
"Of what is helminthology the study?"
As usual, and without any prior consultation, Josh, the self-appointed Magnus Magnusson* of Northwick, had decided he was going to read out the questions. Democracy is a concept that remains stubbornly beyond his grasp.
"No idea," said Connie and I simultaneously. "Give us a clue."
"Like you two," said Josh.
"Women?" I said.
"Geniuses?" said Connie.
"Parasitic worms," said Josh.
This should have provided an early indicator as to how the rest of the game was going to pan out, and led to pre-emptive action, but I never learn. I must be more of an optimist than I thought.
Josh's next question was directed at Max:
"Dad - what is the oldest vegetable?"
"Molly," said Max. He didn't even miss a beat.
Coming from a man who looks like Mr Potato Head, I'd have been a bit more careful with the plant-based insults if I was him.
*Magnus Magnusson - presenter of BBC Mastermind for twenty-five years, and a lot more polite a quizmaster than Josh.
Thursday, 23 December 2010
OUT OF OFFICE REPLY - Molly Bennett, Office of Andrew Sinclair MP.
Thank you for your email addressed to Mr Sinclair.
The Constituency Office is now closed for the Christmas period, and will re-open at 09:00am on Tuesday 4 January 2011.
I will, of course, reply to your enquiry as soon as possible upon my return to work.
Molly Bennett, Senior Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
PS
What I don't tell you is that Greg and I will be taking it in turns to come in to the office during the week between Christmas and New Year, to check emails, post and answer-phone messages. This is a precaution, just in case any of you have genuine - as opposed to entirely imaginary - emergencies. (Not that there will be very much that we can do for you even if that is the case, given that the staff of every other agency we might need to deal with on your behalf are unlikely to return to work before they absolutely have to...)
PPS
Note that I also don't wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, in case I offend your religious principles. (Though I do hope you have both those things. Even if you don't call them that.)
PPPS I also don't mention that Connie and Josh have banned me from using my laptop over Christmas on the basis that we need to concentrate on bonding as a family. Connie says that she and Josh think it likely that, if we don't make more effort, Max and I will end up splitting up, in what she calls a classic "children leaving the nest" scenario.
The Constituency Office is now closed for the Christmas period, and will re-open at 09:00am on Tuesday 4 January 2011.
I will, of course, reply to your enquiry as soon as possible upon my return to work.
Molly Bennett, Senior Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
PS
What I don't tell you is that Greg and I will be taking it in turns to come in to the office during the week between Christmas and New Year, to check emails, post and answer-phone messages. This is a precaution, just in case any of you have genuine - as opposed to entirely imaginary - emergencies. (Not that there will be very much that we can do for you even if that is the case, given that the staff of every other agency we might need to deal with on your behalf are unlikely to return to work before they absolutely have to...)
PPS
Note that I also don't wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, in case I offend your religious principles. (Though I do hope you have both those things. Even if you don't call them that.)
PPPS I also don't mention that Connie and Josh have banned me from using my laptop over Christmas on the basis that we need to concentrate on bonding as a family. Connie says that she and Josh think it likely that, if we don't make more effort, Max and I will end up splitting up, in what she calls a classic "children leaving the nest" scenario.
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