Why do I complain about having no social life? Why? Just be careful what you wish for, that's all I can say.
"Don't forget tonight's fancy dress," says Max, while we're eating breakfast.
"What?" I say. "Fancy dress? Since when?"
Honestly, sometimes I'm sure he's got me well-insured and is trying to kill me off - though I suppose he wouldn't have attempted the Heimlich Manoeuvre if that was really the case. (Note to self: watch paranoia levels.)
Anyway, once I've finished choking on my toast, Max explains that Celia, his colleague, has decided that tonight's "little get-together" is to be themed. For God's sake.
"So what's the theme, then?" I say. "It'd better be something simple, seeing as you've left it until now to tell me about it."
"Um, no," he says. "Which is sort of why I couldn't bring myself to tell you. It's 'posh golf'."
Posh golf? What the hell is that? I suspect I become slightly hysterical at this point but, once I've stopped hyperventilating, Max admits that he has no idea what the stupid theme means either. Then he says that he's just going to to wear his suit, on the grounds that that's as posh as he ever gets.
"Oh, and we have to bring a hamper of food, as well," he says. "So we can have an indoor picnic, apparently."
I look at him as if he has lost his mind, before tearing upstairs and rifling through my wardrobe, which turns out, as expected, to contain no golf-related clothing whatsoever.
When my search area widens to encompass Josh's room, I do find an old fedora hat - which Max decides to appropriate - but, unsurprisingly, there's nothing to indicate that teenage boys have any more of a plus-four fetish than do their parents.
Meanwhile, Max has discovered, after a visit to the loft, that we don't possess anything that could pass for a hamper, either - which I could have told him if he'd asked.
Preparations are thus not going well at all, but Max won't hear of it when I suggest we tell Celia that we've suddenly gone down with the Winter Vomiting bug, not even when I point out that then we could stay in and watch The Killing on BBC4 instead - which would be a lot more fun, as far as I'm concerned. He says we have no option but to go, as this sort of socialising is unofficially required as part of his job.
So, after I've had several nervous breakdowns and have done more than my fair share of swearing, we make our way to Celia's dressed as Coco Chanel and an unidentified gangster - who is carrying a picnic in a Tesco carrier bag and doesn't even have a gun. This last may be a good thing, given that my mood is best described as murderous.
"I think we've missed the golf bit out completely," I say, as the taxi turns into Celia's road, but Max just shrugs as if it's of no consequence, which may be because he already knows we won't be the only ones. I just wish he'd told me about his bloody premonition, before I turned myself into a pearl-clad dog's dinner.
Half the guests haven't bothered to dress up at all, and even the couple who've made the most effort have missed the mark, unless they know something about golfers that I don't. They've come as a cowboy and the owner of the best little whorehouse in Northwick.
"Nice reference to Tiger Woods," says Max, who is scarily good at small talk, and obviously knows more about both golf and men's leisure activities than I do.
"Mmm," I say.
This scintillating comment is about as good as my contribution to the conversation gets. God, chit-chat is boring. And who the hell are these people? I ask Max, who says they're mainly clients, or people who work for companies related to his.
"The Beales brothers seem fascinating conversationalists, all of a sudden," I say. "I'd even be happy to see Steve Ellington walk in."
"Shut up," says Max, sotto voce. "This is how the cream of Northwick society amuses itself. Go and have another cigarette if you can't stand it."
I do as he suggests, and don't think anyone notices that I spend the rest of the evening in Celia's back garden but, even so, I'm pretty relieved when there's a beep outside, and Max comes to the back door to tell me that our taxi is here.
I thank Celia, (though I don't think I'm as enthusiastic about her husband's plus-fours as she would have liked), and then I attempt to do some air-kissing. Max is very good at it, and gets round all the female guests at lightning speed, but I really shouldn't have moved in to kiss the woman from the Chicken Ranch while talking at the same time.
"For God's sake, Mol," says Max, as he bundles me into the taxi. "Are you choking again?"
"Feather boa," I say. "Inhaled. Be all right in a minute."
The driver asks if I'm going to be sick, and has to be reassured that I've only had three G&Ts.
"Bit of a poor night, was it, then?" he says.
"Yes," I say. "All posh golf, Pimms, and talking about nothing. How's yours been?"
Max says I never know when to ask questions and when not to - but, honestly, the poor, poor taxi driver. It turns out that he had an awful experience with some students a few weeks ago, when he was driving them home from a night-club.
They were really drunk and made him drive them miles out of Northwick, claiming that they lived in one of the satellite villages.
"Then I felt a gun in my back, and one of them said, 'Give us all your money, now,'" he says. "I thought I was a goner."
"Oh, my God," I say. "What on earth happened then?"
"The guy started laughing, and said it was a joke. That he'd only stuck his finger between my shoulder blades. 'For a laugh,' he said it was."
Now the driver sounds as if he's the one who's choking, so I wait without saying anything. Small talk's not appropriate in every situation, after all. Then he blows his nose, clears his throat and continues as if he hadn't even paused for breath:
"Except it wasn't funny, was it?" he says. "This is the first night I've worked since then and, to be honest, I'm not at all sure I can handle it any more. Not everyone behaves like you people, and the money's not so good that it feels worth the risk of trying to handle the ones who don't."
Max leaves a big tip, which we can't afford, but he doesn't say much when we let ourselves into the house. He just goes straight to bed, leaving me downstairs, sitting on the sofa and thinking. Hard.
Why did I find the taxi driver more interesting, and easier to relate to than any of Max's colleagues? And why can't I do bloody small talk any more? I am obviously drawn to misery, and doomed to stay a caseworker forever.
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Friday, 4 February 2011
A Greek God's Odyssey, And The Start Of What May Prove To Be A Seven Year Itch
Well, The Boss and Vicky are back. Which is about as bad as it sounds, although I do try to be friendly. Initially.
"How was the hotel?" I say. "As luxurious as it looked on the website?"
When there is no answer, I wonder if I failed to speak the words aloud - until I catch a glimpse of Greg's face. There's a certain amount of disgusted eye-rolling going on.
"Are we fully-booked for surgery, Gregory?" says The Boss.
"Not sure, Andrew," says Greg. "Molly has the list - as usual, since she's the one who always accompanies you."
Andrew holds out his hand in my direction until I take the hint and put the surgery folder into it. He pauses for a moment as he scans the list of names - mainly the usual suspects, as per bloody usual - and then he turns to Greg, and says,
"Well, she must have other things to be getting on with, so you can do it instead, can't you?"
If Nan had heard that, she'd have said something about she being the cat's mother but, as she isn't, I decide it's probably safer not to mention it. Not that anyone's listening to me anyway. Vicky's checking out her fingernails, The Boss is tapping his foot, and Greg looks absolutely furious.
"No, Andrew, I can't," he says. "I'm accompanying Mr Young to his Housing Benefit appeal. As his Mackechnie's friend."
"Mackenzie's," I say, but no-one reacts at all. I'm rapidly approaching the verge of an existential crisis. I turn my back, pinch myself hard, and discover it hurts - which is vaguely reassuring. So at least I know I do exist - probably.
There's a stand-off occurring when I turn back to face the others: The Boss is scowling hard at Greg, who is studiously ignoring him. After what feels like hours, Andrew re-arranges his features and looks at Vicky. I've seen less imploring Spaniels.
"You'll do it, won't you, Vicks?" he says.
Vicky just shakes her head and carries on inspecting her nails, so eventually Andrew glares in my direction, gestures for me to follow him, and off we go to the Friday torture chamber. I'm a lucky, lucky woman.
Two hours later, after a series of demented enquiries from almost every nutter on our books, there's light at the end of the tunnel. We've just begun the very last appointment - with a Mrs Boswell whom I've never met before - when The Boss' mobile rings for a pre-scheduled radio interview.
He makes his excuses to Mrs B and leaves me to it, which takes rather longer than expected. And proves to be a whole lot more bizarre, even by normal surgery standards. And a bit itchier, too.
When I finally show Mrs Boswell out, she almost bumps into Greg, who's just coming in through the front door. He stops me before I start to climb the stairs.
"Where's Andrew?" he says. "Did he speak to you at all during surgery? Bloody idiot makes me so cross when he behaves like that. Makes me feel awkward too."
"He had to go and do that interview with Radio Northwick just before the end," I say. "Not that it made much difference seeing as he was hardly talking anyway. Left me with a really weird last case, though. That woman you just passed in the doorway."
"What did she want?" says Greg, so I tell him. When I've finished, his face lights up, and he says,
"Right, Mol. Payback time. Just keep quiet and follow my lead."
I can't bear to think about what's going to happen next, but all is calm when we first enter the office. Andrew's lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room, sipping a coffee, while Vicky sits next to him, gazing at him as if he was a Greek God.
Which he isn't, unless Greek Gods look half-asleep and are in the habit of kicking off their shoes to reveal an enormous hole in one of their socks.
"Bloody hell," he says. "You took your time, Greg."
"I was talking to Molly about that last case," says Greg. "Very tricky to handle. I hope you took precautions, Andrew?"
The Boss sits up a bit straighter and says,
"Precautions? What the hell are you talking about? Of course I didn't take precautions. Against what?"
Greg looks at me, then shakes his head and sighs.
"Bed bugs," he says. "Mrs Boswell's house is infested with them. Crawling. Whole family's covered in bites."
Andrew goes pale, while Vicky laughs.
"Don't be silly," she says. "No-one gets bed bugs these days. They're like... totally last century. Aren't they?"
She probably means that they were around when I was born, but I rise above the provocation. It's quite easy, actually, as I'm starting to enjoy myself now.
"That's what Molly and I thought," says Greg. "But Mol's already phoned Northwick Council and they've confirmed it. They've burned all Mrs Boswell's clothes and soft furnishings but that hasn't solved the problem - so they're going to have to burn her furniture next."
"Well, how the hell did she get bed bugs in the first place?" says Andrew.
"Bedding," says Greg, before pausing in an virtuoso example of perfect comic timing. "Hotel bedding, wasn't it, Mol?"
It wasn't, but I don't admit that. I just nod - several times, for emphasis.
"Shit," says Vicky. "Oh, my God."
"Well, I wouldn't worry about it too much," I say. "What's done is done. Oh, and Andrew, here's your jacket."
"Where was it?" he says, forgetting that he's not talking to me.
"You left it on a chair," I say. "Mrs Boswell was sitting on it. Catch!"
Even a Greek God couldn't have jumped higher than The Boss. Or moved away any faster. He knocks Vicky flying as he tries to put as much distance between himself and his jacket as he can. It's the highlight of the year so far.
Greg and I are still laughing about it when we close the office - in between bouts of panic and furious scratching, of course. For once, David Cameron's right when he says we're all in it together.
"How was the hotel?" I say. "As luxurious as it looked on the website?"
When there is no answer, I wonder if I failed to speak the words aloud - until I catch a glimpse of Greg's face. There's a certain amount of disgusted eye-rolling going on.
"Are we fully-booked for surgery, Gregory?" says The Boss.
"Not sure, Andrew," says Greg. "Molly has the list - as usual, since she's the one who always accompanies you."
Andrew holds out his hand in my direction until I take the hint and put the surgery folder into it. He pauses for a moment as he scans the list of names - mainly the usual suspects, as per bloody usual - and then he turns to Greg, and says,
"Well, she must have other things to be getting on with, so you can do it instead, can't you?"
If Nan had heard that, she'd have said something about she being the cat's mother but, as she isn't, I decide it's probably safer not to mention it. Not that anyone's listening to me anyway. Vicky's checking out her fingernails, The Boss is tapping his foot, and Greg looks absolutely furious.
"No, Andrew, I can't," he says. "I'm accompanying Mr Young to his Housing Benefit appeal. As his Mackechnie's friend."
"Mackenzie's," I say, but no-one reacts at all. I'm rapidly approaching the verge of an existential crisis. I turn my back, pinch myself hard, and discover it hurts - which is vaguely reassuring. So at least I know I do exist - probably.
There's a stand-off occurring when I turn back to face the others: The Boss is scowling hard at Greg, who is studiously ignoring him. After what feels like hours, Andrew re-arranges his features and looks at Vicky. I've seen less imploring Spaniels.
"You'll do it, won't you, Vicks?" he says.
Vicky just shakes her head and carries on inspecting her nails, so eventually Andrew glares in my direction, gestures for me to follow him, and off we go to the Friday torture chamber. I'm a lucky, lucky woman.
Two hours later, after a series of demented enquiries from almost every nutter on our books, there's light at the end of the tunnel. We've just begun the very last appointment - with a Mrs Boswell whom I've never met before - when The Boss' mobile rings for a pre-scheduled radio interview.
He makes his excuses to Mrs B and leaves me to it, which takes rather longer than expected. And proves to be a whole lot more bizarre, even by normal surgery standards. And a bit itchier, too.
When I finally show Mrs Boswell out, she almost bumps into Greg, who's just coming in through the front door. He stops me before I start to climb the stairs.
"Where's Andrew?" he says. "Did he speak to you at all during surgery? Bloody idiot makes me so cross when he behaves like that. Makes me feel awkward too."
"He had to go and do that interview with Radio Northwick just before the end," I say. "Not that it made much difference seeing as he was hardly talking anyway. Left me with a really weird last case, though. That woman you just passed in the doorway."
"What did she want?" says Greg, so I tell him. When I've finished, his face lights up, and he says,
"Right, Mol. Payback time. Just keep quiet and follow my lead."
I can't bear to think about what's going to happen next, but all is calm when we first enter the office. Andrew's lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room, sipping a coffee, while Vicky sits next to him, gazing at him as if he was a Greek God.
Which he isn't, unless Greek Gods look half-asleep and are in the habit of kicking off their shoes to reveal an enormous hole in one of their socks.
"Bloody hell," he says. "You took your time, Greg."
"I was talking to Molly about that last case," says Greg. "Very tricky to handle. I hope you took precautions, Andrew?"
The Boss sits up a bit straighter and says,
"Precautions? What the hell are you talking about? Of course I didn't take precautions. Against what?"
Greg looks at me, then shakes his head and sighs.
"Bed bugs," he says. "Mrs Boswell's house is infested with them. Crawling. Whole family's covered in bites."
Andrew goes pale, while Vicky laughs.
"Don't be silly," she says. "No-one gets bed bugs these days. They're like... totally last century. Aren't they?"
She probably means that they were around when I was born, but I rise above the provocation. It's quite easy, actually, as I'm starting to enjoy myself now.
"That's what Molly and I thought," says Greg. "But Mol's already phoned Northwick Council and they've confirmed it. They've burned all Mrs Boswell's clothes and soft furnishings but that hasn't solved the problem - so they're going to have to burn her furniture next."
"Well, how the hell did she get bed bugs in the first place?" says Andrew.
"Bedding," says Greg, before pausing in an virtuoso example of perfect comic timing. "Hotel bedding, wasn't it, Mol?"
It wasn't, but I don't admit that. I just nod - several times, for emphasis.
"Shit," says Vicky. "Oh, my God."
"Well, I wouldn't worry about it too much," I say. "What's done is done. Oh, and Andrew, here's your jacket."
"Where was it?" he says, forgetting that he's not talking to me.
"You left it on a chair," I say. "Mrs Boswell was sitting on it. Catch!"
Even a Greek God couldn't have jumped higher than The Boss. Or moved away any faster. He knocks Vicky flying as he tries to put as much distance between himself and his jacket as he can. It's the highlight of the year so far.
Greg and I are still laughing about it when we close the office - in between bouts of panic and furious scratching, of course. For once, David Cameron's right when he says we're all in it together.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Jargon, Hot Babes And Awfully Short-Lived Optimism.
I'm in a really good mood this morning, mainly due to the success of my first undercover mission.
Not only have I established that Max's company isn't hiding its profits from the Inland Revenue - mainly because it isn't actually making any - but there's another gold star in the diary. And I can confirm that the size of the company one works for doesn't necessarily relate to other things either.
In fact, I'm so full of endorphins that I don't even get upset when I receive my first list of local vacancies from Trovit Jobs, athough I can't understand what any of the job titles mean. What the hell is an Riser Analyst? Or a PHP Developer?
I don't let my ignorance phase me, though. Why should I? It's not as if not having a clue ever bothers The Boss, after all. And look how much more than me he earns - despite his moaning.
I devise a clever plan of action, which involves jotting down all the unfamiliar jargon in readiness for the next time I have to phone one of the officers at Northwick Council on behalf of a constituent. One of them will definitely be able to translate - seeing as they're the undisputed experts in incomprehensible ways to explain perfectly simple concepts.
Not that I get a chance to put my plan into action today, as all the usual suspects must have died, or something equally pleasing. They're all conspicuous by their absence, so Greg and I get loads of proper casework done for a change and, by the time we close for the day, we're both feeling quite flushed with success (as opposed to hormones or panic).
It's not even raining when I make my way home from work, so I can concentrate on sucking in my stomach while I walk, to make up for not having done any exercises since the exercise ball catastrophe. I shall be super-fit by the time Max and I earn our next gold star - which will hopefully be fairly soon, given that we've remembered that marital sex is not a complete chore.
Recalling last night's events has put a big smile on my face by the time I turn into our street and nearly get run over by a total idiot in a little red convertible, of the type that Max always calls a "hairdresser's car."
I shout something vaguely abusive and have just held up two fingers when the car pulls in and parks just beyond our house. Oops.
And double oops - as the driver's door swings open and Ellen gets out, showing far more thigh than necessary. As per bloody usual.
I peer towards her in an attempt to spot cellulite, and have just been rewarded by the sight of a dark blobby patch, when the passenger door opens and Max almost falls out onto the pavement.
"Holy shit," I say, as Ellen spots me and shouts,
"Molly! Hi! Look what I picked up on my way home." She does one of those infuriating giggles, then says, "Your husband! So I thought I'd give him a cheap thrill and take him for a spin in my hot new car. What d'you think? Isn't she a babe?"
Gah. Ga-a-ah. And why do supposedly adult women feel the need to use the words, "hot" and "babe"?
"I wouldn't know," I say, immediately sounding like a repressed introvert who never has sex. And who definitely has no sense of humour. "I don't know many hot babes with whom to make a comparison."
"Oh, you are funny, Molly," says Ellen. "You always make me laugh."
I don't ask whether she normally laughs with me, or at me. I'm too busy glaring at Max, who looks awfully red in the face, and is very windswept. He really needs to wear his glasses more often, as he obviously hasn't spotted my expression.
"God, that was fun," he says. "Great, isn't she, Mol?"
She? She? Who or what are we talking about - Ellen, or the bloody car? I'm still trying to decide when Max says goodbye to Ellen and walks towards me.
"That's the way to live, isn't it?" he says. "I'd love to get one like that."
I can't help myself. Before I know it, my good mood has evaporated and I lose control of my tongue.
"Yeah," I say. "And you could grow a pony-tail to go with it, too. Then your mid-life crisis would be complete."
Someone seriously needs to invent a gag which activates automatically when one's blood pressure hits a certain level. It might be the saving of my marriage. If that same someone could also invent a way to make nymphomaniac neighbours with more money than sense disappear via telekinesis, taking their bloody sports cars with them.
Now I feel like the Volvo of women all over again. A hot babe I am not. Apart from this bloody hot flush, which I think may be rage.
Not only have I established that Max's company isn't hiding its profits from the Inland Revenue - mainly because it isn't actually making any - but there's another gold star in the diary. And I can confirm that the size of the company one works for doesn't necessarily relate to other things either.
In fact, I'm so full of endorphins that I don't even get upset when I receive my first list of local vacancies from Trovit Jobs, athough I can't understand what any of the job titles mean. What the hell is an Riser Analyst? Or a PHP Developer?
I don't let my ignorance phase me, though. Why should I? It's not as if not having a clue ever bothers The Boss, after all. And look how much more than me he earns - despite his moaning.
I devise a clever plan of action, which involves jotting down all the unfamiliar jargon in readiness for the next time I have to phone one of the officers at Northwick Council on behalf of a constituent. One of them will definitely be able to translate - seeing as they're the undisputed experts in incomprehensible ways to explain perfectly simple concepts.
Not that I get a chance to put my plan into action today, as all the usual suspects must have died, or something equally pleasing. They're all conspicuous by their absence, so Greg and I get loads of proper casework done for a change and, by the time we close for the day, we're both feeling quite flushed with success (as opposed to hormones or panic).
It's not even raining when I make my way home from work, so I can concentrate on sucking in my stomach while I walk, to make up for not having done any exercises since the exercise ball catastrophe. I shall be super-fit by the time Max and I earn our next gold star - which will hopefully be fairly soon, given that we've remembered that marital sex is not a complete chore.
Recalling last night's events has put a big smile on my face by the time I turn into our street and nearly get run over by a total idiot in a little red convertible, of the type that Max always calls a "hairdresser's car."
I shout something vaguely abusive and have just held up two fingers when the car pulls in and parks just beyond our house. Oops.
And double oops - as the driver's door swings open and Ellen gets out, showing far more thigh than necessary. As per bloody usual.
I peer towards her in an attempt to spot cellulite, and have just been rewarded by the sight of a dark blobby patch, when the passenger door opens and Max almost falls out onto the pavement.
"Holy shit," I say, as Ellen spots me and shouts,
"Molly! Hi! Look what I picked up on my way home." She does one of those infuriating giggles, then says, "Your husband! So I thought I'd give him a cheap thrill and take him for a spin in my hot new car. What d'you think? Isn't she a babe?"
Gah. Ga-a-ah. And why do supposedly adult women feel the need to use the words, "hot" and "babe"?
"I wouldn't know," I say, immediately sounding like a repressed introvert who never has sex. And who definitely has no sense of humour. "I don't know many hot babes with whom to make a comparison."
"Oh, you are funny, Molly," says Ellen. "You always make me laugh."
I don't ask whether she normally laughs with me, or at me. I'm too busy glaring at Max, who looks awfully red in the face, and is very windswept. He really needs to wear his glasses more often, as he obviously hasn't spotted my expression.
"God, that was fun," he says. "Great, isn't she, Mol?"
She? She? Who or what are we talking about - Ellen, or the bloody car? I'm still trying to decide when Max says goodbye to Ellen and walks towards me.
"That's the way to live, isn't it?" he says. "I'd love to get one like that."
I can't help myself. Before I know it, my good mood has evaporated and I lose control of my tongue.
"Yeah," I say. "And you could grow a pony-tail to go with it, too. Then your mid-life crisis would be complete."
Someone seriously needs to invent a gag which activates automatically when one's blood pressure hits a certain level. It might be the saving of my marriage. If that same someone could also invent a way to make nymphomaniac neighbours with more money than sense disappear via telekinesis, taking their bloody sports cars with them.
Now I feel like the Volvo of women all over again. A hot babe I am not. Apart from this bloody hot flush, which I think may be rage.
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
The Myth Of Chocolate, Undercover Operations And Does Size Matter?
"Thanks for the photo," says Johnny, in his first email of the day. "I miss you. Though I don't much like the hat you're wearing."
"It's a political statement," I say. "I am taking on all the big tax-dodging companies."
"Oh," he says, "So I take it you won't be sleeping with me, then?"
Bugger. I hadn't thought of that. I am doomed to have no sex-life between now and death. Which sometimes can't come soon enough, especially when Miss Chambers has already phoned twice this morning. I'd quite happily pepper-spray her, now I come to think of it.
"How many millions in dirty oil money do your lot hide away, then?" I say. "Just out of interest."
"I couldn't possibly comment," says Johnny. "To quote you and your lot. But you could always go under cover and investigate me as part of your campaign. While wearing no clothes, of course. Anything less - or rather, more - would immediately make me suspicious and you'd be rumbled before you'd discovered anything at all."
Honestly, has Johnny no idea how distracting that sort of thinking is? I do wish Max would stay awake at night a bit more often. In fact, it's probably his fault I am at the mercy of a smooth-talking oil baron, so I don't need to feel quite so horribly guilty. A woman has needs, after all. And not for chocolate, either - no matter what Cadbury and Lindt may try to claim.
Anyway, first I'm a bit distracted by the image Johnny's conjured up, and then the phones go mad before I can reply to him, so my needs go unmet, as usual, while I deal with Miss Emms and her psychotic guinea pig, and Edmund Beales' rapidly-increasing obsession with all things high-visibility. I bloody well hope no *CPNs are going to be made redundant, that's all I can say.
The usual suspects take up so much of the afternoon that, by the time I send Johnny another email saying, "I'm back - where are you?", I get an Out-Of-Office reply advising me that he's now en route to an ex-Soviet Union country whose name I can't even begin to pronounce. And where woolly hats would definitely be an absolute necessity - even when naked and working undercover.
I hold that thought while Greg shuts down his computer and rushes off to a branch meeting. Then I put my hat back on, and lock up - while praying that Josh will be out for the evening, and that Max will actually stay awake for more than five minutes.
You never know, investigating his company might pay off, too. Seeing as it could also be avoiding tax - even if on a much smaller scale than Johnny's.
Talking of relative size, I wonder if the fact that Max is tall and Johnny isn't has anything to do with why one of them is so much more of a go-getter than the other? As well as signifying other, less immediately-obvious (albeit rather important) physical differences?
Maybe I'll start my revolution at home. Just until I get the hang of it.
*CPNs - Community Psychiatric Nurses. There aren't enough of them to manage the usual suspects. Not by a long chalk.
"It's a political statement," I say. "I am taking on all the big tax-dodging companies."
"Oh," he says, "So I take it you won't be sleeping with me, then?"
Bugger. I hadn't thought of that. I am doomed to have no sex-life between now and death. Which sometimes can't come soon enough, especially when Miss Chambers has already phoned twice this morning. I'd quite happily pepper-spray her, now I come to think of it.
"How many millions in dirty oil money do your lot hide away, then?" I say. "Just out of interest."
"I couldn't possibly comment," says Johnny. "To quote you and your lot. But you could always go under cover and investigate me as part of your campaign. While wearing no clothes, of course. Anything less - or rather, more - would immediately make me suspicious and you'd be rumbled before you'd discovered anything at all."
Honestly, has Johnny no idea how distracting that sort of thinking is? I do wish Max would stay awake at night a bit more often. In fact, it's probably his fault I am at the mercy of a smooth-talking oil baron, so I don't need to feel quite so horribly guilty. A woman has needs, after all. And not for chocolate, either - no matter what Cadbury and Lindt may try to claim.
Anyway, first I'm a bit distracted by the image Johnny's conjured up, and then the phones go mad before I can reply to him, so my needs go unmet, as usual, while I deal with Miss Emms and her psychotic guinea pig, and Edmund Beales' rapidly-increasing obsession with all things high-visibility. I bloody well hope no *CPNs are going to be made redundant, that's all I can say.
The usual suspects take up so much of the afternoon that, by the time I send Johnny another email saying, "I'm back - where are you?", I get an Out-Of-Office reply advising me that he's now en route to an ex-Soviet Union country whose name I can't even begin to pronounce. And where woolly hats would definitely be an absolute necessity - even when naked and working undercover.
I hold that thought while Greg shuts down his computer and rushes off to a branch meeting. Then I put my hat back on, and lock up - while praying that Josh will be out for the evening, and that Max will actually stay awake for more than five minutes.
You never know, investigating his company might pay off, too. Seeing as it could also be avoiding tax - even if on a much smaller scale than Johnny's.
Talking of relative size, I wonder if the fact that Max is tall and Johnny isn't has anything to do with why one of them is so much more of a go-getter than the other? As well as signifying other, less immediately-obvious (albeit rather important) physical differences?
Maybe I'll start my revolution at home. Just until I get the hang of it.
*CPNs - Community Psychiatric Nurses. There aren't enough of them to manage the usual suspects. Not by a long chalk.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
In Which Woolly-Headed Thinking Gets Me Absolutely Nowhere Fairly Quickly.
Bugger. I thought I'd got my mojo back there for a minute, thanks in no small part to last night's Newsnight. By which I don't mean Jeremy Paxman's possibly-accidental use of the Jeremy Hunt word, either.
"What the hell are you wearing on your head?" says Greg, when I walk into the office this morning.
"A woolly hat," I say. "As must be obvious."
Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that boy. He's as blind as a bat when he wears those coloured contact lenses.
"I can see that," he says. "But why are you wearing it? It's horrible."
"Because woolly hats are what activists are wearing now," I say. "And, as of last night, I count myself among them. And, anyway, I've only borrowed this from Josh until I can learn how to knit my own."
Greg stares at me, as I pause for effect before making my surprise announcement:
"I have got my political drive back."
"Let's see how long that lasts," he says, as the phones start ringing.
Then he steals my hat and throws it on top of the bookshelves while I'm stuck listening to Richard Levinson who, as usual, insists on reading parts of the Daily Mail aloud.
Despite this provocation, I manage to resist falling prey to cynicism until lunchtime, when Greg suggests we make an executive decision to turn the phones off and take our lunch-breaks at the same time.
"Want to go for a quick drinky-boo?" he says, before retrieving my hat and passing it to me.
I'm sure there's no need for him to hold it between thumb and forefinger, as if it is something long-dead, but Greg takes no notice whatsoever of my scowl of disapproval. He just keeps talking:
"We can wash away the general hideousness of the mad, the bad, and the criminally insane - before we have to talk to them all over again this afternoon."
"Yes," I say. "But I have to go and buy some toothpaste first, now we've finally been paid. My mouth tastes like hell. I don't think salt is half as effective as Mum claimed it was when she had to use it to clean her teeth during the war."
"Well, d'uh," says Greg. "Of course it isn't any good. Otherwise Colgate wouldn't have made all that money, would they? Anyway, you go to Boots, while I go and get the drinks in. But hurry up."
He looks incredulous when I tell him that I am not going to Boots. And even more incredulous when I ask him to remind me to call Vodafone when I get back to the office - to cancel my contract.
"Huh?" he says. "Why? You're always telling me that Vodafone is the only network that gets a signal in the depths of Easemount. How are you going to phone 999 if you run into Steve Ellington during the next public meeting there? And you love Boots and your Advantage card. You won't get points like that anywhere else, you know."
Greg pauses to let what he obviously intends to be a killer blow sink in, then continues when he sees that I remain resolutely unmoved:
"And I wanted you to pick me up one of their meal deals while you were there. Why would you want to deprive me of my lunch, Mol? Haven't I suffered enough this morning? Why would you do this to me? Why? Why?"
Oh, for God's sake. Greg sounds just like Josh when he gets going.
"Because," I say,"Boots are cheating this country out of millions or squillions of pounds in tax -"
"Allegedly," says Greg, looking around nervously. He really does lack revolutionary spirit.
"Coward," I say. "And get this: I'm sure I read somewhere that the ex-Chairman of Boots is going to be in charge of commissioning for NHS Direct. Probably thanks to Andrew Bloody Lansley. So we we can't let pensioners and young people fight this battle on our behalf - we have to join in and make our views known. Although I am a bit worried I might be allergic to CS gas, given my tendency to Miss Chambers-related urticaria."
"You're bound to be," says Greg. "You react to everything. But hang on a minute, Mol - what's with the royal 'we'? Boots are the only people who stock my hair-gel. And what about Topshop? I bet you haven't thought about that!"
Oh, bugger, I haven't. Until now. Sometimes Greg is so annoying. Where else am I going to find adult clothes that don't absolutely drown me? Marks and Sparks might claim to sell a size 8 but it'd be labelled a size 14 in Topshop. And it'd be called a one-person festival tent in Millets. There's nothing for it, but some creative thinking.
"I shall have to make all my own clothes, then," I say. "Once I learn how to sew, seeing as Mum never taught me how to do that either. I do wish she hadn't been a bloody feminist. A raised consciousness is of no practical use to anyone."
Greg looks at me as if I am insane, but then he didn't have to spend his teenage evenings waiting hand and foot on a bunch of bra-less women drinking wine and eating loads of biscuits while discussing how their lives had been blighted by their husbands and children. (The 1970s weren't half as much fun if you fell into one of those two categories.)
"Anyway," I say, getting a grip on myself. "I'll deal with Philip Green once I've found an alternative source of freakishly-small outfits, seeing as you can get arrested for not wearing any clothes. In the meantime, I'll start with Boots and Vodafone. And so should you. Sod the meal deals, and bugger your hair gel, Greg. This is time to make a stand on behalf of all the working people in this country."
Sometimes I think Pete Carew might be right when he tries to persuade me that I'd make a much better MP than The Boss. Imagine me on an extra-large soap box right this minute!
"Except all those who'll lose their jobs if UKuncut succeed in closing down the shops that employ them, of course," says Greg.
Now I've had three gins, half of Greg's (really horrible) tuna and cucumber meal deal, and the arguments for and against revolution still aren't looking any bloody clearer. Sometimes strategic thinking isn't at all what it's cracked up to be.
"What the hell are you wearing on your head?" says Greg, when I walk into the office this morning.
"A woolly hat," I say. "As must be obvious."
Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that boy. He's as blind as a bat when he wears those coloured contact lenses.
"I can see that," he says. "But why are you wearing it? It's horrible."
"Because woolly hats are what activists are wearing now," I say. "And, as of last night, I count myself among them. And, anyway, I've only borrowed this from Josh until I can learn how to knit my own."
Greg stares at me, as I pause for effect before making my surprise announcement:
"I have got my political drive back."
"Let's see how long that lasts," he says, as the phones start ringing.
Then he steals my hat and throws it on top of the bookshelves while I'm stuck listening to Richard Levinson who, as usual, insists on reading parts of the Daily Mail aloud.
Despite this provocation, I manage to resist falling prey to cynicism until lunchtime, when Greg suggests we make an executive decision to turn the phones off and take our lunch-breaks at the same time.
"Want to go for a quick drinky-boo?" he says, before retrieving my hat and passing it to me.
I'm sure there's no need for him to hold it between thumb and forefinger, as if it is something long-dead, but Greg takes no notice whatsoever of my scowl of disapproval. He just keeps talking:
"We can wash away the general hideousness of the mad, the bad, and the criminally insane - before we have to talk to them all over again this afternoon."
"Yes," I say. "But I have to go and buy some toothpaste first, now we've finally been paid. My mouth tastes like hell. I don't think salt is half as effective as Mum claimed it was when she had to use it to clean her teeth during the war."
"Well, d'uh," says Greg. "Of course it isn't any good. Otherwise Colgate wouldn't have made all that money, would they? Anyway, you go to Boots, while I go and get the drinks in. But hurry up."
He looks incredulous when I tell him that I am not going to Boots. And even more incredulous when I ask him to remind me to call Vodafone when I get back to the office - to cancel my contract.
"Huh?" he says. "Why? You're always telling me that Vodafone is the only network that gets a signal in the depths of Easemount. How are you going to phone 999 if you run into Steve Ellington during the next public meeting there? And you love Boots and your Advantage card. You won't get points like that anywhere else, you know."
Greg pauses to let what he obviously intends to be a killer blow sink in, then continues when he sees that I remain resolutely unmoved:
"And I wanted you to pick me up one of their meal deals while you were there. Why would you want to deprive me of my lunch, Mol? Haven't I suffered enough this morning? Why would you do this to me? Why? Why?"
Oh, for God's sake. Greg sounds just like Josh when he gets going.
"Because," I say,"Boots are cheating this country out of millions or squillions of pounds in tax -"
"Allegedly," says Greg, looking around nervously. He really does lack revolutionary spirit.
"Coward," I say. "And get this: I'm sure I read somewhere that the ex-Chairman of Boots is going to be in charge of commissioning for NHS Direct. Probably thanks to Andrew Bloody Lansley. So we we can't let pensioners and young people fight this battle on our behalf - we have to join in and make our views known. Although I am a bit worried I might be allergic to CS gas, given my tendency to Miss Chambers-related urticaria."
"You're bound to be," says Greg. "You react to everything. But hang on a minute, Mol - what's with the royal 'we'? Boots are the only people who stock my hair-gel. And what about Topshop? I bet you haven't thought about that!"
Oh, bugger, I haven't. Until now. Sometimes Greg is so annoying. Where else am I going to find adult clothes that don't absolutely drown me? Marks and Sparks might claim to sell a size 8 but it'd be labelled a size 14 in Topshop. And it'd be called a one-person festival tent in Millets. There's nothing for it, but some creative thinking.
"I shall have to make all my own clothes, then," I say. "Once I learn how to sew, seeing as Mum never taught me how to do that either. I do wish she hadn't been a bloody feminist. A raised consciousness is of no practical use to anyone."
Greg looks at me as if I am insane, but then he didn't have to spend his teenage evenings waiting hand and foot on a bunch of bra-less women drinking wine and eating loads of biscuits while discussing how their lives had been blighted by their husbands and children. (The 1970s weren't half as much fun if you fell into one of those two categories.)
"Anyway," I say, getting a grip on myself. "I'll deal with Philip Green once I've found an alternative source of freakishly-small outfits, seeing as you can get arrested for not wearing any clothes. In the meantime, I'll start with Boots and Vodafone. And so should you. Sod the meal deals, and bugger your hair gel, Greg. This is time to make a stand on behalf of all the working people in this country."
Sometimes I think Pete Carew might be right when he tries to persuade me that I'd make a much better MP than The Boss. Imagine me on an extra-large soap box right this minute!
"Except all those who'll lose their jobs if UKuncut succeed in closing down the shops that employ them, of course," says Greg.
Now I've had three gins, half of Greg's (really horrible) tuna and cucumber meal deal, and the arguments for and against revolution still aren't looking any bloody clearer. Sometimes strategic thinking isn't at all what it's cracked up to be.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Mad MPs, Saintly Constituents, And The All-Too Brief Career Of Professor Molly Bennett.
Ouf, I'm sure the number of constituents contacting us has already doubled since the cuts started. People are terrified of the effect the changes are having on every aspect of their lives, from health to jobs.
Talking of which, the latest spate of redundancies in Northwick doesn't augur too well for my plan to find myself a new career. Which seems even more urgent today, because The Boss has stopped speaking to me again.
This doesn't usually matter when he's in Westminster as, when he's in a sulk, he doesn't normally count conversations where he can't see my face as talking - but today he's not even willing to speak to me on the phone. Every time he calls and I answer, he hangs up on me. It's hard not to take offence after it happens for about the fifth time in the last ten minutes.
Greg looks at the phone when it next rings, then raises his eyebrows and says,
"Private line again, Mol. Want me to try answering it this time?"
"Yes, please," I say. "Maybe you can tell if it's a fault on the line and not just Andrew being an idiot."
Greg picks up the receiver, listens for a second and then says,
"Oh, yes - hi, Andrew. I'm glad it's you - we thought there was something wrong with this line. It keeps ringing and then no-one speaks."
There's another pause, and then he says, "It's the first time you've called? Well, okay - yes, I'll fax it now. Ring me back when you get it."
Greg says that the mystery hang-ups must have been due to a problem at the exchange, as Andrew sounded "fairly convincingly innocent."
So I calm down and stop swearing about passive aggression, until there's yet another call on the private line and I pick up the phone. To be met with silence, except for Marie-Louise's voice in the background saying, "Andrew, what about this?" quickly followed by the dialling tone.
"So much for blaming BT," I say to Greg. "For once, it's definitely not their fault. Andrew's just playing silly buggers again."
Greg pulls a face and sends me a link to Trovit Jobs as an admission of defeat. I register my details on the site, though I have absolutely no idea what sort of work I'm seeking. It's the same problem as with my CV - there's no neat way of summarising all the disparate stuff I do at work. Or not without sounding as if I am a psychiatric nurse, anyway.
Eventually, I just select anything and everything that could possibly be relevant, and then tick the box to confirm that I want to receive regular emails advising me of all the vacancies that might suit my (admittedly-peculiar) skill-set.
"You're learning the pointless jargon already," says Greg. "If you don't watch out, you'll soon be sounding as if you work for Northwick Council, and not for a bad-tempered MP with an unpredictable nature."
This prospect worries me so much that I decide I'd better distract myself by doing some proper work, so I phone Sheila Renshaw, to check how things are going with her.
The call quickly puts my problems into stark perspective. Sheila sounds terrible: exhausted and uncharacteristically tearful; and her usual optimism to seems to have gone completely AWOL.
"I don't think I can cope much longer," she says. "I can't bear to watch him suffer like this, and I really think he needs to be in hospital too."
Sheila's husband, Fred, is much older than she is, but there's no doubting it was - and still is - a love match. She adores him, even though she says that Alzheimers has reduced him to a shell of his former self.
"How many hours of help are you getting now?" I ask, but I can't hear Sheila's answer at all. It's obliterated by a loud, drawn-out sound. I've never heard anything like it, but it makes my stomach feel really funny.
"What on earth was that?" I say. "Did you get a dog for Christmas, or something?"
"No," says Sheila. "That's Fred. He started doing it about a month ago and - "
The rest of that sentence is also rendered impossible to hear by another of Fred's seemingly-random noises, which sound like a very protracted, "Urrrrrr."
"Does he do that all day?" I say.
"Yes," says Sheila. "And all night - the poor, poor man."
Honestly, the woman is a saint. Having to listen to that agonised sound would drive me insane with helplessness within an hour, and yet - as usual - Sheila's only thought is for her husband's pain. I have no idea how I'd cope if Max ever developed such an horrible illness, and I can't even bear to think about how long he'd be able to put up with me if I was the one affected.
Carers have been having a terrible time for years, and yet it seems that things may be about to get even worse, if the Riven Vincent case is just the tip of the iceberg, as I bet it bloody well is. What scares me the most is how the cuts are going to affect all the children caring for sick or disabled parents. They're the most frequently overlooked - and the least likely to know how or where to seek help. If there's any help left, that is - once the cuts have done their work.
It's a horrible thought and, by the time I get home from work, I'm starting to see why Josh says he hates change so much. It is a bit unnerving - and the global picture doesn't help. Events seem to be spiralling out of control everywhere, so I'm expecting Josh to object when I switch on the TV in time for Channel 4 News.
He doesn't. For once, he's viewing change as a force for good.
"Go, Egypt, go," he says, as soon as some footage of Cairo appears. Max doesn't reply, but gives me a funny look, which I return in kind.
"What are you two up to?" says Josh, who never misses anything. "The Egyptians are bringing a repressive regime to an end, and you should be cheering them on. Why are you both pulling such freaked-out faces? What is wrong with people your age? Holly's parents were acting just like you two the other night when the riots started."
"Well, we can't help thinking about the Shah of Iran," says Max, at the same time as I say,
"Ayatollah Khomeini."
Josh is quite obviously none the wiser, so then I end up giving a political lecture about the Iranian Revolution and the kind of people who can step in to fill a vacuum. I think I keep it pretty snappy - as at least he is still awake by the time I get to the creation of the Islamic Republic, even if his father isn't.
But I don't care about Max's snoring, for once, because Josh has accidentally solved my career problem: I shall apply for a job teaching at a university, and become an esteemed expert in Recent Political History.
I spend the next half an hour signing my name on the back of an old Select Committee Report as Professor Molly Bennett - until Josh tells me that he's checked online and that all the posts in Politics departments have already been snapped up by MPs who lost their seats.
Probably ones like The Boss, who have never even heard of Gilmour or Tawney despite the fact that both were required reading if you wanted to get a degree in Politics in the olden days. Ignorance continues to be its own reward.
Talking of which, the latest spate of redundancies in Northwick doesn't augur too well for my plan to find myself a new career. Which seems even more urgent today, because The Boss has stopped speaking to me again.
This doesn't usually matter when he's in Westminster as, when he's in a sulk, he doesn't normally count conversations where he can't see my face as talking - but today he's not even willing to speak to me on the phone. Every time he calls and I answer, he hangs up on me. It's hard not to take offence after it happens for about the fifth time in the last ten minutes.
Greg looks at the phone when it next rings, then raises his eyebrows and says,
"Private line again, Mol. Want me to try answering it this time?"
"Yes, please," I say. "Maybe you can tell if it's a fault on the line and not just Andrew being an idiot."
Greg picks up the receiver, listens for a second and then says,
"Oh, yes - hi, Andrew. I'm glad it's you - we thought there was something wrong with this line. It keeps ringing and then no-one speaks."
There's another pause, and then he says, "It's the first time you've called? Well, okay - yes, I'll fax it now. Ring me back when you get it."
Greg says that the mystery hang-ups must have been due to a problem at the exchange, as Andrew sounded "fairly convincingly innocent."
So I calm down and stop swearing about passive aggression, until there's yet another call on the private line and I pick up the phone. To be met with silence, except for Marie-Louise's voice in the background saying, "Andrew, what about this?" quickly followed by the dialling tone.
"So much for blaming BT," I say to Greg. "For once, it's definitely not their fault. Andrew's just playing silly buggers again."
Greg pulls a face and sends me a link to Trovit Jobs as an admission of defeat. I register my details on the site, though I have absolutely no idea what sort of work I'm seeking. It's the same problem as with my CV - there's no neat way of summarising all the disparate stuff I do at work. Or not without sounding as if I am a psychiatric nurse, anyway.
Eventually, I just select anything and everything that could possibly be relevant, and then tick the box to confirm that I want to receive regular emails advising me of all the vacancies that might suit my (admittedly-peculiar) skill-set.
"You're learning the pointless jargon already," says Greg. "If you don't watch out, you'll soon be sounding as if you work for Northwick Council, and not for a bad-tempered MP with an unpredictable nature."
This prospect worries me so much that I decide I'd better distract myself by doing some proper work, so I phone Sheila Renshaw, to check how things are going with her.
The call quickly puts my problems into stark perspective. Sheila sounds terrible: exhausted and uncharacteristically tearful; and her usual optimism to seems to have gone completely AWOL.
"I don't think I can cope much longer," she says. "I can't bear to watch him suffer like this, and I really think he needs to be in hospital too."
Sheila's husband, Fred, is much older than she is, but there's no doubting it was - and still is - a love match. She adores him, even though she says that Alzheimers has reduced him to a shell of his former self.
"How many hours of help are you getting now?" I ask, but I can't hear Sheila's answer at all. It's obliterated by a loud, drawn-out sound. I've never heard anything like it, but it makes my stomach feel really funny.
"What on earth was that?" I say. "Did you get a dog for Christmas, or something?"
"No," says Sheila. "That's Fred. He started doing it about a month ago and - "
The rest of that sentence is also rendered impossible to hear by another of Fred's seemingly-random noises, which sound like a very protracted, "Urrrrrr."
"Does he do that all day?" I say.
"Yes," says Sheila. "And all night - the poor, poor man."
Honestly, the woman is a saint. Having to listen to that agonised sound would drive me insane with helplessness within an hour, and yet - as usual - Sheila's only thought is for her husband's pain. I have no idea how I'd cope if Max ever developed such an horrible illness, and I can't even bear to think about how long he'd be able to put up with me if I was the one affected.
Carers have been having a terrible time for years, and yet it seems that things may be about to get even worse, if the Riven Vincent case is just the tip of the iceberg, as I bet it bloody well is. What scares me the most is how the cuts are going to affect all the children caring for sick or disabled parents. They're the most frequently overlooked - and the least likely to know how or where to seek help. If there's any help left, that is - once the cuts have done their work.
It's a horrible thought and, by the time I get home from work, I'm starting to see why Josh says he hates change so much. It is a bit unnerving - and the global picture doesn't help. Events seem to be spiralling out of control everywhere, so I'm expecting Josh to object when I switch on the TV in time for Channel 4 News.
He doesn't. For once, he's viewing change as a force for good.
"Go, Egypt, go," he says, as soon as some footage of Cairo appears. Max doesn't reply, but gives me a funny look, which I return in kind.
"What are you two up to?" says Josh, who never misses anything. "The Egyptians are bringing a repressive regime to an end, and you should be cheering them on. Why are you both pulling such freaked-out faces? What is wrong with people your age? Holly's parents were acting just like you two the other night when the riots started."
"Well, we can't help thinking about the Shah of Iran," says Max, at the same time as I say,
"Ayatollah Khomeini."
Josh is quite obviously none the wiser, so then I end up giving a political lecture about the Iranian Revolution and the kind of people who can step in to fill a vacuum. I think I keep it pretty snappy - as at least he is still awake by the time I get to the creation of the Islamic Republic, even if his father isn't.
But I don't care about Max's snoring, for once, because Josh has accidentally solved my career problem: I shall apply for a job teaching at a university, and become an esteemed expert in Recent Political History.
I spend the next half an hour signing my name on the back of an old Select Committee Report as Professor Molly Bennett - until Josh tells me that he's checked online and that all the posts in Politics departments have already been snapped up by MPs who lost their seats.
Probably ones like The Boss, who have never even heard of Gilmour or Tawney despite the fact that both were required reading if you wanted to get a degree in Politics in the olden days. Ignorance continues to be its own reward.
Sunday, 30 January 2011
A Novel Approach To Sex Education, And The Reason Why Josh May Have Chosen Film Studies
Honestly, they should make teaching a spectator sport. It'd be so entertaining. Max thinks it's a great idea, too - but only because of what we discover while we're trying to make a democratic family decision about what to watch on TV.
Josh is flicking through all the programmes available on catch-up, none of which appeal to me in the slightest. Which may be because I am in an unaccountably bad mood: something which has nothing whatsoever to do with PMT, despite the looks Max and Josh keep giving each other, and their less-than-oblique references to the subject. Sometimes it's just like living with Richard Keys and Andy Gray.
"Not that," I say, as yet another Skins/Hollyoaks-type programme is highlighted. "Do we have to watch children's television? I am an intelligent adult, though I can't speak for you two."
"How about this, then?" says Josh, giving Max another of those bloody looks. He presses a button on the remote again, and selects The Joy of Teen Sex.
Isn't that just the most pointless programme ever created? Talk about preaching to the converted. Not to mention that I'm pretty sure that teenagers already get more "joy" than anybody else.
"No," I say. "Not that either. For God's sake."
I glare at Josh, who pulls his pseudo-innocent face.
"But, Mum," he says. "It's educational, and you're supposed to be the responsible parent."
Max raises an eyebrow at this implied criticism of his parenting skills, but otherwise stays out of it, as usual. Q.E.D. - so it seems our son can rest that case.
"Somehow, Josh," I say, "I suspect that you've already got a Ph.D in the Joy of Sex. Unlike in Maths, in which even a bloody GCSE would have been nice."
Josh looks outraged, blames the school, and goes on to claim that even the sex education classes were inadequate.
"So what did they involve, then?" I say. "And which of your teachers took the lessons, anyway? I don't think you've ever mentioned them before."
"Lesson," says Josh. "Singular. Taught by Mr Hazeldean."
Max suddenly stops looking at the TV, and re-joins the conversation. I think he's just realised that the programme's on pause.
"Oh, I always liked him," he says. "I wish my teachers had been a bit more like that. He was such a laugh at Parent's Evenings."
"Mainly because he was completely mad," I say. "Which you wouldn't find half as funny if you worked with total lunatics all week. Anyway, don't interrupt. Josh was about to tell us what he learned. Weren't you, Josh?"
I'm expecting Josh to cringe at this idea, which would serve as just retribution for all his sarky comments about PMT but, tragically, he doesn't. Sometimes I am such an idiot.
I've forgotten - again - that, while Max and I both recall our parents' attempts at giving us "the talk about sex" with absolute horror, our kids have no embarrassment threshold whatsoever . Which Greg always ascribes to what he calls Max's and my mad adherence to the Wafty Parent approach, aka treating your children as if they were your best friends.
So, unencumbered by any sense of awkwardness, Josh launches into an explanation:
"Mr H was late that morning," he says. "Because his car had broken down. I think he said he'd had to poke one of the brake disks or something like that - I can't remember exactly. Anyway, he'd pretty much welded his finger into a stub by the time he arrived at school."
"Did you have any teachers with normal digits left in your school?" I say. (I am, of course, thinking of Mr Thumb.)
"Honestly," says Josh. "You keep going off a tangents, Mum. Do you want me to tell you what happened with Mr Hazeldean or not? "
I nod, though it occurs to me that maybe we should have raised Josh to be a little less assertive. And less impatient. He does a very ostentatious sigh before continuing:
"So, Mr H walked into class, showed us his stub and told us he couldn't stay because he needed to go straight to A&E. Then he put a porno on, and said, 'This is all you need to know.'"
I try not to laugh, while Max doesn't. He cracks up completely, then pulls himself together and says:
"Well, I reckon that was pretty quick thinking in an emergency."
"Well, yes," says Josh. "That's what we thought too. Until we realised that he must have intended to show it to us all along. Seeing as he'd brought it in with him - on VHS."
Max says later that he thinks that this formative experience may account for Josh's subsequent decision to concentrate on Film Studies at A-Level. I say it may also account for his rather Neanderthal attitude to women. And to any fluctuation in their hormone levels.
Josh is flicking through all the programmes available on catch-up, none of which appeal to me in the slightest. Which may be because I am in an unaccountably bad mood: something which has nothing whatsoever to do with PMT, despite the looks Max and Josh keep giving each other, and their less-than-oblique references to the subject. Sometimes it's just like living with Richard Keys and Andy Gray.
"Not that," I say, as yet another Skins/Hollyoaks-type programme is highlighted. "Do we have to watch children's television? I am an intelligent adult, though I can't speak for you two."
"How about this, then?" says Josh, giving Max another of those bloody looks. He presses a button on the remote again, and selects The Joy of Teen Sex.
Isn't that just the most pointless programme ever created? Talk about preaching to the converted. Not to mention that I'm pretty sure that teenagers already get more "joy" than anybody else.
"No," I say. "Not that either. For God's sake."
I glare at Josh, who pulls his pseudo-innocent face.
"But, Mum," he says. "It's educational, and you're supposed to be the responsible parent."
Max raises an eyebrow at this implied criticism of his parenting skills, but otherwise stays out of it, as usual. Q.E.D. - so it seems our son can rest that case.
"Somehow, Josh," I say, "I suspect that you've already got a Ph.D in the Joy of Sex. Unlike in Maths, in which even a bloody GCSE would have been nice."
Josh looks outraged, blames the school, and goes on to claim that even the sex education classes were inadequate.
"So what did they involve, then?" I say. "And which of your teachers took the lessons, anyway? I don't think you've ever mentioned them before."
"Lesson," says Josh. "Singular. Taught by Mr Hazeldean."
Max suddenly stops looking at the TV, and re-joins the conversation. I think he's just realised that the programme's on pause.
"Oh, I always liked him," he says. "I wish my teachers had been a bit more like that. He was such a laugh at Parent's Evenings."
"Mainly because he was completely mad," I say. "Which you wouldn't find half as funny if you worked with total lunatics all week. Anyway, don't interrupt. Josh was about to tell us what he learned. Weren't you, Josh?"
I'm expecting Josh to cringe at this idea, which would serve as just retribution for all his sarky comments about PMT but, tragically, he doesn't. Sometimes I am such an idiot.
I've forgotten - again - that, while Max and I both recall our parents' attempts at giving us "the talk about sex" with absolute horror, our kids have no embarrassment threshold whatsoever . Which Greg always ascribes to what he calls Max's and my mad adherence to the Wafty Parent approach, aka treating your children as if they were your best friends.
So, unencumbered by any sense of awkwardness, Josh launches into an explanation:
"Mr H was late that morning," he says. "Because his car had broken down. I think he said he'd had to poke one of the brake disks or something like that - I can't remember exactly. Anyway, he'd pretty much welded his finger into a stub by the time he arrived at school."
"Did you have any teachers with normal digits left in your school?" I say. (I am, of course, thinking of Mr Thumb.)
"Honestly," says Josh. "You keep going off a tangents, Mum. Do you want me to tell you what happened with Mr Hazeldean or not? "
I nod, though it occurs to me that maybe we should have raised Josh to be a little less assertive. And less impatient. He does a very ostentatious sigh before continuing:
"So, Mr H walked into class, showed us his stub and told us he couldn't stay because he needed to go straight to A&E. Then he put a porno on, and said, 'This is all you need to know.'"
I try not to laugh, while Max doesn't. He cracks up completely, then pulls himself together and says:
"Well, I reckon that was pretty quick thinking in an emergency."
"Well, yes," says Josh. "That's what we thought too. Until we realised that he must have intended to show it to us all along. Seeing as he'd brought it in with him - on VHS."
Max says later that he thinks that this formative experience may account for Josh's subsequent decision to concentrate on Film Studies at A-Level. I say it may also account for his rather Neanderthal attitude to women. And to any fluctuation in their hormone levels.
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Getting On With It. Whatever IT Is.
I spend all morning ranting about The Boss, until Max snaps.
"For God's sake, Mol," he says. "You're starting to sound like one of the mad constituents you're always moaning about."
"That's because I am being driven mad," I say. "It must be contagious."
"Well, don't come too close, then. I don't want to catch it. I need all my wits about me."
In response to my raised eyebrow, he continues, rather portentously:
"Because I am going... into the loft."
Honestly, Michael MacIntyre's loft sketch couldn't be any more accurate. Max isn't getting away from me that easily, though. I follow him onto the landing, and stand underneath the ladder, kicking at the bottom rung for emphasis.
"I think I should try and get another job," I say. "Before I become completely certifiable. Or kill an elected official while the balance of my mind is disturbed."
"Geonwfttuten," says Max. Or words to that effect. What the hell is he doing up there?
"What did you say? I do wish you wouldn't mumble."
He sticks his head out of the loft, rolls his eyes at me and says:
"Get. On. With. It. Then. Before you drive me insane as well. And stop kicking the bloody ladder. You're making me nervous."
Get on with it, then - yes, thanks, Max. It's hardly a considered opinion, is it?
But I suppose he might be right - for once - so I get out my laptop, resist the temptation to chat to Connie on Facebook, and open a new document. Then I type: Molly Bennett - Curriculum Vitae at the top and stare blankly at the page for the next hour.
After a further two hours have passed, I've drafted what may qualify as the worst CV that anyone's ever seen and, to make matters worse, I haven't even finished writing about my current job yet. It's much more difficult describing what working for an MP involves than I expected it to be.
"Doing your CV, then, Mol?" says Max. "How's it going?"
He dumps several dust-covered boxes onto the table and completely buggers my concentration in the process. I put my head in my hands and groan in lieu of a reply.
"That bad, eh?" Max pats me on the back, and says, "I know you work for a politician, but you could always try just telling the truth for once."
Somehow I manage to avoid all mention of pots and kettles, and to stick to the point. God knows how. Sometimes I am a paragon of virtue.
"I don't think saying that I deal with all the shit that happens in the Constituency Office - while pretending to be the MP - would go down too well," I say. "I'll have to ring Jen and ask for her advice. You're no help at all."
Max gives me a two-fingered salute and heads back upstairs in search of more boxes of Connie's junk. (Also known as Connie Bennett's important sentimental possessions - not to be thrown away.) I smoke a cigarette in a vain attempt to marshal my thoughts, and then dial Jen's number.
"Don't ask me," she says, as soon as I've finished explaining why I've called. "I still haven't got another job. Which makes it even harder not to punch people when they say that now they wish they'd voted Labour in the *GE."
"I know what you mean," I say. "That is annoying, isn't it? But you've had loads of interviews - so at least your CV must look good."
"Thanks," says Jen. "So the problem occurs when employers actually see me, you mean?"
Which rather goes to prove that it is definitely time for me to find another job. I have obviously lost the ability to assess the impact of an ill-chosen phrase.
"No," I say. "Sorry. I meant your CV impresses them enough to want to interview you. And you always look good anyway, Jen."
"It's irrelevant what I look like," she says. "They only ask to meet me because they want the inside track on what it's like to work for an MP, and to see what MPs staff are like in the flesh. Then - usually right at the end of the bloody interview when you think it's all gone really well - they mention the expenses scandal, and you can feel that you're buggered. Tainted by association."
Oh, God, I hadn't even thought of that. So not only is it no advantage to have worked for an MP, it's the bloody kiss of death.
I wonder if this is how George Osborne feels when people keep asking, "What's Plan B?"
*GE - General Election 2010. When some of you must have accidentally voted in some Tories and hardly any LibDems.
"For God's sake, Mol," he says. "You're starting to sound like one of the mad constituents you're always moaning about."
"That's because I am being driven mad," I say. "It must be contagious."
"Well, don't come too close, then. I don't want to catch it. I need all my wits about me."
In response to my raised eyebrow, he continues, rather portentously:
"Because I am going... into the loft."
Honestly, Michael MacIntyre's loft sketch couldn't be any more accurate. Max isn't getting away from me that easily, though. I follow him onto the landing, and stand underneath the ladder, kicking at the bottom rung for emphasis.
"I think I should try and get another job," I say. "Before I become completely certifiable. Or kill an elected official while the balance of my mind is disturbed."
"Geonwfttuten," says Max. Or words to that effect. What the hell is he doing up there?
"What did you say? I do wish you wouldn't mumble."
He sticks his head out of the loft, rolls his eyes at me and says:
"Get. On. With. It. Then. Before you drive me insane as well. And stop kicking the bloody ladder. You're making me nervous."
Get on with it, then - yes, thanks, Max. It's hardly a considered opinion, is it?
But I suppose he might be right - for once - so I get out my laptop, resist the temptation to chat to Connie on Facebook, and open a new document. Then I type: Molly Bennett - Curriculum Vitae at the top and stare blankly at the page for the next hour.
After a further two hours have passed, I've drafted what may qualify as the worst CV that anyone's ever seen and, to make matters worse, I haven't even finished writing about my current job yet. It's much more difficult describing what working for an MP involves than I expected it to be.
"Doing your CV, then, Mol?" says Max. "How's it going?"
He dumps several dust-covered boxes onto the table and completely buggers my concentration in the process. I put my head in my hands and groan in lieu of a reply.
"That bad, eh?" Max pats me on the back, and says, "I know you work for a politician, but you could always try just telling the truth for once."
Somehow I manage to avoid all mention of pots and kettles, and to stick to the point. God knows how. Sometimes I am a paragon of virtue.
"I don't think saying that I deal with all the shit that happens in the Constituency Office - while pretending to be the MP - would go down too well," I say. "I'll have to ring Jen and ask for her advice. You're no help at all."
Max gives me a two-fingered salute and heads back upstairs in search of more boxes of Connie's junk. (Also known as Connie Bennett's important sentimental possessions - not to be thrown away.) I smoke a cigarette in a vain attempt to marshal my thoughts, and then dial Jen's number.
"Don't ask me," she says, as soon as I've finished explaining why I've called. "I still haven't got another job. Which makes it even harder not to punch people when they say that now they wish they'd voted Labour in the *GE."
"I know what you mean," I say. "That is annoying, isn't it? But you've had loads of interviews - so at least your CV must look good."
"Thanks," says Jen. "So the problem occurs when employers actually see me, you mean?"
Which rather goes to prove that it is definitely time for me to find another job. I have obviously lost the ability to assess the impact of an ill-chosen phrase.
"No," I say. "Sorry. I meant your CV impresses them enough to want to interview you. And you always look good anyway, Jen."
"It's irrelevant what I look like," she says. "They only ask to meet me because they want the inside track on what it's like to work for an MP, and to see what MPs staff are like in the flesh. Then - usually right at the end of the bloody interview when you think it's all gone really well - they mention the expenses scandal, and you can feel that you're buggered. Tainted by association."
Oh, God, I hadn't even thought of that. So not only is it no advantage to have worked for an MP, it's the bloody kiss of death.
I wonder if this is how George Osborne feels when people keep asking, "What's Plan B?"
*GE - General Election 2010. When some of you must have accidentally voted in some Tories and hardly any LibDems.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Grovelling, Sycophancy, And A Potential Flaw In Andrew Lansley's Plans.
Well, if today is anything to go by, there's no way these NHS Reforms are going to work. Not that I should care, given that I probably won't have a job in politics for much longer, thanks to those idiotic GPs at Silverwood Surgery. Talk about victim culture and people not wanting to take responsibility!
The Boss is already in the office when I arrive this morning, and he's opened all the mail. He hasn't managed to lose any of it, either - more's the bloody pity.
"Molly!" he shouts from the Oprah Room, as soon as he hears me enter the outer office. "Get in here - now!"
Honestly, sometimes I could swear he thinks I'm ten years old. I deliberately take my coat off as slowly as possible, and spend some time turning on my PC and finding a notepad and pen, before I finally join him. I'm trying to teach him that manners maketh man, but it's been a pretty thankless task so far.
"Yes, Andrew?" I say. "Did you want to go through something with me? Or did you just want a coffee?"
"Bloody right I want to go through something with you," he says. "And the coffee can wait for once."
He glares at me, then thrusts a piece of paper into my hand.
"Read that," he says. "Then tell me what the hell you thought you were playing at? You've only gone and upset an entire GP practice."
"What?" I say. Probably a bit tremulously, as The Boss seems so angry that I'm a bit worried about his blood pressure. I'm sure the top of his head shouldn't be that red.
Andrew says nothing, just gestures at me to read the letter, so I obey. Though I can't believe what I'm reading - which is saying something, given the total lunacy of 50% of the mail we receive on any given day.
"But, Andrew," I say. "I didn't say that to Mr Franklin. I just told him what the hospital consultant said - that if Mrs Franklin felt her bunions had worsened significantly, then she should go and see her GP, who could advise the hospital if necessary."
"Well, that's obviously not what Mr F told the GP, is it?" says The Boss. "You bloody idiot. You've pissed off every doctor in the whole practice. Look - they've all signed the letter of complaint, individually!"
My legs suddenly feel a bit wobbly, so I sit down on the sofa next to Andrew, and stare hard at the letter, as if its content is going to have altered since the first time I read it. It hasn't.
The letter still accuses me of irresponsibility, and tells Andrew that the Practice does not appreciate its doctors being made "apologists for systems created by politicians". For God's sake.
"I did explain that it's what the GP writes in the referral to the hospital that often affects the priority that a patient is given on the waiting list," I say. "Which is true, though I didn't put it in the way they're saying I did. And, anyway, seeing as they're doctors, they must be able to tell that Mr F is a total nutter, who'd tell anybody anything to get what he wants."
Andrew doesn't say anything but I can feel that he doesn't give a damn whether I'm being unjustly accused or not. He just wants the problem solved - as usual. I'm so furious that I can't let it go, though, so I carry on regardless:
"So I would have thought that someone from the Practice would have phoned to ask me what I'd actually told Mr F before they kicked off like this, if only out of professional courtesy. That's what I would have done in their place," I say. "I always check my facts before I let loose."
I'm not sure if Andrew hears me or not, as I'm feeling a bit tearful and my voice may have wobbled a bit - I do wish irritation at injustice didn't always bloody well make me cry - but what I've said doesn't change his opinion, anyway.
"I don't care what your excuse is," he says. "I can't afford to have a vocal bunch of bloody doctors against me, so you will write to them today, and apologise. Grovel, in fact. And I want to see a copy of the letter before you send it off, so I can see whether this was only a one-off cock-up, or if you're as crap at your job as I've been hearing."
"From Vicky, I suppose," I say, as I stand and walk out of the room.
I sit at my desk, and type the most nauseatingly sycophantic apology ever written, while swearing furiously under my breath. And glaring at Vicky and willing all her hair to fall out.
Greg raises his eyebrows at me, but I'm still too cross to risk speech - so I just push the letter from Silverwood surgery over to him, together with a copy of my reply. He winces as he reads the sorry saga, then sucks in air through his teeth.
He's about to say something when the phone rings so, instead, he picks up the receiver with one hand, and scribbles something on a piece of paper with the other. Then he holds the note up for me to read.
"Total f*ckers," it says. Sometimes brevity is all it takes.
Greg's analysis makes me feel a lot better, so I'm much calmer by the time The Boss walks up to my desk. He doesn't speak to me, but just holds out his hand, presumably expecting the letter of apology. I wish a number of unpleasant health conditions upon him as I dump it into his palm.
"Right," he says, once he's read it. "Get it in the next post - I don't want this hanging around 'til the end of the day. Let's just hope it does the trick. I can't be doing with a posse of bloody GPs fomenting trouble in Northwick at the moment. They're far too damned articulate at the best of times."
"Oh, I should think they'll be too busy to worry about you," I say. "Seeing as they're going to be running the entire NHS if Andrew Lansley gets his way."
"They're going to find that a bit of a challenge, aren't they?" says Greg. "Seeing as they can't even handle justifying their diagnoses to their patients."
I don't know what Andrew says in reply, as I decide that now would be a very good time to go to the loo. And then to smoke three cigarettes in quick succession.
You'd think I'd want to avoid anything that might make me ill after today's experience - but every unhealthy drag feels like sweet revenge.
Smokers' logic is seriously warped. A bit like that of some GPs.
The Boss is already in the office when I arrive this morning, and he's opened all the mail. He hasn't managed to lose any of it, either - more's the bloody pity.
"Molly!" he shouts from the Oprah Room, as soon as he hears me enter the outer office. "Get in here - now!"
Honestly, sometimes I could swear he thinks I'm ten years old. I deliberately take my coat off as slowly as possible, and spend some time turning on my PC and finding a notepad and pen, before I finally join him. I'm trying to teach him that manners maketh man, but it's been a pretty thankless task so far.
"Yes, Andrew?" I say. "Did you want to go through something with me? Or did you just want a coffee?"
"Bloody right I want to go through something with you," he says. "And the coffee can wait for once."
He glares at me, then thrusts a piece of paper into my hand.
"Read that," he says. "Then tell me what the hell you thought you were playing at? You've only gone and upset an entire GP practice."
"What?" I say. Probably a bit tremulously, as The Boss seems so angry that I'm a bit worried about his blood pressure. I'm sure the top of his head shouldn't be that red.
Andrew says nothing, just gestures at me to read the letter, so I obey. Though I can't believe what I'm reading - which is saying something, given the total lunacy of 50% of the mail we receive on any given day.
"But, Andrew," I say. "I didn't say that to Mr Franklin. I just told him what the hospital consultant said - that if Mrs Franklin felt her bunions had worsened significantly, then she should go and see her GP, who could advise the hospital if necessary."
"Well, that's obviously not what Mr F told the GP, is it?" says The Boss. "You bloody idiot. You've pissed off every doctor in the whole practice. Look - they've all signed the letter of complaint, individually!"
My legs suddenly feel a bit wobbly, so I sit down on the sofa next to Andrew, and stare hard at the letter, as if its content is going to have altered since the first time I read it. It hasn't.
The letter still accuses me of irresponsibility, and tells Andrew that the Practice does not appreciate its doctors being made "apologists for systems created by politicians". For God's sake.
"I did explain that it's what the GP writes in the referral to the hospital that often affects the priority that a patient is given on the waiting list," I say. "Which is true, though I didn't put it in the way they're saying I did. And, anyway, seeing as they're doctors, they must be able to tell that Mr F is a total nutter, who'd tell anybody anything to get what he wants."
Andrew doesn't say anything but I can feel that he doesn't give a damn whether I'm being unjustly accused or not. He just wants the problem solved - as usual. I'm so furious that I can't let it go, though, so I carry on regardless:
"So I would have thought that someone from the Practice would have phoned to ask me what I'd actually told Mr F before they kicked off like this, if only out of professional courtesy. That's what I would have done in their place," I say. "I always check my facts before I let loose."
I'm not sure if Andrew hears me or not, as I'm feeling a bit tearful and my voice may have wobbled a bit - I do wish irritation at injustice didn't always bloody well make me cry - but what I've said doesn't change his opinion, anyway.
"I don't care what your excuse is," he says. "I can't afford to have a vocal bunch of bloody doctors against me, so you will write to them today, and apologise. Grovel, in fact. And I want to see a copy of the letter before you send it off, so I can see whether this was only a one-off cock-up, or if you're as crap at your job as I've been hearing."
"From Vicky, I suppose," I say, as I stand and walk out of the room.
I sit at my desk, and type the most nauseatingly sycophantic apology ever written, while swearing furiously under my breath. And glaring at Vicky and willing all her hair to fall out.
Greg raises his eyebrows at me, but I'm still too cross to risk speech - so I just push the letter from Silverwood surgery over to him, together with a copy of my reply. He winces as he reads the sorry saga, then sucks in air through his teeth.
He's about to say something when the phone rings so, instead, he picks up the receiver with one hand, and scribbles something on a piece of paper with the other. Then he holds the note up for me to read.
"Total f*ckers," it says. Sometimes brevity is all it takes.
Greg's analysis makes me feel a lot better, so I'm much calmer by the time The Boss walks up to my desk. He doesn't speak to me, but just holds out his hand, presumably expecting the letter of apology. I wish a number of unpleasant health conditions upon him as I dump it into his palm.
"Right," he says, once he's read it. "Get it in the next post - I don't want this hanging around 'til the end of the day. Let's just hope it does the trick. I can't be doing with a posse of bloody GPs fomenting trouble in Northwick at the moment. They're far too damned articulate at the best of times."
"Oh, I should think they'll be too busy to worry about you," I say. "Seeing as they're going to be running the entire NHS if Andrew Lansley gets his way."
"They're going to find that a bit of a challenge, aren't they?" says Greg. "Seeing as they can't even handle justifying their diagnoses to their patients."
I don't know what Andrew says in reply, as I decide that now would be a very good time to go to the loo. And then to smoke three cigarettes in quick succession.
You'd think I'd want to avoid anything that might make me ill after today's experience - but every unhealthy drag feels like sweet revenge.
Smokers' logic is seriously warped. A bit like that of some GPs.
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Nights In White Satin - But Only For The Undeserving.
Honestly, can you believe it? Just when I should have been waking up next to Johnny in a luxury hotel suite after a night full of (hopefully) mad passion, here I am listening to Reg Beales bloody moaning instead.
"So, they're definitely out to get me now," he says. "Just like my brother."
I sigh, and count to ten - twice - before I reply. Just to be on the safe side.
"I think you'll find the Police and the RSPCA are two different organisations," I say. "And the Met* aren't known for taking an interest in horses that are being mis-treated. Not even when the horse is in London - which yours isn't."
"Well, they must have been following me to spot the stupid animal, though, mustn't they?" says Reg. "So our Edmund's got a point. These bloody busybodies should be made to wear high-visibility jackets at all times."
I pass Greg a note which reads:
"Play that fire alarm sound on your phone. Quick!"
Then I turn my attention back to Reg Beales.
"A horse and cart on the main road into Northwick is pretty difficult to ignore," I say. "I'm quite surprised the traffic police didn't have something to say about it as well. If I were you, I'd just apologise and say you've learned your lesson when you go to court - though, to be honest, I doubt you'll get the horse back, whatever you do."
"But how am I supposed to pull the cart without one?" says Reg, as Greg passes me his phone and a siren rings out.
"Got to go," I say. "The fire alarm's going off. 'Bye!"
This triumph of ingenuity cheers me up no end, until I spot Vicky sitting in the Oprah Room. She's filing her nails again, while looking disapprovingly at Greg and me.
"Find her something to do, for God's sake, Mol," says Greg, in a low voice. "It's like having MI5 in here with her watching everything we do or say. Or The News Of The World, anyway."
He's got a point, so I suggest to Vicky that there's a mountain of archiving to do, if she's not too busy.
"I've got to type a report up for Andy," she says. "So I can't do it this week. Sorry."
She doesn't sound it, but I give her the benefit of the doubt. People can surprise you - sometimes. Even when you've worked for an MP for far too long.
"Okay," I say. "But maybe you could make a start on it next week instead? It'd really help us out."
"Can't," says Vicky. "I won't be here."
I think Greg manages to mask his ecstatic - if slightly crazed - smile before Vicky notices, but I'm having trouble hiding my joy too. I can feel my lips twitching, unless I've suddenly developed a tic.
"Really?" I say. "Are you leaving us, then?"
"No," says Vicky. "I'm going to that conference with Andy. Didn't he tell you?"
"Shouldn't think he's told anyone," says Greg. "The Media would love it. MP Takes Young Intern To Luxury Hotel doesn't sound too good, does it?"
Not half as good as Oil Baron Takes MP's Possibly Middle-Aged Senior Caseworker To Luxury Hotel, that's for sure. And Saves Her From Lunatic Constituent Charged With Cruelty To His Horse, While He's At It.
I give up, I really do. Life's a bitch, and then you die.
*Met - Metropolitan Police. For some reason, Reg is now convinced that they are out to get him, despite all our attempts to convince him that they are far too busy at the moment.
"So, they're definitely out to get me now," he says. "Just like my brother."
I sigh, and count to ten - twice - before I reply. Just to be on the safe side.
"I think you'll find the Police and the RSPCA are two different organisations," I say. "And the Met* aren't known for taking an interest in horses that are being mis-treated. Not even when the horse is in London - which yours isn't."
"Well, they must have been following me to spot the stupid animal, though, mustn't they?" says Reg. "So our Edmund's got a point. These bloody busybodies should be made to wear high-visibility jackets at all times."
I pass Greg a note which reads:
"Play that fire alarm sound on your phone. Quick!"
Then I turn my attention back to Reg Beales.
"A horse and cart on the main road into Northwick is pretty difficult to ignore," I say. "I'm quite surprised the traffic police didn't have something to say about it as well. If I were you, I'd just apologise and say you've learned your lesson when you go to court - though, to be honest, I doubt you'll get the horse back, whatever you do."
"But how am I supposed to pull the cart without one?" says Reg, as Greg passes me his phone and a siren rings out.
"Got to go," I say. "The fire alarm's going off. 'Bye!"
This triumph of ingenuity cheers me up no end, until I spot Vicky sitting in the Oprah Room. She's filing her nails again, while looking disapprovingly at Greg and me.
"Find her something to do, for God's sake, Mol," says Greg, in a low voice. "It's like having MI5 in here with her watching everything we do or say. Or The News Of The World, anyway."
He's got a point, so I suggest to Vicky that there's a mountain of archiving to do, if she's not too busy.
"I've got to type a report up for Andy," she says. "So I can't do it this week. Sorry."
She doesn't sound it, but I give her the benefit of the doubt. People can surprise you - sometimes. Even when you've worked for an MP for far too long.
"Okay," I say. "But maybe you could make a start on it next week instead? It'd really help us out."
"Can't," says Vicky. "I won't be here."
I think Greg manages to mask his ecstatic - if slightly crazed - smile before Vicky notices, but I'm having trouble hiding my joy too. I can feel my lips twitching, unless I've suddenly developed a tic.
"Really?" I say. "Are you leaving us, then?"
"No," says Vicky. "I'm going to that conference with Andy. Didn't he tell you?"
"Shouldn't think he's told anyone," says Greg. "The Media would love it. MP Takes Young Intern To Luxury Hotel doesn't sound too good, does it?"
Not half as good as Oil Baron Takes MP's Possibly Middle-Aged Senior Caseworker To Luxury Hotel, that's for sure. And Saves Her From Lunatic Constituent Charged With Cruelty To His Horse, While He's At It.
I give up, I really do. Life's a bitch, and then you die.
*Met - Metropolitan Police. For some reason, Reg is now convinced that they are out to get him, despite all our attempts to convince him that they are far too busy at the moment.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Bunions, HobNobs And Fatmobiles, Or How Vicky Discovers The Joy Of Helping Others.
God, there are riots and revolutions going on all over the place, but here at work, it's Groundhog Day. Or a parallel universe.
"There's an enormously fat man on a mobility scooter stuck in the corridor outside the lift," says Vicky, when she finally turns up at about 10:00am.
Greg and I look at each other, then both say,
"Mr Franklin."
"I don't know who he is," says Vicky, "but someone needs to go and rescue him. He's already knocked over the Weeping Fig."
"So why didn't you help him?" says Greg. "While you were in the vicinity, as it were?"
"He looked really grumpy," says Vicky. "And he was a bit smelly, too."
God knows why anyone who objects to either of those traits would want to work for an MP, but Vicky obviously doesn't see it as a reasonable hazard of the job. Which is how Greg and I find ourselves trying to manoeuvre a thirty-five-stone man and his fatmobile within a very confined space.
Not only is Mr Franklin no help whatsoever, but he also refuses to tell us how he managed to get through the security doors and into the lift without anyone noticing, and demands answers to questions about Coalition policies while we struggle to turn him around.
After he's covered bankers' bonuses and VAT, he starts on the NHS. It'll be the Ambulance Service next, probably when Greg and I have to be carted off by paramedics after collapsing with exhaustion.
"What are these reforms going to mean for my wife's foot operation?" he says. "I suppose they're bound to be an improvement, seeing as your lot did nothing to speed things up."
"Oh, I don't think that's true," says Greg, jerking the scooter rather viciously.
"Ow," I say, as Mr Franklin's shopping bag falls off the handlebar and lands on my foot.
"Watch out, you idiots!" says Mr F. "My HobNobs'll be nothing but crumbs by the time you two have finished."
Greg looks as if he can't think of anything he'd like better than to crush Mr Franklin's metaphorical HobNobs - if he could find them amidst all the extraneous flesh - so I have to step in before things get completely out of hand.
"Well, has your wife been back to see her GP, as I suggested?" I ask. "I did explain that she needed to tell him if her feet had got worse, because it's usually what's written in the GP's letter of referral that signals to the hospital how urgent a patient's case is."
"Saw the doc at the end of last week," says Mr Franklin. "He said he'd see what he can do - but he told me he's going to write to your boss, as well. He didn't look very happy, so he's probably going to give you a bollocking for doing bugger all to help."
"Um, I'm sure that's not true," I say. "Because we have done something. We wrote to the hospital about your wife's bunions ages ago, if you remember? And the Consultant's reply suggested that your wife see her GP again so that any changes to her condition could be assessed. Which was why I advised you to tell her that."
"Humph," says Mr Franklin. "All you lot do is pass the buck, isn't it? My Rose's feet are giving her gyp, and now her bloody cooking's suffering too."
Greg and I look at each other for a moment, but neither of us can think of a relevant response. Or not one's that's politically-correct, anyway - so Greg settles for crossing and uncrossing his eyes while grimacing instead.
"Was that everything you wanted to talk about, then, Mr F?" he says as, with a burst of energy born of sheer desperation, we finally manage to turn the scooter around so that it's facing the lift. He doesn't wait for Mr Franklin to answer before he says:
"Yes? Oh, good. Bye, bye, then."
He gives the back of Mr Franklin's seat a congratulatory slap while I press the button to summon the lift. Then we both leg it down the corridor as fast as we're capable of moving - which isn't very fast at all, as we're both completely knackered, and one of us is gasping for breath. I must give up bloody smoking.
We've almost made it to the end when the lift goes ping, and a plaintive sound assails us:
"Hang on, you two - what do I do when I get to the ground floor? You meeting me there in case I get stuck again?"
Greg turns round, and says,
"Oh, no - don't worry. There'll be a nice girl with long brown hair coming down in a minute. Just tell her we said that she'd been sent to help you. She's much stronger than she looks."
I raise my eyebrows, but Greg just taps his nose and winks. Then, as soon as we walk back into the office, he rushes over to his desk, and hides all of today's newspapers in the bottom drawer.
"Where the hell have the papers got to?" he says, rather louder than necessary.
Vicky and I both shrug, at which point Greg blames the disappearance on someone from the Party offices, and asks Vicky to go and buy some more.
"It's an emergency, so if you could do it straightaway, that'd be great," he says, as he puts a ten pound note into her hand. "A constituent said there was a big piece about Andrew in one of them, but I'm not sure which."
"Ooh, lovely," says Vicky, for whom the word gullible occasionally seems to have been created. "Maybe there'll even be a photograph!"
"Stranger things have happened," says Greg, as Vicky heads for the stairs and her date with destiny.
She doesn't come back for a very long time and, when she does, the look on her face suggests that this is yet another of Greg's good ideas that I'm going to regret going along with. Especially when she discovers that there isn't even a single quote from The Boss in any of today's editions.
How can she still not have realised that that's something to be very, very grateful for - unlike the opportunity to get up close and personal with a certain biscuit-loving constituent who's rather challenged on the personal hygiene front?
Who appears not to realise how lucky he is that he doesn't need to set himself on fire in order to make his voice heard. Unlike some poor buggers.
"There's an enormously fat man on a mobility scooter stuck in the corridor outside the lift," says Vicky, when she finally turns up at about 10:00am.
Greg and I look at each other, then both say,
"Mr Franklin."
"I don't know who he is," says Vicky, "but someone needs to go and rescue him. He's already knocked over the Weeping Fig."
"So why didn't you help him?" says Greg. "While you were in the vicinity, as it were?"
"He looked really grumpy," says Vicky. "And he was a bit smelly, too."
God knows why anyone who objects to either of those traits would want to work for an MP, but Vicky obviously doesn't see it as a reasonable hazard of the job. Which is how Greg and I find ourselves trying to manoeuvre a thirty-five-stone man and his fatmobile within a very confined space.
Not only is Mr Franklin no help whatsoever, but he also refuses to tell us how he managed to get through the security doors and into the lift without anyone noticing, and demands answers to questions about Coalition policies while we struggle to turn him around.
After he's covered bankers' bonuses and VAT, he starts on the NHS. It'll be the Ambulance Service next, probably when Greg and I have to be carted off by paramedics after collapsing with exhaustion.
"What are these reforms going to mean for my wife's foot operation?" he says. "I suppose they're bound to be an improvement, seeing as your lot did nothing to speed things up."
"Oh, I don't think that's true," says Greg, jerking the scooter rather viciously.
"Ow," I say, as Mr Franklin's shopping bag falls off the handlebar and lands on my foot.
"Watch out, you idiots!" says Mr F. "My HobNobs'll be nothing but crumbs by the time you two have finished."
Greg looks as if he can't think of anything he'd like better than to crush Mr Franklin's metaphorical HobNobs - if he could find them amidst all the extraneous flesh - so I have to step in before things get completely out of hand.
"Well, has your wife been back to see her GP, as I suggested?" I ask. "I did explain that she needed to tell him if her feet had got worse, because it's usually what's written in the GP's letter of referral that signals to the hospital how urgent a patient's case is."
"Saw the doc at the end of last week," says Mr Franklin. "He said he'd see what he can do - but he told me he's going to write to your boss, as well. He didn't look very happy, so he's probably going to give you a bollocking for doing bugger all to help."
"Um, I'm sure that's not true," I say. "Because we have done something. We wrote to the hospital about your wife's bunions ages ago, if you remember? And the Consultant's reply suggested that your wife see her GP again so that any changes to her condition could be assessed. Which was why I advised you to tell her that."
"Humph," says Mr Franklin. "All you lot do is pass the buck, isn't it? My Rose's feet are giving her gyp, and now her bloody cooking's suffering too."
Greg and I look at each other for a moment, but neither of us can think of a relevant response. Or not one's that's politically-correct, anyway - so Greg settles for crossing and uncrossing his eyes while grimacing instead.
"Was that everything you wanted to talk about, then, Mr F?" he says as, with a burst of energy born of sheer desperation, we finally manage to turn the scooter around so that it's facing the lift. He doesn't wait for Mr Franklin to answer before he says:
"Yes? Oh, good. Bye, bye, then."
He gives the back of Mr Franklin's seat a congratulatory slap while I press the button to summon the lift. Then we both leg it down the corridor as fast as we're capable of moving - which isn't very fast at all, as we're both completely knackered, and one of us is gasping for breath. I must give up bloody smoking.
We've almost made it to the end when the lift goes ping, and a plaintive sound assails us:
"Hang on, you two - what do I do when I get to the ground floor? You meeting me there in case I get stuck again?"
Greg turns round, and says,
"Oh, no - don't worry. There'll be a nice girl with long brown hair coming down in a minute. Just tell her we said that she'd been sent to help you. She's much stronger than she looks."
I raise my eyebrows, but Greg just taps his nose and winks. Then, as soon as we walk back into the office, he rushes over to his desk, and hides all of today's newspapers in the bottom drawer.
"Where the hell have the papers got to?" he says, rather louder than necessary.
Vicky and I both shrug, at which point Greg blames the disappearance on someone from the Party offices, and asks Vicky to go and buy some more.
"It's an emergency, so if you could do it straightaway, that'd be great," he says, as he puts a ten pound note into her hand. "A constituent said there was a big piece about Andrew in one of them, but I'm not sure which."
"Ooh, lovely," says Vicky, for whom the word gullible occasionally seems to have been created. "Maybe there'll even be a photograph!"
"Stranger things have happened," says Greg, as Vicky heads for the stairs and her date with destiny.
She doesn't come back for a very long time and, when she does, the look on her face suggests that this is yet another of Greg's good ideas that I'm going to regret going along with. Especially when she discovers that there isn't even a single quote from The Boss in any of today's editions.
How can she still not have realised that that's something to be very, very grateful for - unlike the opportunity to get up close and personal with a certain biscuit-loving constituent who's rather challenged on the personal hygiene front?
Who appears not to realise how lucky he is that he doesn't need to set himself on fire in order to make his voice heard. Unlike some poor buggers.
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Some Other Stuff I Bet Half Of You Didn't Know About Housing And Unemployment.
I know I go on about housing a lot, but honestly - there's such a lot to go on about. And it's no wonder more and more young people are needing The Boss' help.
How the hell any of them are supposed to leave home and become independent is quite beyond me - unless they come from the sort of background that Dave and Nick do, of course.
I'm sitting at my desk at lunchtime, still feeling awful about what happened in Moscow - even though it has got me off the hook about meeting Johnny tomorrow - when the intercom buzzes and a young woman called Rachel asks if she can talk to me about her housing situation.
When I go down to talk to her, it quickly becomes clear that her case is pretty complicated, so I assess whether her manner and appearance lead me to hear The Twilight Zone theme - which they don't - and then bring her back upstairs and into my office. (She isn't wearing metal-framed glasses, either.)
"I'm sorry to have to bother Mr Sinclair about this," she says, "But someone with influence really needs to understand how it is for young people, especially when more of us are unemployed than anyone else."
"Don't worry about bothering Andrew," I say. "He won't mind at all. That's what he's here for."
Honestly, sometimes I make myself feel nauseous with my blatant hypocrisy. What I should be saying is that The Boss won't even know of her existence and has bugger-all influence with anyone these days, anyway - but that wouldn't exactly be reassuring, would it?
So I carry on trying to find out about Rachel's situation - which is bloody grim, and turns out to represent yet another great big hurdle that those with permanent homes or jobs and sufficient income give no thought to whatsoever.
"So you're unemployed, then?" I say, to which Rachel shakes her head.
"Not yet, no," she says. "But my year's contract runs out in a month's time and there's no money for it to be renewed, and although I've applied for loads of jobs, and have got one interview, that isn't until a week before my existing contract ends. So even if I get the job, I'll still be unemployed for a few weeks at best."
"Oh, I do hope you will get the job," I say.
I've taken a liking to this girl - in fact, I'd employ her tomorrow - seeing as she already seems about ten times more competent than Vicky. Or The Boss, for that matter. But now I'm getting distracted, so it's back to housing. Or to the lack of it.
Rachel goes on to explain that being unemployed isn't actually her main concern. Because becoming homeless is.
"I moved to Northwick to take up my current job," she says, "so I took a lease on my flat for a year as soon as I started work. But that runs out a couple of days after my employment contract ends, and I haven't managed to find anywhere else to live yet."
"Ah, I see," I say - though when Rachel continues, it seems that actually I don't. Yet.
"I can't stay in the flat I'm living in, because it's slightly too expensive for Housing Benefit to cover the full cost of the rent while I'm still trying to get another job, but I can't find anywhere else through any of the agencies."
Rachel pauses, and corrects herself:
"Well, I have found one place that would just about be affordable," she says,"but now everything's going wrong and it looks like I'm still going to end up being homeless by the end of February."
It takes ages to get to the bottom of what is going on, partly because tears keep rolling down Rachel's face, and then she stops to apologise for crying as she scrabbles for tissues in her bag. I don't blame her, actually. If I was in her situation, I'd put my head on the desk and bawl like a baby.
It turns out that the flat Rachel's found through an agency is at a rent that is reasonable enough to be covered by Housing Benefit during the time that she's between jobs. But the trouble started when she didn't tell the agent that her current job was about to end, because she was scared that the owner of the flat wouldn't accept a tenant who might end up on benefit, for however short a period that might be.
"I asked the agent what questions they asked on the reference and credit check forms," she says. "And he said that they only want to know the start date of your current contract, and the name and address of your employer - so I thought the landlord wouldn't need to know that I might be unemployed - especially as I'm determined it won't be for long."
She looks apologetically up at me, as if she has something to be ashamed of.
"I'd probably have done the same myself," I say. "If I was in your position."
I'm not being polite either - I'd do whatever it took to avoid becoming homeless, though I'm not sure Rachel believes me. She does smile, though, and then continues with her story.
"So I decided to apply for the flat - as it was the only one I could find at such a low rent - and told the agent to start the process of checking me out to see whether I'd be approved. I had to give him £200.00 to pay for that, and then he gave me the forms to fill in and to give to my employer."
"So the £200.00 was your deposit then?" I say. "Or will you have to pay rent in advance on top of that?"
"Oh, God, yes," says Rachel. "And my bond, too. The £200.00 was only to cover the agency's fee for assessing whether I'd make a suitable tenant. I'll have to find the money for the bond and the rent in advance - before I can claim back the other bond I had to put down on my current flat. So that's one of my big problems. I only earn £13,500.00 a year anyway, so trying to find that kind of money when I first moved to Northwick was hard enough, but it's even worse having to find a second lot and more agency fees, while I'm still paying rent on the flat I'm in until the end of next month."
You can tell from the way that Rachel talks about her family that there is no chance that they can afford to help her out. She's apparently one of those bright kids who made good through working hard at school: born and brought up on a council estate, but now a graduate in one of Michael Gove's favoured academic subjects.
I bet her family thought their daughter's future would be brighter than theirs had been - until the bloody credit crunch blew that out of the water in the year she graduated. Instead of building a career, Rachel's already had one long period of unemployment since she left her Russell Group university, and she seems understandably anxious that she might be about to start another.
"I'm going on about it, aren't I?" she says. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to - but I'm just so angry that no-one in power seems to get what it's like for people in my situation, so I felt I had to come here to try and make my voice heard. I know you can't really do anything quickly enough to help me, but maybe Mr Sinclair could try and argue for changes to help other people in my situation - though I don't know what exactly. I'm having trouble thinking straight."
"Have you been approved for this new flat, then?" I say. "So at least you'll have somewhere to live by the end of next month?"
"No," says Rachel. "It turns out that the agent was wrong when he said that the application form only asked for the start date of my employment contract. It doesn't - so now I'm going to have to tell the truth: that I'll be out of a job in a month's time. And the agent thinks my application will be turned down because the landlord doesn't take tenants who are on benefit."
I don't know what to say to this. The tabloids make it sound like there are vast swathes of unscrupulous buy-to-let landlords out there, all desperately seeking the sick and unemployed as tenants, and only too happy to get their hands on Housing Benefit. Rachel's case paints a rather different picture.
I mean, let's not forget: this is a young graduate with a good degree - employed for the last year and desperate not to be unemployed again. She thinks and acts responsibly, by giving up the contract on where she lives because it's too expensive to be covered by Housing Benefit, and she knows she may have to make a short claim in between jobs.
Then she has to find hundreds of pounds for her bond and as rent in advance for the new flat, while she's still paying rent for the one she's living in, and she can't get her original deposit back in time to use it cover the one on the new flat. And to cap it all, she's made to pay £200.00 to an agent who has misinformed her about the landlord's requirements, so she may end up homeless anyway.
Given the bloody fuss that some of the usual suspects make about absolutely nothing, I'm amazed that Rachel isn't smashing the office up with frustration. But she just sits there, quietly, tearing bits of tissue between her fingers, while I try to make sense of the situation.
"So, if the worst comes to the worst, and the landlord and agent do say that you can't have the new flat because you might be on Housing Benefit for a while, you will get your £200.00 fee back, won't you?" I say.
"No," says Rachel. "It's non-refundable, so I've lost it if that happens."
I look at her in disbelief for a second, before I pull myself together and try a different tack.
"What about the Council's statutory duty to the homeless?" I say. "We could write to them on your behalf. Oh, but I suppose they say you don't fall into one of their priority groups, do they?"
"Yes," she says. "Seeing as I'm not a single parent, or anything. Or even an ex-con."
Gah. Sometimes I could bloody well scream. It's about time politicians - and probably oil barons too - started doing something to help people, especially those who want to bloody work. And preferably before I have a stroke with the rage that I feel on Rachel's behalf, which might have something to do with the fact that there but for the grace of God goes Connie, and probably me, too - if Max leaves me and I lose my job.
So now I'm going to contact everyone I can think of to see if there's anything we can do. But, if one thing's for sure, it's that Rachel won't be the only young person in this situation.
Maybe we, Joe Public, could force those buy-to-let landlords who have mortgages through RBS or one of the other bloody banks we supposedly own, to accept responsible tenants like Rachel - without making them pay all these stupid upfront fees - even if they are forced by the economic situation to be unemployed for a while. And look again at the criteria we use for those who merit housing, too.
Perhaps I should suggest to Nick Clegg that, if his Party want to earn any credibility back with the 18-30 age group, then this is one of the issues they should focus on, if the LibDems don't want to be dead in the water at the next election? Or maybe David Cameron might like to prove that he does have a clue about what life's like for ordinary people even though Andy Coulson's no longer there to tell him about it.
Come to think of it, if Andy's got nothing on at the moment, he might fancy leading the campaign...
How the hell any of them are supposed to leave home and become independent is quite beyond me - unless they come from the sort of background that Dave and Nick do, of course.
I'm sitting at my desk at lunchtime, still feeling awful about what happened in Moscow - even though it has got me off the hook about meeting Johnny tomorrow - when the intercom buzzes and a young woman called Rachel asks if she can talk to me about her housing situation.
When I go down to talk to her, it quickly becomes clear that her case is pretty complicated, so I assess whether her manner and appearance lead me to hear The Twilight Zone theme - which they don't - and then bring her back upstairs and into my office. (She isn't wearing metal-framed glasses, either.)
"I'm sorry to have to bother Mr Sinclair about this," she says, "But someone with influence really needs to understand how it is for young people, especially when more of us are unemployed than anyone else."
"Don't worry about bothering Andrew," I say. "He won't mind at all. That's what he's here for."
Honestly, sometimes I make myself feel nauseous with my blatant hypocrisy. What I should be saying is that The Boss won't even know of her existence and has bugger-all influence with anyone these days, anyway - but that wouldn't exactly be reassuring, would it?
So I carry on trying to find out about Rachel's situation - which is bloody grim, and turns out to represent yet another great big hurdle that those with permanent homes or jobs and sufficient income give no thought to whatsoever.
"So you're unemployed, then?" I say, to which Rachel shakes her head.
"Not yet, no," she says. "But my year's contract runs out in a month's time and there's no money for it to be renewed, and although I've applied for loads of jobs, and have got one interview, that isn't until a week before my existing contract ends. So even if I get the job, I'll still be unemployed for a few weeks at best."
"Oh, I do hope you will get the job," I say.
I've taken a liking to this girl - in fact, I'd employ her tomorrow - seeing as she already seems about ten times more competent than Vicky. Or The Boss, for that matter. But now I'm getting distracted, so it's back to housing. Or to the lack of it.
Rachel goes on to explain that being unemployed isn't actually her main concern. Because becoming homeless is.
"I moved to Northwick to take up my current job," she says, "so I took a lease on my flat for a year as soon as I started work. But that runs out a couple of days after my employment contract ends, and I haven't managed to find anywhere else to live yet."
"Ah, I see," I say - though when Rachel continues, it seems that actually I don't. Yet.
"I can't stay in the flat I'm living in, because it's slightly too expensive for Housing Benefit to cover the full cost of the rent while I'm still trying to get another job, but I can't find anywhere else through any of the agencies."
Rachel pauses, and corrects herself:
"Well, I have found one place that would just about be affordable," she says,"but now everything's going wrong and it looks like I'm still going to end up being homeless by the end of February."
It takes ages to get to the bottom of what is going on, partly because tears keep rolling down Rachel's face, and then she stops to apologise for crying as she scrabbles for tissues in her bag. I don't blame her, actually. If I was in her situation, I'd put my head on the desk and bawl like a baby.
It turns out that the flat Rachel's found through an agency is at a rent that is reasonable enough to be covered by Housing Benefit during the time that she's between jobs. But the trouble started when she didn't tell the agent that her current job was about to end, because she was scared that the owner of the flat wouldn't accept a tenant who might end up on benefit, for however short a period that might be.
"I asked the agent what questions they asked on the reference and credit check forms," she says. "And he said that they only want to know the start date of your current contract, and the name and address of your employer - so I thought the landlord wouldn't need to know that I might be unemployed - especially as I'm determined it won't be for long."
She looks apologetically up at me, as if she has something to be ashamed of.
"I'd probably have done the same myself," I say. "If I was in your position."
I'm not being polite either - I'd do whatever it took to avoid becoming homeless, though I'm not sure Rachel believes me. She does smile, though, and then continues with her story.
"So I decided to apply for the flat - as it was the only one I could find at such a low rent - and told the agent to start the process of checking me out to see whether I'd be approved. I had to give him £200.00 to pay for that, and then he gave me the forms to fill in and to give to my employer."
"So the £200.00 was your deposit then?" I say. "Or will you have to pay rent in advance on top of that?"
"Oh, God, yes," says Rachel. "And my bond, too. The £200.00 was only to cover the agency's fee for assessing whether I'd make a suitable tenant. I'll have to find the money for the bond and the rent in advance - before I can claim back the other bond I had to put down on my current flat. So that's one of my big problems. I only earn £13,500.00 a year anyway, so trying to find that kind of money when I first moved to Northwick was hard enough, but it's even worse having to find a second lot and more agency fees, while I'm still paying rent on the flat I'm in until the end of next month."
You can tell from the way that Rachel talks about her family that there is no chance that they can afford to help her out. She's apparently one of those bright kids who made good through working hard at school: born and brought up on a council estate, but now a graduate in one of Michael Gove's favoured academic subjects.
I bet her family thought their daughter's future would be brighter than theirs had been - until the bloody credit crunch blew that out of the water in the year she graduated. Instead of building a career, Rachel's already had one long period of unemployment since she left her Russell Group university, and she seems understandably anxious that she might be about to start another.
"I'm going on about it, aren't I?" she says. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to - but I'm just so angry that no-one in power seems to get what it's like for people in my situation, so I felt I had to come here to try and make my voice heard. I know you can't really do anything quickly enough to help me, but maybe Mr Sinclair could try and argue for changes to help other people in my situation - though I don't know what exactly. I'm having trouble thinking straight."
"Have you been approved for this new flat, then?" I say. "So at least you'll have somewhere to live by the end of next month?"
"No," says Rachel. "It turns out that the agent was wrong when he said that the application form only asked for the start date of my employment contract. It doesn't - so now I'm going to have to tell the truth: that I'll be out of a job in a month's time. And the agent thinks my application will be turned down because the landlord doesn't take tenants who are on benefit."
I don't know what to say to this. The tabloids make it sound like there are vast swathes of unscrupulous buy-to-let landlords out there, all desperately seeking the sick and unemployed as tenants, and only too happy to get their hands on Housing Benefit. Rachel's case paints a rather different picture.
I mean, let's not forget: this is a young graduate with a good degree - employed for the last year and desperate not to be unemployed again. She thinks and acts responsibly, by giving up the contract on where she lives because it's too expensive to be covered by Housing Benefit, and she knows she may have to make a short claim in between jobs.
Then she has to find hundreds of pounds for her bond and as rent in advance for the new flat, while she's still paying rent for the one she's living in, and she can't get her original deposit back in time to use it cover the one on the new flat. And to cap it all, she's made to pay £200.00 to an agent who has misinformed her about the landlord's requirements, so she may end up homeless anyway.
Given the bloody fuss that some of the usual suspects make about absolutely nothing, I'm amazed that Rachel isn't smashing the office up with frustration. But she just sits there, quietly, tearing bits of tissue between her fingers, while I try to make sense of the situation.
"So, if the worst comes to the worst, and the landlord and agent do say that you can't have the new flat because you might be on Housing Benefit for a while, you will get your £200.00 fee back, won't you?" I say.
"No," says Rachel. "It's non-refundable, so I've lost it if that happens."
I look at her in disbelief for a second, before I pull myself together and try a different tack.
"What about the Council's statutory duty to the homeless?" I say. "We could write to them on your behalf. Oh, but I suppose they say you don't fall into one of their priority groups, do they?"
"Yes," she says. "Seeing as I'm not a single parent, or anything. Or even an ex-con."
Gah. Sometimes I could bloody well scream. It's about time politicians - and probably oil barons too - started doing something to help people, especially those who want to bloody work. And preferably before I have a stroke with the rage that I feel on Rachel's behalf, which might have something to do with the fact that there but for the grace of God goes Connie, and probably me, too - if Max leaves me and I lose my job.
So now I'm going to contact everyone I can think of to see if there's anything we can do. But, if one thing's for sure, it's that Rachel won't be the only young person in this situation.
Maybe we, Joe Public, could force those buy-to-let landlords who have mortgages through RBS or one of the other bloody banks we supposedly own, to accept responsible tenants like Rachel - without making them pay all these stupid upfront fees - even if they are forced by the economic situation to be unemployed for a while. And look again at the criteria we use for those who merit housing, too.
Perhaps I should suggest to Nick Clegg that, if his Party want to earn any credibility back with the 18-30 age group, then this is one of the issues they should focus on, if the LibDems don't want to be dead in the water at the next election? Or maybe David Cameron might like to prove that he does have a clue about what life's like for ordinary people even though Andy Coulson's no longer there to tell him about it.
Come to think of it, if Andy's got nothing on at the moment, he might fancy leading the campaign...
Monday, 24 January 2011
A Matter of Eggs And Death, And A Joke Turns Very Sour Indeed.
"Am I always right, or am I always right?" says Greg, as he walks into the office this morning.
"About what?" I say, though I'm not really paying attention.
I'm too busy trying to gauge whether the latest parcel sent by a local animal rights activist contains a bomb. (You wouldn't believe how many of them put their correct addresses on the packaging, though this is by no means a guarantee that the contents will prove to be innocuous.)
"Metal-framed glasses," says Greg. "Only ever worn by serial killers and paedophiles."
"Not always," I say, thinking of Johnny's eyewear and hoping Greg is wrong. "And anyway, you said they had to have a double bar across the nose to qualify. Now shut up for a minute - I'm trying to see if this makes a noise when I shake it."
Greg gives me a pitying look, then snatches the parcel from my hands, rushes to the doorway and says,
"Get under your desk!"
It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, before realising how unwise this is. As I stand back up, I see Greg throw the parcel - overarm - as far as he can down the corridor, where Vicky trips over it as she exits the lift. She jumps, but only from surprise.
"Safe," says Greg, retrieving the package and tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette. "Unlike people who wear those glasses. I knew that Tabak bloke had murdered Jo Yeates as soon as I saw his specs."
"You also knew that her landlord had done it when you saw his hair," I say. "So you'll forgive me if I don't always think you're right. Though thank God you were about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up."
"That's because he's an idiot," says Vicky, as she pushes past Greg on her way to the Oprah Room. He sticks his tongue out at her as she slams the door, then lowers his voice and says,
"You'd already ripped the corner of the paper, Mol - so I could see the plastic casing before I threw it."
He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. Wonders will never cease, and I'm about to make a sarcastic remark to that effect when an email pops into my in-box. From Johnny, wanting to confirm when we're meeting on Wednesday, and whether I've booked my rail ticket to London yet.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
"Expressive - but a bit repetitive," says Greg, putting a mug of coffee down on my desk. "Where's the thesaurus gone?"
"I told The Boss to take it with him," I say. "To find an alternative to saying he's had an 'interesting meeting' whenever he updates that wretched blog of his. Gave him the dictionary and a local map too - after he mis-spelled the names of half the parishes in his last post. And, anyway, shit is the only word that sums up what I've gone and done."
"Oh, shit," says Greg, when I've finished explaining that I've just realised that I don't have any money to get to London, or to pay for anything when I'm there. Which rather proves my point.
I bang my head on the desk several times, while Greg thinks aloud - which doesn't take long, and isn't very effective either.
"Well, Johnny's loaded," he says. "So just get him to pay for everything. He won't mind. He's maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look a mess."
"Thanks," I say. "And, anyway, I can't do that. What do you think I am?"
"Stupid," says Greg. "What's the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don't get any money out of it?"
"Or any sex," I say, before reverting to banging my head again. "Why aren't MPs' staff paid until the very last day of the bloody month?"
If I worked for Northwick Council, I'd have been paid days ago, and then this wouldn't have been such a problem. Except that actually it would, because Max has worked out we're not going to have any money even after we've both been paid. And the bank is hardly likely to lend me any, is it? Not when they've got all those bloody bonuses to pay.
"They like to make us suffer," says Greg. "And I'm broke 'til payday too, so I can't lend you any either - sorry, Mol. What are you going to do?"
"Lie," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. "I shall have to tell Johnny I've been struck down with a mystery illness at the last minute. Or, rather, you'll have to do it for me. I'm terrible at lying."
Thank God Johnny has to come to the UK this week anyway. I'd feel even more awful about the whole thing if he was only flying over to see me but, as he isn't, I'm hoping he'll forgive me. Not that this is very likely if Greg doesn't get a grip.
He says he hasn't had this much fun in ages, and spends the next few hours drafting a series of ever more unlikely explanations, finally settling upon one in which I am to be hospitalised after opening a parcel bomb containing non-free range eggs.
"And the beauty of this idea is that you won't be able to communicate with Johnny until you're released," he says. "Because you will be deaf from the blast, and won't be able to text or type due to the fragments of eggshell that have lodged behind your eyeballs."
I look at him in amazement, which he mis-reads as approval. (Which often happens with mad constituents, too.)
"This is where my expertise in horror films comes in useful," he says.
"Or your fondness for Wallace and Gromit," I say. "Sounds about as credible as A Matter of Loaf and Death."
Greg gives me a reproachful look.
"I thought you said it was," he says. "And beggars can't be choosers. Are we going with this idea or not?"
"No," I say. "Try and think of something a little more Gromit, and a little less Wallace. The man's a bumbling idiot."
Greg sighs, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed yet again, and run over to kick it back to life.
"You really should have more respect, Molly," he says. "Both for me, and for Wallace. He is our leader, after all."
I can't help laughing, but I stop as soon as I get an email from Johnny about events at Moscow's Domodedovo Airport.
"I only meant for you to get blown up, Mol," says Greg, who has gone a very funny shade of green.
I can't think of anything at all to say in response.
"About what?" I say, though I'm not really paying attention.
I'm too busy trying to gauge whether the latest parcel sent by a local animal rights activist contains a bomb. (You wouldn't believe how many of them put their correct addresses on the packaging, though this is by no means a guarantee that the contents will prove to be innocuous.)
"Metal-framed glasses," says Greg. "Only ever worn by serial killers and paedophiles."
"Not always," I say, thinking of Johnny's eyewear and hoping Greg is wrong. "And anyway, you said they had to have a double bar across the nose to qualify. Now shut up for a minute - I'm trying to see if this makes a noise when I shake it."
Greg gives me a pitying look, then snatches the parcel from my hands, rushes to the doorway and says,
"Get under your desk!"
It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, before realising how unwise this is. As I stand back up, I see Greg throw the parcel - overarm - as far as he can down the corridor, where Vicky trips over it as she exits the lift. She jumps, but only from surprise.
"Safe," says Greg, retrieving the package and tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette. "Unlike people who wear those glasses. I knew that Tabak bloke had murdered Jo Yeates as soon as I saw his specs."
"You also knew that her landlord had done it when you saw his hair," I say. "So you'll forgive me if I don't always think you're right. Though thank God you were about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up."
"That's because he's an idiot," says Vicky, as she pushes past Greg on her way to the Oprah Room. He sticks his tongue out at her as she slams the door, then lowers his voice and says,
"You'd already ripped the corner of the paper, Mol - so I could see the plastic casing before I threw it."
He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. Wonders will never cease, and I'm about to make a sarcastic remark to that effect when an email pops into my in-box. From Johnny, wanting to confirm when we're meeting on Wednesday, and whether I've booked my rail ticket to London yet.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
"Expressive - but a bit repetitive," says Greg, putting a mug of coffee down on my desk. "Where's the thesaurus gone?"
"I told The Boss to take it with him," I say. "To find an alternative to saying he's had an 'interesting meeting' whenever he updates that wretched blog of his. Gave him the dictionary and a local map too - after he mis-spelled the names of half the parishes in his last post. And, anyway, shit is the only word that sums up what I've gone and done."
"Oh, shit," says Greg, when I've finished explaining that I've just realised that I don't have any money to get to London, or to pay for anything when I'm there. Which rather proves my point.
I bang my head on the desk several times, while Greg thinks aloud - which doesn't take long, and isn't very effective either.
"Well, Johnny's loaded," he says. "So just get him to pay for everything. He won't mind. He's maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look a mess."
"Thanks," I say. "And, anyway, I can't do that. What do you think I am?"
"Stupid," says Greg. "What's the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don't get any money out of it?"
"Or any sex," I say, before reverting to banging my head again. "Why aren't MPs' staff paid until the very last day of the bloody month?"
If I worked for Northwick Council, I'd have been paid days ago, and then this wouldn't have been such a problem. Except that actually it would, because Max has worked out we're not going to have any money even after we've both been paid. And the bank is hardly likely to lend me any, is it? Not when they've got all those bloody bonuses to pay.
"They like to make us suffer," says Greg. "And I'm broke 'til payday too, so I can't lend you any either - sorry, Mol. What are you going to do?"
"Lie," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. "I shall have to tell Johnny I've been struck down with a mystery illness at the last minute. Or, rather, you'll have to do it for me. I'm terrible at lying."
Thank God Johnny has to come to the UK this week anyway. I'd feel even more awful about the whole thing if he was only flying over to see me but, as he isn't, I'm hoping he'll forgive me. Not that this is very likely if Greg doesn't get a grip.
He says he hasn't had this much fun in ages, and spends the next few hours drafting a series of ever more unlikely explanations, finally settling upon one in which I am to be hospitalised after opening a parcel bomb containing non-free range eggs.
"And the beauty of this idea is that you won't be able to communicate with Johnny until you're released," he says. "Because you will be deaf from the blast, and won't be able to text or type due to the fragments of eggshell that have lodged behind your eyeballs."
I look at him in amazement, which he mis-reads as approval. (Which often happens with mad constituents, too.)
"This is where my expertise in horror films comes in useful," he says.
"Or your fondness for Wallace and Gromit," I say. "Sounds about as credible as A Matter of Loaf and Death."
Greg gives me a reproachful look.
"I thought you said it was," he says. "And beggars can't be choosers. Are we going with this idea or not?"
"No," I say. "Try and think of something a little more Gromit, and a little less Wallace. The man's a bumbling idiot."
Greg sighs, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed yet again, and run over to kick it back to life.
"You really should have more respect, Molly," he says. "Both for me, and for Wallace. He is our leader, after all."
I can't help laughing, but I stop as soon as I get an email from Johnny about events at Moscow's Domodedovo Airport.
"I only meant for you to get blown up, Mol," says Greg, who has gone a very funny shade of green.
I can't think of anything at all to say in response.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
There's A Hole In My Ideology, Dear Liza, Dear Liza.
Bloody hell, what are Max and I doing wrong? Well, obviously, we're not earning enough - but why? Apart from the undeniable fact that we both have a talent for negotiating the lowest-possible payment for any job we ever do.
After today's events, Max says it must just be because we make very bad decisions - like staying married and declaring our earnings. Not that I can allow myself to listen to him - not when The Boss has already called me a fascist.
I just wish there was the occasional PLP Briefing for dealing with disaffected husbands, as well as for responding to anecdotal evidence that policies don't always work as they're intended to. Some of which we discover this afternoon.
It's getting dark and Max and I are sitting at the table sorting through the bills when Josh and Holly arrive, after what has obviously been a major Sunday shopping spree.
As usual, Josh has bought only one item - yet another bloody hat - but as it's from Northwick's premier men's designer clothes shop, it probably represents a week's wages for him. I have no idea why teenage boys are so set against Primark. Holly isn't, though: she's laden with brown paper carrier bags.
"Holly's dad's going to pick her up in a minute," says Josh. "So we thought we'd just hang out here until he arrives."
"What've you bought, then?" I say. "Come on, show me. I need some excitement."
I'm fed up with trying to make our bank statement add up and, anyway, in my job, one should never miss an opportunity to keep up with what's in fashion.
Politics doesn't exactly offer a multitude of style icons as role models, after all. (Samantha Cameron doesn't count given her clothing budget and, as for Theresa May's sartorial choices: don't even go there unless looking like a slightly deranged Vulcan is the aim.)
Josh shows me a hat that looks exactly the same as all his other ones, so it's a bit difficult to feign much enthusiasm for his purchase. Holly's are a different story, though. She smiles and tips the bags upside down, revealing a series of pretty tops, a handbag, and a really cute jacket. She holds each item up in turn for my approval.
"Bloody hell," I say. "Fantastic. Not that you wouldn't look good wearing sackcloth and ashes, Hol. But how on earth can you afford all that? You must be much better with your wages than we are, if the state of our bank account is anything to go by."
Holly shakes her head and laughs.
"Nah," she says. "I'm not. Just got my EMA, that's all."
I'm confused, but I don't like to say so. Or not to Holly, anyway. I've got no such scruples when it comes to Josh, though: so I ask him for the lowdown instead, as soon as she leaves the house.
"Joshua," I say. "Just curious: how much EMA does Holly get a week on top of what she earns from her job at her aunt's cafe?"
"£30:00, as far as I know," he says. "Why?"
"Bloody hell," says Max. "How - with both her parents working? Don't they have to earn below £10,000 or something for her to get as much EMA as that?"
I shake my head, but Max doesn't notice. He's too busy staring at Josh, who's fidgeting like mad, as if he wishes we'd both shut up.
"Well, her mum only works a few hours a week helping out at the school," he says. "And her dad doesn't work at all, of course."
"Yes, he does," says Max. "He's a bloody window-cleaner. He told me that himself."
"Well, maybe he told you," says Josh. "But that doesn't mean he tells the tax man, does it?"
Seeing Max's expression, Josh leaves the room as fast as he can, and heads upstairs to his room. I think he's probably resorted to shooting virtual nosy parents as therapy now, judging by the sound of gunshots that's coming through the ceiling. Do teenagers have to have the bass so loud on these bloody games?
Max sighs, and looks over at me. He's about to say something, when Pat sends me a text. I read it, then groan in envy.
"What is it now?" says Max, who has abandoned the bank statement and is attempting to "chat" with Connie on Facebook instead - a bit of a challenge for someone with his distinctive one-fingered typing style.
"I'm so jealous," I say. "All Holly's new clothes, and now Pat's got a new dress too - and hers is from AllSaints!"
"I know," says Max. "She's just posted it as her Facebook status too. From her new iPhone, for f*ck's sake."
I can't think of anything to say to that, but it seems as if Max isn't expecting a reply. He's on a roll.
"Pat still unemployed, Mol?" he says.
"I think so," I say. I have a horrible feeling I know where he's going with this.
"Still doing that mobile aromatherapy service as well?"
"I don't know, Max," I say. "I always think it's better not to ask - and anyway, it's not easy for her to work in a proper job, is it? She's a single parent."
"And no doubt penniless - just like that woman who's been bonking Lord Strathclyde."
Max rolls his eyes at me, and then shuffles all the bills and the bank statements into a pile, before throwing them into the broken filing tray I brought home from work. It's already full, so they slide straight off and onto the floor, where he decides to leave them.
"Well, at least it seems that a private education isn't the advantage everyone always thinks it is," I say. "Not if Birgit Cunningham is as destitute as she claims. Not very good publicity for Roedean, is she?"
"Maybe not," says Max. "But that's not the point. I reckon we'd better re-think our career choices. At the risk of sounding like a Sun reader: we'd be better off at the moment if I became a supposedly-unemployed window cleaner than I am while doing my bloody job. Unless you divorce me, get pregnant, and become a single, unemployed aromatherapist - if that is how Pat's still not earning her living?"
I open my mouth to say something about the Black Economy of Thatcher's 1980s, when a searing pain shoots though my tooth, and I decide that I can't be bothered. Max watches me wince, then strikes the killer blow in our newly-fascist household:
"I bet Pat's and Holly's families get free dental treatment, too," he says. "As well as that bloody Birgit woman. So you get the J-Cloths, Mol, and I'll find the bucket."
After today's events, Max says it must just be because we make very bad decisions - like staying married and declaring our earnings. Not that I can allow myself to listen to him - not when The Boss has already called me a fascist.
I just wish there was the occasional PLP Briefing for dealing with disaffected husbands, as well as for responding to anecdotal evidence that policies don't always work as they're intended to. Some of which we discover this afternoon.
It's getting dark and Max and I are sitting at the table sorting through the bills when Josh and Holly arrive, after what has obviously been a major Sunday shopping spree.
As usual, Josh has bought only one item - yet another bloody hat - but as it's from Northwick's premier men's designer clothes shop, it probably represents a week's wages for him. I have no idea why teenage boys are so set against Primark. Holly isn't, though: she's laden with brown paper carrier bags.
"Holly's dad's going to pick her up in a minute," says Josh. "So we thought we'd just hang out here until he arrives."
"What've you bought, then?" I say. "Come on, show me. I need some excitement."
I'm fed up with trying to make our bank statement add up and, anyway, in my job, one should never miss an opportunity to keep up with what's in fashion.
Politics doesn't exactly offer a multitude of style icons as role models, after all. (Samantha Cameron doesn't count given her clothing budget and, as for Theresa May's sartorial choices: don't even go there unless looking like a slightly deranged Vulcan is the aim.)
Josh shows me a hat that looks exactly the same as all his other ones, so it's a bit difficult to feign much enthusiasm for his purchase. Holly's are a different story, though. She smiles and tips the bags upside down, revealing a series of pretty tops, a handbag, and a really cute jacket. She holds each item up in turn for my approval.
"Bloody hell," I say. "Fantastic. Not that you wouldn't look good wearing sackcloth and ashes, Hol. But how on earth can you afford all that? You must be much better with your wages than we are, if the state of our bank account is anything to go by."
Holly shakes her head and laughs.
"Nah," she says. "I'm not. Just got my EMA, that's all."
I'm confused, but I don't like to say so. Or not to Holly, anyway. I've got no such scruples when it comes to Josh, though: so I ask him for the lowdown instead, as soon as she leaves the house.
"Joshua," I say. "Just curious: how much EMA does Holly get a week on top of what she earns from her job at her aunt's cafe?"
"£30:00, as far as I know," he says. "Why?"
"Bloody hell," says Max. "How - with both her parents working? Don't they have to earn below £10,000 or something for her to get as much EMA as that?"
I shake my head, but Max doesn't notice. He's too busy staring at Josh, who's fidgeting like mad, as if he wishes we'd both shut up.
"Well, her mum only works a few hours a week helping out at the school," he says. "And her dad doesn't work at all, of course."
"Yes, he does," says Max. "He's a bloody window-cleaner. He told me that himself."
"Well, maybe he told you," says Josh. "But that doesn't mean he tells the tax man, does it?"
Seeing Max's expression, Josh leaves the room as fast as he can, and heads upstairs to his room. I think he's probably resorted to shooting virtual nosy parents as therapy now, judging by the sound of gunshots that's coming through the ceiling. Do teenagers have to have the bass so loud on these bloody games?
Max sighs, and looks over at me. He's about to say something, when Pat sends me a text. I read it, then groan in envy.
"What is it now?" says Max, who has abandoned the bank statement and is attempting to "chat" with Connie on Facebook instead - a bit of a challenge for someone with his distinctive one-fingered typing style.
"I'm so jealous," I say. "All Holly's new clothes, and now Pat's got a new dress too - and hers is from AllSaints!"
"I know," says Max. "She's just posted it as her Facebook status too. From her new iPhone, for f*ck's sake."
I can't think of anything to say to that, but it seems as if Max isn't expecting a reply. He's on a roll.
"Pat still unemployed, Mol?" he says.
"I think so," I say. I have a horrible feeling I know where he's going with this.
"Still doing that mobile aromatherapy service as well?"
"I don't know, Max," I say. "I always think it's better not to ask - and anyway, it's not easy for her to work in a proper job, is it? She's a single parent."
"And no doubt penniless - just like that woman who's been bonking Lord Strathclyde."
Max rolls his eyes at me, and then shuffles all the bills and the bank statements into a pile, before throwing them into the broken filing tray I brought home from work. It's already full, so they slide straight off and onto the floor, where he decides to leave them.
"Well, at least it seems that a private education isn't the advantage everyone always thinks it is," I say. "Not if Birgit Cunningham is as destitute as she claims. Not very good publicity for Roedean, is she?"
"Maybe not," says Max. "But that's not the point. I reckon we'd better re-think our career choices. At the risk of sounding like a Sun reader: we'd be better off at the moment if I became a supposedly-unemployed window cleaner than I am while doing my bloody job. Unless you divorce me, get pregnant, and become a single, unemployed aromatherapist - if that is how Pat's still not earning her living?"
I open my mouth to say something about the Black Economy of Thatcher's 1980s, when a searing pain shoots though my tooth, and I decide that I can't be bothered. Max watches me wince, then strikes the killer blow in our newly-fascist household:
"I bet Pat's and Holly's families get free dental treatment, too," he says. "As well as that bloody Birgit woman. So you get the J-Cloths, Mol, and I'll find the bucket."
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Why I Have Nothing In Common With Anthony Blunt Or Attractive Russian Redheads.
As if toothache wasn't bad enough, now I've got hypothermia as well. And I am rubbish at keeping secrets.
There seems to be something wrong with my syntax, too - given that I didn't mean to imply that my toothache and hypothermia should only be revealed to MI5, (as well as to a dentist when I can afford to see one). Other things, however, are supposed to be kept under wraps, but I seem to have forgotten that today. Anna Chapman I am not.
When I get up this morning, the house is freezing, and I have to add yet another thermal vest to the millions I'm already wearing. Then I can't move my arms at all, and anything resembling a waist has disappeared entirely.
I'm sitting on the sofa, talking to Max about poor old Alan Johnson and why decent people always get shafted - if that isn't an unfortunate phrase - when I notice something odd about the colour of my hands.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" he says. "Why are you shaking your arms around like that?"
"I can't feel them," I say. "At all. And my hands are blue. Am I having a heart attack?" (Max may occasionally be right when he claims that I get more like Mum by the day.)
He leans over and squeezes the tops of my arms.
"No," he says. "You're not. But the sleeves on that jumper are way too tight. What the hell have you got on underneath it? You've probably cut your circulation off."
"Five vests," I say. "One more than usual. But it's so cold that I had to put it on."
Max looks a bit shifty, and makes one of those non-committal grunting noises that are usually The Boss' speciality.
"What?" I say.
"Talking about the cold," he says. "It's because I've turned the heating off. We can't afford it at the moment."
Good God, is he mad? We only have the heating on for a couple of hours twice a day as it is, so it's not as if we're going over the top - unlike most of our friends, who just turn their thermostats up the moment it becomes too chilly to sit around wearing a t-shirt.
Maybe that's why they are always otherwise engaged when we invite them to come and stay during the winter. And why their waists are more visible than mine, and they haven't lost the use of their arms.
Anyway, now Max has really got me worried, so I give him one of my Infected looks to make it clear that anything other than The Whole Truth would be pointless, before I start questioning him.
"We both get paid within the next ten days," I say. "So surely we can have the heating on some of the time? We won't have to pay for it before then."
"Yes, well," he says. "That's sort of the point. I've just found out I'll only be getting my basic this month. Don't seem to have earned any commission, or only £20:00 anyway."
It is definitely not an exaggeration to say that you can feel it when you turn white with shock, though even that's probably a more attractive colour than the weird shade of grey that Max's face has suddenly become. He looks slightly less healthy than John Major did in Spitting Image.
"Oh, my God," I say. "Your basic? Just your basic?"
"Yes," says Max, as if that's all that needs to be said, which I suppose it should be. But I never know when to stop, as my sex-life seems to demonstrate all too clearly. Flogging a dead horse, I think they call it.
"Well, what the hell am I going to do about your birthday party, then?" I say.
"What birthday party?" says Max.
Now I see why no-one from the security services has ever tried to recruit me.
There seems to be something wrong with my syntax, too - given that I didn't mean to imply that my toothache and hypothermia should only be revealed to MI5, (as well as to a dentist when I can afford to see one). Other things, however, are supposed to be kept under wraps, but I seem to have forgotten that today. Anna Chapman I am not.
When I get up this morning, the house is freezing, and I have to add yet another thermal vest to the millions I'm already wearing. Then I can't move my arms at all, and anything resembling a waist has disappeared entirely.
I'm sitting on the sofa, talking to Max about poor old Alan Johnson and why decent people always get shafted - if that isn't an unfortunate phrase - when I notice something odd about the colour of my hands.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" he says. "Why are you shaking your arms around like that?"
"I can't feel them," I say. "At all. And my hands are blue. Am I having a heart attack?" (Max may occasionally be right when he claims that I get more like Mum by the day.)
He leans over and squeezes the tops of my arms.
"No," he says. "You're not. But the sleeves on that jumper are way too tight. What the hell have you got on underneath it? You've probably cut your circulation off."
"Five vests," I say. "One more than usual. But it's so cold that I had to put it on."
Max looks a bit shifty, and makes one of those non-committal grunting noises that are usually The Boss' speciality.
"What?" I say.
"Talking about the cold," he says. "It's because I've turned the heating off. We can't afford it at the moment."
Good God, is he mad? We only have the heating on for a couple of hours twice a day as it is, so it's not as if we're going over the top - unlike most of our friends, who just turn their thermostats up the moment it becomes too chilly to sit around wearing a t-shirt.
Maybe that's why they are always otherwise engaged when we invite them to come and stay during the winter. And why their waists are more visible than mine, and they haven't lost the use of their arms.
Anyway, now Max has really got me worried, so I give him one of my Infected looks to make it clear that anything other than The Whole Truth would be pointless, before I start questioning him.
"We both get paid within the next ten days," I say. "So surely we can have the heating on some of the time? We won't have to pay for it before then."
"Yes, well," he says. "That's sort of the point. I've just found out I'll only be getting my basic this month. Don't seem to have earned any commission, or only £20:00 anyway."
It is definitely not an exaggeration to say that you can feel it when you turn white with shock, though even that's probably a more attractive colour than the weird shade of grey that Max's face has suddenly become. He looks slightly less healthy than John Major did in Spitting Image.
"Oh, my God," I say. "Your basic? Just your basic?"
"Yes," says Max, as if that's all that needs to be said, which I suppose it should be. But I never know when to stop, as my sex-life seems to demonstrate all too clearly. Flogging a dead horse, I think they call it.
"Well, what the hell am I going to do about your birthday party, then?" I say.
"What birthday party?" says Max.
Now I see why no-one from the security services has ever tried to recruit me.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Why One Should Always Expect The Unexpected.
You learn something new every day, don't you? But I certainly wasn't expecting it to be that.
The Boss comes into the office quite early, ready for an appointment with someone called Brian Sadler, whom Andrew says he hasn't seen for years.
"He's not a constituent, then?" I ask. "The name doesn't ring any bells with me."
"No, he's not," says Andrew. "Just a very old friend, who wants me to do him a favour. I'll see him in private when he arrives. All you need to do is show him in and then bugger off and leave us alone."
The trouble with Andrew is that he can't sit still for a second, and he can't wait for anything either. So when Brian isn't here on the dot of 09:30am, Andrew gets bored and rings the local paper to offer them an interview. About the EU and herbal medicines, or something of equal concern to the population of the Easemount estate, who form the paper's main readership. He never takes his audience into account.
Anyway, he's still chuntering away on the phone when Brian arrives, so I have no option but to make a coffee and offer Brian a seat in my office while he waits for The Boss to finish.
"So how's my old mate, Andrew, then?" he says. "Still full of hot air, I see."
"Hmm," I say.
Non-committal is always best - seeing as Brian's question could all too easily be a trap. Just because Andy Coulson's finally decided to resign doesn't mean it's now safe to make unguarded comments, after all.
I wouldn't put anything past anyone these days, which is probably a very sad reflection of the world view of most MPs' staff - with the exception of Vince Cable's, of course. Who'd do well to learn from the cynics amongst us when booking their boss' surgery appointments in future.
"You'd never think Andrew used to be a Tory, would you?" says Brian.
He smiles as he waits for my reaction, but I don't say anything, as I'm too incredulous for speech. I just sit there, staring at him with my mouth wide open. (I must stop doing that: I know it makes me look gormless.)
"Don't believe me?" he says.
I shake my head, as the door to the Oprah Room opens, and The Boss comes out.
"Molly doesn't believe what?" says Andrew.
"Just some of the things you got up to when we were at college, dear boy," says Brian.
Andrew looks at his so-called friend as if he'd like to strangle him, then pulls himself together and makes some half-arsed laughing noises, though they're not exactly convincing. Then he puts his arm round Brian's shoulder and almost drags him into the Oprah Room.
As soon as Andrew slams the door, I hustle Greg into the corridor to tell him what Brian said. Away from Vicky's big ears. (This is not a metaphor: you can see them whenever she does that hair-flicking thing.)
Annoyingly, Greg isn't half as surprised by Brian's revelation as he damn well should be, which takes all the fun out of passing it on. I sulk, until he explains why he hasn't fainted with shock, as I'd been assuming he would.
"Always suspected something like that," he says. "The Boss tries far too hard to be more left-wing than anyone else. It's that 'protests too much' thing that gives it away."
"I didn't think of that," I say. "Very Shakespearean. Since when did you get to be so smart?"
"Since half the women I go to bed with try to pull the same trick," he says. "The minute they start making a racket, I always know they're putting it on."
Ha - I knew that Ellen was pretending! I must find a way to drop this pearl of wisdom into a conversation with Max - just in case he's fallen for all the yelling she does whenever she entertains, or whatever she calls it. Especially when her bloody bedroom window's open.
Mind you, even Ellen doesn't do as much yelling as The Boss does when he's in a mood, which he certainly seems to be once Brian has left. He even shouts at me a couple of times in front of constituents during surgery. I'm not sure who is more uncomfortable about it: me or them.
Andrew carries on in this vein for the rest of the day - except when he's ignoring me instead - but both options are almost equally wearing. I'm pretty fed up by 5:00pm and still have no idea why he's behaving like this, so I decide to tackle him about it before I miss my chance.
It's not easy get him in private, though, because Vicky's never far from his side; but I finally manage it by dint of following them both into the car park after work.
I hang back until they've said their goodbyes and Vicky has driven off, and then, as soon as Andrew gets into his own car, I sneak towards it under cover of some bushes. Rather like a panther, now I come to think of it.
I tap on the window, and The Boss opens it, rolling his eyes as he does so.
"Andrew, can I have a word?" I say. "It won't take long."
He says nothing, although he does pause in the act of starting the engine. Then he just glares at me and waits for me to speak.
"What on earth's the matter with you today?" I say. "You're like a bear with a sore head. And I wish you'd stop shouting at me in front of everyone. It's embarrassing, as well as not very professional."
"Let's just say I'm not comfortable with working with a fascist," says Andrew.
This seems like a non-sequitur, so I resort to the open-mouthed staring again, coupled with an excessively-raised eyebrow.
"Vicky told me what you said about Michael Gove," he says. "Seems like you're working for the wrong MP. We're supposed to be Socialists in this office, you know, Molly."
"Well, at least I've never been a member of the bloody Tory Party," I say. "Unlike you - or so I hear."
This must be the first time in my life that I've ever managed to come up with a cutting response while the person who deserved it was still present. Though, judging by The Boss' expression when he revs the engine before he drives off, I suspect it's going to cost me dear.
The Boss comes into the office quite early, ready for an appointment with someone called Brian Sadler, whom Andrew says he hasn't seen for years.
"He's not a constituent, then?" I ask. "The name doesn't ring any bells with me."
"No, he's not," says Andrew. "Just a very old friend, who wants me to do him a favour. I'll see him in private when he arrives. All you need to do is show him in and then bugger off and leave us alone."
The trouble with Andrew is that he can't sit still for a second, and he can't wait for anything either. So when Brian isn't here on the dot of 09:30am, Andrew gets bored and rings the local paper to offer them an interview. About the EU and herbal medicines, or something of equal concern to the population of the Easemount estate, who form the paper's main readership. He never takes his audience into account.
Anyway, he's still chuntering away on the phone when Brian arrives, so I have no option but to make a coffee and offer Brian a seat in my office while he waits for The Boss to finish.
"So how's my old mate, Andrew, then?" he says. "Still full of hot air, I see."
"Hmm," I say.
Non-committal is always best - seeing as Brian's question could all too easily be a trap. Just because Andy Coulson's finally decided to resign doesn't mean it's now safe to make unguarded comments, after all.
I wouldn't put anything past anyone these days, which is probably a very sad reflection of the world view of most MPs' staff - with the exception of Vince Cable's, of course. Who'd do well to learn from the cynics amongst us when booking their boss' surgery appointments in future.
"You'd never think Andrew used to be a Tory, would you?" says Brian.
He smiles as he waits for my reaction, but I don't say anything, as I'm too incredulous for speech. I just sit there, staring at him with my mouth wide open. (I must stop doing that: I know it makes me look gormless.)
"Don't believe me?" he says.
I shake my head, as the door to the Oprah Room opens, and The Boss comes out.
"Molly doesn't believe what?" says Andrew.
"Just some of the things you got up to when we were at college, dear boy," says Brian.
Andrew looks at his so-called friend as if he'd like to strangle him, then pulls himself together and makes some half-arsed laughing noises, though they're not exactly convincing. Then he puts his arm round Brian's shoulder and almost drags him into the Oprah Room.
As soon as Andrew slams the door, I hustle Greg into the corridor to tell him what Brian said. Away from Vicky's big ears. (This is not a metaphor: you can see them whenever she does that hair-flicking thing.)
Annoyingly, Greg isn't half as surprised by Brian's revelation as he damn well should be, which takes all the fun out of passing it on. I sulk, until he explains why he hasn't fainted with shock, as I'd been assuming he would.
"Always suspected something like that," he says. "The Boss tries far too hard to be more left-wing than anyone else. It's that 'protests too much' thing that gives it away."
"I didn't think of that," I say. "Very Shakespearean. Since when did you get to be so smart?"
"Since half the women I go to bed with try to pull the same trick," he says. "The minute they start making a racket, I always know they're putting it on."
Ha - I knew that Ellen was pretending! I must find a way to drop this pearl of wisdom into a conversation with Max - just in case he's fallen for all the yelling she does whenever she entertains, or whatever she calls it. Especially when her bloody bedroom window's open.
Mind you, even Ellen doesn't do as much yelling as The Boss does when he's in a mood, which he certainly seems to be once Brian has left. He even shouts at me a couple of times in front of constituents during surgery. I'm not sure who is more uncomfortable about it: me or them.
Andrew carries on in this vein for the rest of the day - except when he's ignoring me instead - but both options are almost equally wearing. I'm pretty fed up by 5:00pm and still have no idea why he's behaving like this, so I decide to tackle him about it before I miss my chance.
It's not easy get him in private, though, because Vicky's never far from his side; but I finally manage it by dint of following them both into the car park after work.
I hang back until they've said their goodbyes and Vicky has driven off, and then, as soon as Andrew gets into his own car, I sneak towards it under cover of some bushes. Rather like a panther, now I come to think of it.
I tap on the window, and The Boss opens it, rolling his eyes as he does so.
"Andrew, can I have a word?" I say. "It won't take long."
He says nothing, although he does pause in the act of starting the engine. Then he just glares at me and waits for me to speak.
"What on earth's the matter with you today?" I say. "You're like a bear with a sore head. And I wish you'd stop shouting at me in front of everyone. It's embarrassing, as well as not very professional."
"Let's just say I'm not comfortable with working with a fascist," says Andrew.
This seems like a non-sequitur, so I resort to the open-mouthed staring again, coupled with an excessively-raised eyebrow.
"Vicky told me what you said about Michael Gove," he says. "Seems like you're working for the wrong MP. We're supposed to be Socialists in this office, you know, Molly."
"Well, at least I've never been a member of the bloody Tory Party," I say. "Unlike you - or so I hear."
This must be the first time in my life that I've ever managed to come up with a cutting response while the person who deserved it was still present. Though, judging by The Boss' expression when he revs the engine before he drives off, I suspect it's going to cost me dear.
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