"Christ's sake," says Max this morning, while we're watching the breakfast news. "I'm getting a bit sick of this 'Squeezed Middle' thing. Have you seen what the people at the top of the band are earning? We should bloody well be so lucky."
"Funnily enough, you're not the first person to say that to me," I say. Which is a subtle hint that Max doesn't seem to pick up.
"And it'll be even worse when I lose my job," he says. "Our pips'll be squeaking all over the place."
"If you lose your job, not when," I say. "Think positive."
"At least you two are of working age," says Dad. "Whereas we poor pensioners are on a fixed income, you know."
God knows how Max and I refrain from squeezing a certain part of Dad's anatomy at that point - or from making sarcastic remarks about the terrible poverty he must be suffering if he can only afford half a dozen trips to Thailand a year, but we manage it somehow. Mainly by opting to leave for work earlier than usual - which proves to be a mistake, if by doing so I was hoping to escape discussion of people being metaphorically squeezed.
"That bloody phrase is already starting to become as annoying as 'hard-working people'," says Greg. "And far more meaningless, if the complaints we're getting are anything to go by. Listen to this."
I've got a horrible feeling that Greg may be considering a new career as a poet, if all the reading aloud he's been doing lately is anything to go by, but I keep quiet so as not to tempt fate.
Instead, I sit and fidget while he reads a very long letter from Philip Jervis, who's almost incandescent with rage at politicians' and the media's insistence on including people earning up to £44,000 in the category of those who are suffering the squeezing effect.
"I'm on £17,000 a year, and I'd happily swap any of those people," he writes. "Especially as I live in a rented house, and both my twins have had to come back home after university. Neither of them have managed to get jobs yet, and their food alone costs almost as much as they get in Jobseeker's Allowance, yet I can't claim anything for them now that they're adults - not even a share of the rent, which is going up in April. And the household bills have gone through the roof as well - what with the kids both stuck at home all day. Ed Miliband needs to think of a new phrase that separates me from people earning almost three times as much."
Now I'm really anxious about how Max and I will cope once - I mean, if - our income drops, especially while Josh is still working so few hours at the cinema. And what if Connie can't get a job after she graduates? It doesn't bear thinking about.
"What are you going to reply to that, then?" I say to Greg, while counting myself lucky that I wasn't the one who opened the letter.
"God knows," he says. "Though I'll probably refer Mr Jervis to the CAB and ask them to do a Better Off Calculation. And check if there really aren't any benefits he's entitled to."
That's a good idea, but I'm already pretty sure that Mr J is going to turn out to be earning just over the threshold for benefit, like loads of other constituents who are equally upset about this. And like Max and I will be, too - when he loses his job. If, I mean. Bloody hell, I need to get a grip.
"What are you looking so stressy about, Mol?" says Greg. "At least you're not in that situation."
"Not yet I'm not," I say. "But Max is probably going to lose his job before the end of the month. Or might, anyway."
I'm hoping Greg will tell me not to worry, and take over on the positive thinking front, seeing as I'm not doing too well at it - but he doesn't.
He just stares at me in horror, and then says, "How the hell will you manage then, Mol?" - which doesn't make me feel any better at all.
Nor does his decision to remind me that, if you're just over the benefit threshold, you're also excluded from "hidden extras" like free dental treatment and free prescriptions.
"Have you had your tooth fixed yet?" he says. "Since you broke it when you freaked out about that email you'd sent to Johnny?"
"No," I say. "Oh, God. Do you think I could claim it was an industrial injury? It was partly caused by the stress of the job, after all - and I bet you tooth-grinding's an occupational hazard amongst MPs' staff."
He nods in agreement, and is about to say something when the phone starts ringing, and I automatically pick up the receiver. Pavlov's Dogs had nothing on me.
Greg rolls his eyes in exasperation, and decides to make his point by resorting to mime instead - which seems to involve baring his teeth as much as he can, while pointing at them at the same time. He obviously thinks he's very funny, but he's not the only Marcel Marceau in this office. I make an effective gesture using two fingers and some extravagant wrist movements before I begin to speak into the receiver.
"Good afternoon, Andrew Sinclair's Office," I say. "Can I help you?"
See - a perfectly trained animal. Whose teeth are already beginning to clench with anticipation.
"Edmund Beales here," says Mr Beales Number One. "What about those stupid Special Forces people, then? Talk about a total shambles. And what were they wearing when they landed in Libya, anyway? High-visibility jackets, or something?"
I know exactly where this is going, even before he adds:
"That's probably why there were none left over for that Policeman I ran over to wear."
I bite down on yet another reply, and immediately wish I hadn't. Ow, ow, ow.
Honestly, my family might not be better off if I gave up work, but my teeth definitely would. I shall be a toothless old crone if this keeps up.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Sunday, 6 March 2011
How Daddies' Sauce Can Lead To Murderous Rage, Or Probably Should, Anyway..
I'm starting to think that Dad might have been safer if I'd left him where he was - at home, by himself. Max is looking murderous.
Not that I blame him one bit. Dad's even worse than The Boss for shouting at people from another room, and expecting them to go to him.
The whole thing starts almost as soon as we get up this morning, and find Dad reclining on the sofa, remote control already in his hand.
He's watching a cartoon, The Politics Show, and an old action movie - not simultaneously, obviously - but in strict rotation. He allows two minutes of each before turning over to the next one, and then repeats the whole cycle all over again. And again, ad infinitum. *ADHD doesn't even begin to describe it.
"I suppose you'd like some cereal, would you?" Max says to Dad. "What with your heart bypass and all that? I saw you brought your *Shredded Wheat with you."
"Good God, no - I don't want that," says Dad. "That's no meal for a real man. And you do a pretty good cooked breakfast, if I remember rightly - don't you, Max?"
Max rolls his eyes at me, but doesn't say anything in response. I'm probably supposed to step in to fill the breach but, after Dad talked all the way through The Killing last night, I don't much care if he survives 'til next Saturday or not, so he can eat all the sausages, eggs and bacon he wants, as far as I'm concerned. He ruined the highlight of my week!
"She doesn't make much effort, that Lund woman, does she?" said Dad. "Look at the state of that jumper. Is she a lesbian?"
"No," I say. "As you'd work out if you'd only concentrate on the programme for five minutes, and stop moaning about the subtitles. And there's nothing wrong with her jumper, anyway. It's bloody cold in Denmark."
"What's the excuse for your get-up, then, Molly?" said Dad, looking at my TV-watching fleece.
Luckily for him, he fell asleep shortly after that, which probably explains why he's still alive this morning. Not that he's any less annoying. Why the hell didn't I let Josh hide the remote control?
I keep Dad company for a few minutes, in the hope that he'll put the damn thing down, but when it becomes clear that he's hanging on to it for dear life, I give up and go to join Max in the kitchen - which is not my natural habitat, but it seems a better option than staying where I am. It would only have been a matter of time before I'd snapped and turned the TV off, snatched the remote out of Dad's hand and thrown it out of the window.
Making a pot of tea seems a less inflammatory option. For as long as it takes for it to brew, that is.
"Not as good a cuppa as usual," says Dad, when I take his mug through to the living room, where he continues to lie in state. "Max make this?"
"No," I say. "I did."
"That explains that, then," says Dad, which Max appears to find very funny indeed, and I don't.
Max stops smiling pretty sharpish, though, when, almost as soon as he starts cooking, Dad starts that bloody shouting thing he does.
"Max!" he calls. "Ma-ax!"
"What?" shouts Max, trying to cut the rind off the bacon and prick the sausages.
There's silence for a few seconds and then Dad shouts again:
"Ma-ax!"
I give in and walk to the living room.
"What do you want, Dad?" I say. "Max is trying to cook."
"Tell him to come here, quick," says Dad, who looks a bit red in the face, which is rather worrying. I make a silent vow never to moan about his television commentaries ever again, as long as he doesn't drop dead right this minute; and then I rush back to the kitchen to get Max.
"Dad needs you," I say. "I think there's something wrong."
Max slams the oven door shut, races down the hallway, and opens the door to the living room.
"Ah, Max!" says Dad. "Look at this car chase! Hang on, I'll just rewind."
I can't hear what Max replies as, by now, I've worked out that breakfast is going to take hours to prepare, unless I help. Or that's my intention anyway. I have no idea what always causes frozen hash browns to skid off the counter and fall on to the floor, whenever I try to prise them apart. Or why I always cut my hand on the knife.
"Let me take over," says Max. "This is the second car crash I've seen in the last thirty seconds."
I give him an icy smile, and then go off to the bathroom in search of a plaster. I'm on my way back downstairs when the cycle starts all over again.
"Ma-ax!"
This time, Dad apparently wants "a decent cup of tea" - which Max opts to make, though I am deemed competent to deliver it to His Master's Voice. I try to obscure the television screen for as long as possible before handing Dad the mug. Then I spill a bit accidentally on purpose onto his knee.
This seems to shut him up, and peace reigns for another couple of minutes, but then his dulcet tones ring out again. This time Dad tells Max that he has to watch and appreciate what "bloody idiots" Politicians are.
I know that only too well already and, anyway, I've completely given up by now, so I go outside and smoke what may well be the first of many cigarettes today. I can still hear Dad shouting, though I lose count of how many more trips back and forth Max makes - until he opens the back door to inform me that the food is finally cooked.
"I'm going to plate your dad's meal up first," he says. "Then his mouth might be too full of food to shout any more."
"Don't count on it," I say. "He's had a lot of practice. Why d'you think I've already got three step-mothers?"
"Hmm," says Max. "I may be starting to see your point."
He's still not angry, though. Honestly, Max is so much more tolerant than me. Despite all the provocation, he appears relatively calm when he delivers a full English Breakfast to Dad's waiting lap, before returning to the kitchen to serve up everyone else's food.
I decide it may now be safe to come back indoors but, as soon as I do, there's a familiar sound:
"Max! Ma-ax!"
"What?" shouts Max, who is still trying to put everyone else's food on to plates.
Not that I blame him one bit. Dad's even worse than The Boss for shouting at people from another room, and expecting them to go to him.
The whole thing starts almost as soon as we get up this morning, and find Dad reclining on the sofa, remote control already in his hand.
He's watching a cartoon, The Politics Show, and an old action movie - not simultaneously, obviously - but in strict rotation. He allows two minutes of each before turning over to the next one, and then repeats the whole cycle all over again. And again, ad infinitum. *ADHD doesn't even begin to describe it.
"I suppose you'd like some cereal, would you?" Max says to Dad. "What with your heart bypass and all that? I saw you brought your *Shredded Wheat with you."
"Good God, no - I don't want that," says Dad. "That's no meal for a real man. And you do a pretty good cooked breakfast, if I remember rightly - don't you, Max?"
Max rolls his eyes at me, but doesn't say anything in response. I'm probably supposed to step in to fill the breach but, after Dad talked all the way through The Killing last night, I don't much care if he survives 'til next Saturday or not, so he can eat all the sausages, eggs and bacon he wants, as far as I'm concerned. He ruined the highlight of my week!
"She doesn't make much effort, that Lund woman, does she?" said Dad. "Look at the state of that jumper. Is she a lesbian?"
"No," I say. "As you'd work out if you'd only concentrate on the programme for five minutes, and stop moaning about the subtitles. And there's nothing wrong with her jumper, anyway. It's bloody cold in Denmark."
"What's the excuse for your get-up, then, Molly?" said Dad, looking at my TV-watching fleece.
Luckily for him, he fell asleep shortly after that, which probably explains why he's still alive this morning. Not that he's any less annoying. Why the hell didn't I let Josh hide the remote control?
I keep Dad company for a few minutes, in the hope that he'll put the damn thing down, but when it becomes clear that he's hanging on to it for dear life, I give up and go to join Max in the kitchen - which is not my natural habitat, but it seems a better option than staying where I am. It would only have been a matter of time before I'd snapped and turned the TV off, snatched the remote out of Dad's hand and thrown it out of the window.
Making a pot of tea seems a less inflammatory option. For as long as it takes for it to brew, that is.
"Not as good a cuppa as usual," says Dad, when I take his mug through to the living room, where he continues to lie in state. "Max make this?"
"No," I say. "I did."
"That explains that, then," says Dad, which Max appears to find very funny indeed, and I don't.
Max stops smiling pretty sharpish, though, when, almost as soon as he starts cooking, Dad starts that bloody shouting thing he does.
"Max!" he calls. "Ma-ax!"
"What?" shouts Max, trying to cut the rind off the bacon and prick the sausages.
There's silence for a few seconds and then Dad shouts again:
"Ma-ax!"
I give in and walk to the living room.
"What do you want, Dad?" I say. "Max is trying to cook."
"Tell him to come here, quick," says Dad, who looks a bit red in the face, which is rather worrying. I make a silent vow never to moan about his television commentaries ever again, as long as he doesn't drop dead right this minute; and then I rush back to the kitchen to get Max.
"Dad needs you," I say. "I think there's something wrong."
Max slams the oven door shut, races down the hallway, and opens the door to the living room.
"Ah, Max!" says Dad. "Look at this car chase! Hang on, I'll just rewind."
I can't hear what Max replies as, by now, I've worked out that breakfast is going to take hours to prepare, unless I help. Or that's my intention anyway. I have no idea what always causes frozen hash browns to skid off the counter and fall on to the floor, whenever I try to prise them apart. Or why I always cut my hand on the knife.
"Let me take over," says Max. "This is the second car crash I've seen in the last thirty seconds."
I give him an icy smile, and then go off to the bathroom in search of a plaster. I'm on my way back downstairs when the cycle starts all over again.
"Ma-ax!"
This time, Dad apparently wants "a decent cup of tea" - which Max opts to make, though I am deemed competent to deliver it to His Master's Voice. I try to obscure the television screen for as long as possible before handing Dad the mug. Then I spill a bit accidentally on purpose onto his knee.
This seems to shut him up, and peace reigns for another couple of minutes, but then his dulcet tones ring out again. This time Dad tells Max that he has to watch and appreciate what "bloody idiots" Politicians are.
I know that only too well already and, anyway, I've completely given up by now, so I go outside and smoke what may well be the first of many cigarettes today. I can still hear Dad shouting, though I lose count of how many more trips back and forth Max makes - until he opens the back door to inform me that the food is finally cooked.
"I'm going to plate your dad's meal up first," he says. "Then his mouth might be too full of food to shout any more."
"Don't count on it," I say. "He's had a lot of practice. Why d'you think I've already got three step-mothers?"
"Hmm," says Max. "I may be starting to see your point."
He's still not angry, though. Honestly, Max is so much more tolerant than me. Despite all the provocation, he appears relatively calm when he delivers a full English Breakfast to Dad's waiting lap, before returning to the kitchen to serve up everyone else's food.
I decide it may now be safe to come back indoors but, as soon as I do, there's a familiar sound:
"Max! Ma-ax!"
"What?" shouts Max, who is still trying to put everyone else's food on to plates.
He's not looking half as calm now. In fact, I haven't heard him shout quite that loud for years. Not since Connie dropped her new stereo on the floor and smashed it, five minutes after being given it for her sixteenth birthday. It's quite unnerving, and both Josh and I fall silent - unlike a certain person I could mention.
"Ma-ax!"
Dad's shout is a bit muffled this time - presumably because his mouth is full of food - but it's still loud enough to hear. Unfortunately.
"For God's sake, Max - tell Dad to come to you," I say. "You don't have to run after him all the time. It only encourages him."
"He sounds as if he's choking, Mol," he says, heading back down the hall.
Josh looks at me, and I look back at him, then we both shrug and follow in Max's footsteps. We're just in time to hear Max ask Dad what's wrong - this time.
"Got any Daddies' Sauce?" says Dad.
"I thought you already had that," says Max, in an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone. Which is probably what a camel's back sounds like when it breaks.
*ADHD - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or "Bad Parenting Syndrome", according to Greg. I'm not quite sure what it's called when it's one's parent who suffers from it, though.
*Shredded Wheat - also known as "Shredded Doormats" by Josh and Connie.
"Ma-ax!"
Dad's shout is a bit muffled this time - presumably because his mouth is full of food - but it's still loud enough to hear. Unfortunately.
"For God's sake, Max - tell Dad to come to you," I say. "You don't have to run after him all the time. It only encourages him."
"He sounds as if he's choking, Mol," he says, heading back down the hall.
Josh looks at me, and I look back at him, then we both shrug and follow in Max's footsteps. We're just in time to hear Max ask Dad what's wrong - this time.
"Got any Daddies' Sauce?" says Dad.
"I thought you already had that," says Max, in an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone. Which is probably what a camel's back sounds like when it breaks.
*ADHD - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or "Bad Parenting Syndrome", according to Greg. I'm not quite sure what it's called when it's one's parent who suffers from it, though.
*Shredded Wheat - also known as "Shredded Doormats" by Josh and Connie.
Saturday, 5 March 2011
In Which The Insecure Maladjusted Child Of A Broken Home Escapes A Fate Worse Than Death.
Mum phones in the morning, while Max is cooking breakfast, and I'm listening to Dad telling me how he'd run the country if he were *PM. (Thank God he isn't, that's all I can say.)
"Ah, Molly, dear. I just wondered if you'd like to bring your father round for coffee?" she says.
"No," I say. "Of course I wouldn't."
"Oh," says Mum, before falling silent for all of a minute. She must be re-grouping, because then she says,
"Why not?"
"Because," I say, with a very hefty sigh, " I can't think of anything worse than having to sit there listening to you and Dad making polite conversation, while poor old Ted squirms and tries to look as if he isn't uncomfortable in the presence of his wife's former husband. I am a grown-up now, and so I don't have to put myself through that any more."
Mum goes quiet again, but now Dad's waving at me to get my attention.
"What?" I say, or rather, hiss. "I'm talking to Mum. Can't it wait?"
"Put me on to her," he says, before grabbing the receiver out of my hand.
I walk off in disgust and go outside to smoke three cigarettes in a row, while contemplating my continuing status as the maladjusted child of a broken home.
Don't Mum and Dad realise how lucky they are that I've got a degree, and that I don't go around mugging people - when all the statistics show that I'm much more likely to do so than people whose parents haven't divorced? Isn't that enough for them?
Obviously it isn't, as Dad still seems to be on the phone when I walk back into the house. No-one takes a blind bit of notice of anything I say.
"Oh," he says. "Well, if you think you might have a cold coming on, then maybe it would be best if I didn't come round. I have just had major surgery, after all."
Blimey - something's obviously happened to change Mum's mind. She sounded perfectly all right when I spoke to her.
I wait until Dad rings off, and then ask him what is going on.
"Oh, your mother's not well," he says. "Nasty coughing fit she had while I was chatting to her. Shame I can't go for coffee, though - especially when I'd just offered to show her all my pictures of Thailand, and of Porn-Poon, too."
It seems that, while Dad might not be up to the job of PM, Mum'd be a natural. That U-turn was worthy of Cameron at his best.
*PM - Prime Minister, a job that every single member of my family - not to mention a considerable number of constituents - believe that they could do far better than the PM himself. Or herself, for that matter, this being a rather long-standing problem.
"Ah, Molly, dear. I just wondered if you'd like to bring your father round for coffee?" she says.
"No," I say. "Of course I wouldn't."
"Oh," says Mum, before falling silent for all of a minute. She must be re-grouping, because then she says,
"Why not?"
"Because," I say, with a very hefty sigh, " I can't think of anything worse than having to sit there listening to you and Dad making polite conversation, while poor old Ted squirms and tries to look as if he isn't uncomfortable in the presence of his wife's former husband. I am a grown-up now, and so I don't have to put myself through that any more."
Mum goes quiet again, but now Dad's waving at me to get my attention.
"What?" I say, or rather, hiss. "I'm talking to Mum. Can't it wait?"
"Put me on to her," he says, before grabbing the receiver out of my hand.
I walk off in disgust and go outside to smoke three cigarettes in a row, while contemplating my continuing status as the maladjusted child of a broken home.
Don't Mum and Dad realise how lucky they are that I've got a degree, and that I don't go around mugging people - when all the statistics show that I'm much more likely to do so than people whose parents haven't divorced? Isn't that enough for them?
Obviously it isn't, as Dad still seems to be on the phone when I walk back into the house. No-one takes a blind bit of notice of anything I say.
"Oh," he says. "Well, if you think you might have a cold coming on, then maybe it would be best if I didn't come round. I have just had major surgery, after all."
Blimey - something's obviously happened to change Mum's mind. She sounded perfectly all right when I spoke to her.
I wait until Dad rings off, and then ask him what is going on.
"Oh, your mother's not well," he says. "Nasty coughing fit she had while I was chatting to her. Shame I can't go for coffee, though - especially when I'd just offered to show her all my pictures of Thailand, and of Porn-Poon, too."
It seems that, while Dad might not be up to the job of PM, Mum'd be a natural. That U-turn was worthy of Cameron at his best.
*PM - Prime Minister, a job that every single member of my family - not to mention a considerable number of constituents - believe that they could do far better than the PM himself. Or herself, for that matter, this being a rather long-standing problem.
Friday, 4 March 2011
E.T. - Make An Appointment To See Your MP. Everyone Else Is Doing So.
It's mayhem when I arrive at work. Greg's wearing a party hat with *Dan For Barnsley handwritten on it, and The Boss is glued to his mobile - phoning every LibDem he knows to congratulate them on their party's "historic result."
It takes all my powers of persuasion to calm things down in time for surgery, which is going to be double its normal length today, as so many people want to see The Boss. God knows why - constituents obviously have no idea how pointless MPs surgeries are.
First they make an appointment, and then they wait for days, or sometimes weeks, while worrying about how they are going to present their cases to Andrew.
Then, when the day of the appointment finally comes around, they travel to the office, where they have to sit in the waiting room with a load of the usual suspects, before finally being shown in to the presence of the great man, who is probably only half-listening anyway.
After being asked for a brief explanation of their problem - much briefer than they've anticipated - they then get five minutes of um-ing and ah-ing, followed by The Boss telling them to go home, stop worrying and to leave it us. (Us being a very relative term.)
So I have no idea why constituents put themselves through this farce - when all they really need to do is phone the office, or send us a letter, to achieve a better result three times as quickly. Unless they find Andrew much more appealing in the flesh than Greg and I do.
Mind you, I wouldn't want The Boss to always be spared the agonies of dealing with constituents, especially the usual suspects, who are out in force, thanks to the bloody National Archives. Dealing with (non) reality is character-building, after all.
"Bloody hell," says Andrew. "Does everyone want to talk about UFOs today? Is no-one interested in The Fightback?"
"Don't you ever watch the news?" I say. "I blame the BBC. And the Government, who've decided to close the department that investigates reports of sightings."
"Yeah," says Greg. "And we all know who has to handle this stuff instead of the *MOD now, don't we?"
The Boss looks blank, so Greg decides to bring him up to speed.
"MPs like you do, Andrew," he says. "Except that you don't have to deal with these nutters, because Molly and I do it for you. Sparing you the joys of people like Mr Aitchison, who phones up every time an alien appears at the foot of his bed. Or John Newman -"
"God, yes - he's the worst," I say. "Does he have to go into quite so much detail about where the aliens insert their probes?"
"Can't say I blame them," says Greg. "I'm often quite tempted to shove something up his jacksie too."
The Boss perks up at this. Some men never grow out of finding the mention of bottoms funny.
"I bet that's what Nick Clegg felt had happened to him," he says. "When he heard his Party had come in sixth."
*Dan Jarvis, winner of the Barnsley by-election - details here. Look away now if you're Nick Clegg.
*MOD - Ministry of Defence. Missing a number of Harrier Jump Jets and an aircraft carrier, as well as a department to investigate UFOs.
It takes all my powers of persuasion to calm things down in time for surgery, which is going to be double its normal length today, as so many people want to see The Boss. God knows why - constituents obviously have no idea how pointless MPs surgeries are.
First they make an appointment, and then they wait for days, or sometimes weeks, while worrying about how they are going to present their cases to Andrew.
Then, when the day of the appointment finally comes around, they travel to the office, where they have to sit in the waiting room with a load of the usual suspects, before finally being shown in to the presence of the great man, who is probably only half-listening anyway.
After being asked for a brief explanation of their problem - much briefer than they've anticipated - they then get five minutes of um-ing and ah-ing, followed by The Boss telling them to go home, stop worrying and to leave it us. (Us being a very relative term.)
So I have no idea why constituents put themselves through this farce - when all they really need to do is phone the office, or send us a letter, to achieve a better result three times as quickly. Unless they find Andrew much more appealing in the flesh than Greg and I do.
Mind you, I wouldn't want The Boss to always be spared the agonies of dealing with constituents, especially the usual suspects, who are out in force, thanks to the bloody National Archives. Dealing with (non) reality is character-building, after all.
"Bloody hell," says Andrew. "Does everyone want to talk about UFOs today? Is no-one interested in The Fightback?"
"Don't you ever watch the news?" I say. "I blame the BBC. And the Government, who've decided to close the department that investigates reports of sightings."
"Yeah," says Greg. "And we all know who has to handle this stuff instead of the *MOD now, don't we?"
The Boss looks blank, so Greg decides to bring him up to speed.
"MPs like you do, Andrew," he says. "Except that you don't have to deal with these nutters, because Molly and I do it for you. Sparing you the joys of people like Mr Aitchison, who phones up every time an alien appears at the foot of his bed. Or John Newman -"
"God, yes - he's the worst," I say. "Does he have to go into quite so much detail about where the aliens insert their probes?"
"Can't say I blame them," says Greg. "I'm often quite tempted to shove something up his jacksie too."
The Boss perks up at this. Some men never grow out of finding the mention of bottoms funny.
"I bet that's what Nick Clegg felt had happened to him," he says. "When he heard his Party had come in sixth."
*Dan Jarvis, winner of the Barnsley by-election - details here. Look away now if you're Nick Clegg.
*MOD - Ministry of Defence. Missing a number of Harrier Jump Jets and an aircraft carrier, as well as a department to investigate UFOs.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
How To Bypass A Sense Of Humour, And Bangkok Airlines Is Re-Branded.
Bother, bother, bother. I'm in the middle of a somewhat surreal conversation with Miss Emms about the latest MPs' expenses story, when an email pops into my in-box from Dinah. Then I make the mistake of trying to deal with both things at the same time.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Oops, sorry, Miss Emms. No, that wasn't a comment on the story in The Daily Telegraph. I can see your point, though to be honest, the article is a little misleading. MPs who left at the last election claimed the winding up allowance to make redundancy payments to their staff, and to pay any outstanding rent on their offices etcetera. So this isn't really in the same league as the other expenses scandal at all."
Miss Emms doesn't sound at all convinced, and to be honest, I'm starting to wonder if she's got a point by the time she's emphasised that some of the MPs knew they were leaving Parliament months before the General Election, so should have given their staff and landlords notice much earlier than they did, and saved the taxpayer the money.
Miss Emms doesn't pay any tax, anyway, but I'm so desperate to get her off the phone by then, that I decide that it's not worth debating the subject any longer. Instead, I opt for the tried and tested technique of assuring her that her comments have been noted - repeatedly - until she gets so bored that she hangs up, thus leaving me free to re-read the hideous contents of Dinah's email.
"You'll have to come and get Dad tonight and take him home with you," she says, "If you can't get any more time off work to stay with him, that is. I am so out of here. The man's got no sense of humour since he met the Thai Bride."
Oh, for God's sake - isn't this just all I need on top of the stress about Max's job? And he'll probably leave me if I have to bring Dad home for any longer than twenty-four hours. Max might have the patience of a saint, but even that has its limits. I'll just have to persuade Dinah to change her mind.
I dial her number but, although it connects, it cuts off after three rings and goes to her answer-phone. I try again, several times, but still without success. Which is odd, seeing as Dinah sent the email from her iPhone only a couple of minutes ago.
"Greg - remind me how you tell when someone's ignoring your calls?" I say. "As opposed to when the phone's just turned off, or engaged?"
"When it rings a few times and then goes to answer-phone," says Greg.
So that explains that, then. There's nothing for it but to ring Dad instead.
"Oh-h, Molly," he says, as if the end of the world is nigh. "I'm so glad you phoned your poor old dad. It's nice to know one of my daughters cares."
"What are you talking about?" I say. "Have you and Dinah had a row?"
"Your sister has no respect for her elders," he says. "Oh, hang on a minute - I need to press record on the TV. I don't want to miss the end of this match."
"I'm at work, Dad," I say. "And I'm busy, so I can't hang on -"
But Dad's already put the phone down, leaving me to wait for what seems like hours, while I listen to him talking to himself. Or to whoever it is that is playing whatever sport it is that he's been watching.
God knows how many times he says, "Oh, come on, boys!" but, by the time he gets round to asking himself, "What the hell's the matter with this damned remote?" I've almost lost the will to live.
I'm just about to end the call, when he finally comes back on the line.
"Sorry," he says. "The boys almost scored a try just then."
"Never mind the bloody rugby," I say. "What's happened with you and Dinah? And seeing as she's been the one looking after you for the last ten days, don't you think you might be over-reacting to whatever it was?"
"No, I'm not," he says. "There was no call for what she said. None whatsoever. Not when all I'd asked her to do was to book my next flight to Thailand."
I am obviously going to need a cigarette if I am to get through the rest of this conversation. Three weeks after a heart bypass, and all Dad can think of is getting back to Thailand and pumping himself full of Viagra. It's enough to make a grown woman weep. Not that Porn-Poon would qualify as that.
"Okay, Dad," I say, as I walk down the stairs towards the lobby. "So what exactly did Dinah say?"
"Well, I was explaining to her what to do about the internal flight for the last leg of my trip," he says. "And I told her her to book me onto the airline I always use."
I light a cigarette and take an enormous drag. Call it sixth sense, but I think I'm going to need all the nicotine I can get. Meanwhile, Dad sighs as if no-one understands him, and then continues to explain:
"So Dinah says, 'Oh, who's that, then - Steradent Airlines?'"
My laugh seems to have come from nowhere, so I have to try to turn it into a coughing fit, while Dad explains that Dinah never knows when to stop.
"Then she says that there's probably enough of the stuff on board to float a battleship," he says. "What with all the old men flying out to see their girlfriends."
"Is that all?" I say, hoping for the best, but doomed to disappointment, as usual.
"No," says Dad. "Then she asks me how long check-in will take but, by then, I can tell she's trying to be funny, so I just ask her how long she thinks it'll take. And she says, 'About six hours - what with all the zimmer frames they've got to get on board.'"
"Ah," I say, borrowing The Boss's best non-committal response, but Dad's a lot harder to shrug off than the average constituent.
"Don't give me that 'Ah' business," he says. "You told me what you use it for. Anyway, Dinah's just left, and she said you'd come and collect me. So what time will you get here?"
Now Dad's not the only one who's misplaced his sense of humour. Just wait until I get hold of Dinah. Though I will have to congratulate her on the Steradent gag.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Oops, sorry, Miss Emms. No, that wasn't a comment on the story in The Daily Telegraph. I can see your point, though to be honest, the article is a little misleading. MPs who left at the last election claimed the winding up allowance to make redundancy payments to their staff, and to pay any outstanding rent on their offices etcetera. So this isn't really in the same league as the other expenses scandal at all."
Miss Emms doesn't sound at all convinced, and to be honest, I'm starting to wonder if she's got a point by the time she's emphasised that some of the MPs knew they were leaving Parliament months before the General Election, so should have given their staff and landlords notice much earlier than they did, and saved the taxpayer the money.
Miss Emms doesn't pay any tax, anyway, but I'm so desperate to get her off the phone by then, that I decide that it's not worth debating the subject any longer. Instead, I opt for the tried and tested technique of assuring her that her comments have been noted - repeatedly - until she gets so bored that she hangs up, thus leaving me free to re-read the hideous contents of Dinah's email.
"You'll have to come and get Dad tonight and take him home with you," she says, "If you can't get any more time off work to stay with him, that is. I am so out of here. The man's got no sense of humour since he met the Thai Bride."
Oh, for God's sake - isn't this just all I need on top of the stress about Max's job? And he'll probably leave me if I have to bring Dad home for any longer than twenty-four hours. Max might have the patience of a saint, but even that has its limits. I'll just have to persuade Dinah to change her mind.
I dial her number but, although it connects, it cuts off after three rings and goes to her answer-phone. I try again, several times, but still without success. Which is odd, seeing as Dinah sent the email from her iPhone only a couple of minutes ago.
"Greg - remind me how you tell when someone's ignoring your calls?" I say. "As opposed to when the phone's just turned off, or engaged?"
"When it rings a few times and then goes to answer-phone," says Greg.
So that explains that, then. There's nothing for it but to ring Dad instead.
"Oh-h, Molly," he says, as if the end of the world is nigh. "I'm so glad you phoned your poor old dad. It's nice to know one of my daughters cares."
"What are you talking about?" I say. "Have you and Dinah had a row?"
"Your sister has no respect for her elders," he says. "Oh, hang on a minute - I need to press record on the TV. I don't want to miss the end of this match."
"I'm at work, Dad," I say. "And I'm busy, so I can't hang on -"
But Dad's already put the phone down, leaving me to wait for what seems like hours, while I listen to him talking to himself. Or to whoever it is that is playing whatever sport it is that he's been watching.
God knows how many times he says, "Oh, come on, boys!" but, by the time he gets round to asking himself, "What the hell's the matter with this damned remote?" I've almost lost the will to live.
I'm just about to end the call, when he finally comes back on the line.
"Sorry," he says. "The boys almost scored a try just then."
"Never mind the bloody rugby," I say. "What's happened with you and Dinah? And seeing as she's been the one looking after you for the last ten days, don't you think you might be over-reacting to whatever it was?"
"No, I'm not," he says. "There was no call for what she said. None whatsoever. Not when all I'd asked her to do was to book my next flight to Thailand."
I am obviously going to need a cigarette if I am to get through the rest of this conversation. Three weeks after a heart bypass, and all Dad can think of is getting back to Thailand and pumping himself full of Viagra. It's enough to make a grown woman weep. Not that Porn-Poon would qualify as that.
"Okay, Dad," I say, as I walk down the stairs towards the lobby. "So what exactly did Dinah say?"
"Well, I was explaining to her what to do about the internal flight for the last leg of my trip," he says. "And I told her her to book me onto the airline I always use."
I light a cigarette and take an enormous drag. Call it sixth sense, but I think I'm going to need all the nicotine I can get. Meanwhile, Dad sighs as if no-one understands him, and then continues to explain:
"So Dinah says, 'Oh, who's that, then - Steradent Airlines?'"
My laugh seems to have come from nowhere, so I have to try to turn it into a coughing fit, while Dad explains that Dinah never knows when to stop.
"Then she says that there's probably enough of the stuff on board to float a battleship," he says. "What with all the old men flying out to see their girlfriends."
"Is that all?" I say, hoping for the best, but doomed to disappointment, as usual.
"No," says Dad. "Then she asks me how long check-in will take but, by then, I can tell she's trying to be funny, so I just ask her how long she thinks it'll take. And she says, 'About six hours - what with all the zimmer frames they've got to get on board.'"
"Ah," I say, borrowing The Boss's best non-committal response, but Dad's a lot harder to shrug off than the average constituent.
"Don't give me that 'Ah' business," he says. "You told me what you use it for. Anyway, Dinah's just left, and she said you'd come and collect me. So what time will you get here?"
Now Dad's not the only one who's misplaced his sense of humour. Just wait until I get hold of Dinah. Though I will have to congratulate her on the Steradent gag.
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Poetry In Motion, Or In Letters To Constituents, Anyway.
Oh, my God. How did I forget that the County Council were planning to send out the notifications of secondary school places yesterday? If I'd remembered, I'd have taken today off to avoid the fall-out - on the quite legitimate basis that I am already suffering from PTSD as a result of last night's poetry reading.
Traumatic isn't a strong enough word for that experience, actually - and I have no idea what happened to Greg once that poet he fancies, Jessica Something-Or-Other, approached the microphone.
First, he started behaving as if he was Lord Byron, waving his arms around and getting as pissed as a fart; and then he committed the heinous sin of calling for seemingly-endless encores, until I had to point out that I'd be forced to kill him if he caused me to have to listen to any more poems about rodents in the wild.
"I like animals," he said. "They're all God's creatures, after all."
"So are constituents," I said, "Allegedly - but we don't encourage them. And why are you talking as if you've become a latter-day saint?"
"Jessica thinks I'm a nice person," he said. "And I don't want to disillusion her. So there'll be no swearing or abuse of minority groups while she's around, okay?"
Seeing as those particular activities are Greg's forte, rather than mine, I had no control over whether they took place anyway, but he went on to prove as good as his word. Which made for a very long evening indeed.
I'm a bit worried that Greg won't have recovered from his transformation into Renaissance Man when I arrive at work this morning, but luckily, he seems to have reverted to type and goes on to spend the whole day swearing about the number of letters and phone-calls we receive from parents complaining about the schools to which their children have been allocated.
Well, not the whole day - but most of it, anyway - apart from when he's writing Greg and Jessica all over his notepad. His brains have definitely been addled by love and, as if that wasn't quite bad enough, now he's decided that he has an aptitude for poetry, too.
"Listen to this, Mol!" he says, while chewing on a mouthful of Haribos.
"Do I have to?" I say. "I'm trying to write these bloody letters about school places. And you're supposed to be doing half of them."
"I am," says Greg. "But mine are much better than yours, not least because mine have rhythm."
He swallows hard and then stands up, climbs onto his desk, and clears his throat.
"What are you doing?" I say.
"Centering myself," he says, taking a deep breath before beginning to declaim:
"Dear Acting Head of Education,
I put to you a complication:
Charlotte doesn't want to go
To Easemount High - because it's so
Full of scary Chav mutations,
It fails to meet Mum's expectations."
I stare at Greg in silence, until he says,
"What's up? There's going to be a second verse, but I haven't finished that yet. I did well to get the word 'mutations' in, though - didn't I? What d'you think of it so far?"
"It's incredible," I say. Which, like most MPs' staff, I find to be a useful, multi-purpose word.
Traumatic isn't a strong enough word for that experience, actually - and I have no idea what happened to Greg once that poet he fancies, Jessica Something-Or-Other, approached the microphone.
First, he started behaving as if he was Lord Byron, waving his arms around and getting as pissed as a fart; and then he committed the heinous sin of calling for seemingly-endless encores, until I had to point out that I'd be forced to kill him if he caused me to have to listen to any more poems about rodents in the wild.
"I like animals," he said. "They're all God's creatures, after all."
"So are constituents," I said, "Allegedly - but we don't encourage them. And why are you talking as if you've become a latter-day saint?"
"Jessica thinks I'm a nice person," he said. "And I don't want to disillusion her. So there'll be no swearing or abuse of minority groups while she's around, okay?"
Seeing as those particular activities are Greg's forte, rather than mine, I had no control over whether they took place anyway, but he went on to prove as good as his word. Which made for a very long evening indeed.
I'm a bit worried that Greg won't have recovered from his transformation into Renaissance Man when I arrive at work this morning, but luckily, he seems to have reverted to type and goes on to spend the whole day swearing about the number of letters and phone-calls we receive from parents complaining about the schools to which their children have been allocated.
Well, not the whole day - but most of it, anyway - apart from when he's writing Greg and Jessica all over his notepad. His brains have definitely been addled by love and, as if that wasn't quite bad enough, now he's decided that he has an aptitude for poetry, too.
"Listen to this, Mol!" he says, while chewing on a mouthful of Haribos.
"Do I have to?" I say. "I'm trying to write these bloody letters about school places. And you're supposed to be doing half of them."
"I am," says Greg. "But mine are much better than yours, not least because mine have rhythm."
He swallows hard and then stands up, climbs onto his desk, and clears his throat.
"What are you doing?" I say.
"Centering myself," he says, taking a deep breath before beginning to declaim:
"Dear Acting Head of Education,
I put to you a complication:
Charlotte doesn't want to go
To Easemount High - because it's so
Full of scary Chav mutations,
It fails to meet Mum's expectations."
I stare at Greg in silence, until he says,
"What's up? There's going to be a second verse, but I haven't finished that yet. I did well to get the word 'mutations' in, though - didn't I? What d'you think of it so far?"
"It's incredible," I say. Which, like most MPs' staff, I find to be a useful, multi-purpose word.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
The Curious Incident Of The Chocolate Brownie, And The Definition Of A Happy Marriage
Gah. I'm sure Greg's concussion isn't as bad as he claims, but he says the room keeps spinning around whenever he talks to one of the usual suspects. I thought that was normal but, anyway, he goes home again mid-morning and leaves me stuck in the office with Vicky - who seems to think I have turned into Irma Kurtz.
"Molly," she says. "How long have you and Max been married?'
"Centuries," I say. "Why?"
Vicky starts inspecting her nails. I do wish she wouldn't do that, as they put me right off my brunch. No-one's nails are supposed to be square at the ends.
"Do you think Andrew and Trish are happily married?" she says, while wielding that annoying buffer thing.
"Yes," I say. "Of course they are. Though I'm not sure how you assess what happily means, now I come to think of it. But why do you want to know about The Boss' marriage, anyway?"
"No reason," she says. "Just curious, that's all."
Huh - I think we all know what that means, so I don't enquire any further. I don't want to be burdened with anyone's guilt apart from my own. It's very bad for the psyche, let alone the blood pressure.
"I assume you wouldn't say you were happily married?" I say to Johnny, when I email him later in the day.
"Yes, I would," he says, which comes as a bit of a shock.
"So what are you doing having a virtual affair with me, then?" I ask.
"That's the bit that makes my marriage happy," he says. "Obviously. I do wish you'd keep up sometimes."
I'm not at all sure I follow his logic, but I'm reluctant to appear too stupid, so I let it go. And, anyway, I've got more important things to do - like asking the Coroner to hurry up and establish the cause of death of a woman of forty-five, who only went into hospital for a routine operation.
She had three children, and her husband tells me that he's convinced that she died from dehydration, but that the Coroner's apparently still waiting for the hospital to provide some missing notes. It's already taken months, and the poor man can't even bury his beloved wife. He starts to cry while he's on the phone and, although I rack my brains, I can't think of anything to say to make him stop.
That sort of case really puts things into perspective, though - or, at least, it does until I get home, and make the mistake of asking Max whether he thinks we are happily married. I'm hoping he'll say something to suggest he'd be bereft without me, but he doesn't.
"I'm not clear what you mean, Mol," he says. "Sometimes I'm happy, and sometimes I'm not. Isn't that how it is for everyone?"
"Don't ask me," I say. "I have trouble keeping up - apparently. Though what is the thing that makes you happy when you are? Or should I say which person?"
Max gives me a funny look, and I suddenly wish that I had nails worth contemplating.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "As usual. And are you still going to that poetry reading thing?"
"Yes - seeing as Greg says he's now recovered, and the girl he fancies is going to be reading her poems. It's bound to be bloody awful, but I promised I'd go with him because he says I'm better at arty-farty conversation then he is," I say. "Shit, is that the time? I've got to leave in ten minutes."
"Yes," says Max. "But the meal's not ready, so you'd better grab a snack."
I throw a slice of ham between two pieces of dry bread, and pop a gherkin left over from Christmas on top for good measure. I'm quite impressed with my creativity, but Max looks completely appalled.
"Molly, is that really the best you can do?" he says. "You didn't even put any butter in that sandwich. No wonder you're so skinny - your attitude to food sucks."
"Thanks," I say, chewing furiously. "I'd love to have a foodie conversation but, tragically, I've got to go. Where are the car keys? In your pocket?"
I rummage around in his jacket, marvelling at all the random drill bits, receipts and losing lottery tickets he carries around - until I try the breast pocket, and my hand sinks into something soft and slimy.
"Yuck," I say, pulling my hand out and peering at the revolting brown slime coating the ends of my fingers. "What the bloody hell is that?"
"Home-made chocolate brownie," says Max. "Bambi - sod it, I mean Gemma - brought it into work for me today."
And we all know what they say about the way to a man's heart being through food, don't we? Now Vicky's not the only one who's curious about the state of someone's marriage. I hope there's no love poetry this evening, or I may struggle to applaud.
"Molly," she says. "How long have you and Max been married?'
"Centuries," I say. "Why?"
Vicky starts inspecting her nails. I do wish she wouldn't do that, as they put me right off my brunch. No-one's nails are supposed to be square at the ends.
"Do you think Andrew and Trish are happily married?" she says, while wielding that annoying buffer thing.
"Yes," I say. "Of course they are. Though I'm not sure how you assess what happily means, now I come to think of it. But why do you want to know about The Boss' marriage, anyway?"
"No reason," she says. "Just curious, that's all."
Huh - I think we all know what that means, so I don't enquire any further. I don't want to be burdened with anyone's guilt apart from my own. It's very bad for the psyche, let alone the blood pressure.
"I assume you wouldn't say you were happily married?" I say to Johnny, when I email him later in the day.
"Yes, I would," he says, which comes as a bit of a shock.
"So what are you doing having a virtual affair with me, then?" I ask.
"That's the bit that makes my marriage happy," he says. "Obviously. I do wish you'd keep up sometimes."
I'm not at all sure I follow his logic, but I'm reluctant to appear too stupid, so I let it go. And, anyway, I've got more important things to do - like asking the Coroner to hurry up and establish the cause of death of a woman of forty-five, who only went into hospital for a routine operation.
She had three children, and her husband tells me that he's convinced that she died from dehydration, but that the Coroner's apparently still waiting for the hospital to provide some missing notes. It's already taken months, and the poor man can't even bury his beloved wife. He starts to cry while he's on the phone and, although I rack my brains, I can't think of anything to say to make him stop.
That sort of case really puts things into perspective, though - or, at least, it does until I get home, and make the mistake of asking Max whether he thinks we are happily married. I'm hoping he'll say something to suggest he'd be bereft without me, but he doesn't.
"I'm not clear what you mean, Mol," he says. "Sometimes I'm happy, and sometimes I'm not. Isn't that how it is for everyone?"
"Don't ask me," I say. "I have trouble keeping up - apparently. Though what is the thing that makes you happy when you are? Or should I say which person?"
Max gives me a funny look, and I suddenly wish that I had nails worth contemplating.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "As usual. And are you still going to that poetry reading thing?"
"Yes - seeing as Greg says he's now recovered, and the girl he fancies is going to be reading her poems. It's bound to be bloody awful, but I promised I'd go with him because he says I'm better at arty-farty conversation then he is," I say. "Shit, is that the time? I've got to leave in ten minutes."
"Yes," says Max. "But the meal's not ready, so you'd better grab a snack."
I throw a slice of ham between two pieces of dry bread, and pop a gherkin left over from Christmas on top for good measure. I'm quite impressed with my creativity, but Max looks completely appalled.
"Molly, is that really the best you can do?" he says. "You didn't even put any butter in that sandwich. No wonder you're so skinny - your attitude to food sucks."
"Thanks," I say, chewing furiously. "I'd love to have a foodie conversation but, tragically, I've got to go. Where are the car keys? In your pocket?"
I rummage around in his jacket, marvelling at all the random drill bits, receipts and losing lottery tickets he carries around - until I try the breast pocket, and my hand sinks into something soft and slimy.
"Yuck," I say, pulling my hand out and peering at the revolting brown slime coating the ends of my fingers. "What the bloody hell is that?"
"Home-made chocolate brownie," says Max. "Bambi - sod it, I mean Gemma - brought it into work for me today."
And we all know what they say about the way to a man's heart being through food, don't we? Now Vicky's not the only one who's curious about the state of someone's marriage. I hope there's no love poetry this evening, or I may struggle to applaud.
Monday, 28 February 2011
Playing Dead In A World Gone Madder Than Usual.
Never, ever send Greg a supposedly-amusing video, that's all I can say. The end result just isn't worth it.
"Great clip you emailed me of that dog pretending to die, Mol," he says, when he arrives this morning. "Watch this!"
Then his bones appear to turn to jelly, and he collapses on the spot. Admittedly he doesn't nail the landing, but it's a pretty impressive display, even so.
"Very good," I say. "Have you spent much time practising?"
"Hours," he says. "My blind date stood me up last night, so learning how to play dead seemed a good way to fill the time. Offers endless possibilities in the workplace, too - once I've stopped losing my spatial awareness as I go down, that is."
"Possibilities like what?" I say, before I work it out for myself: excruciatingly boring constituent - emergency collapse of caseworker. Fan-bloody-tastic.
"I'll teach you how to do it," says Greg. "For a fee. Payable in gin and general slavery."
I don't have time to learn the technique, though, as the phones are so busy - presumably because callers have realised that Recess has now finished, and that The Boss won't be answering the phone himself any more. Which would usually mean that they could realistically expect a sensible reply to their queries, but I'm not doing much better than Andrew today. There are some very tricky questions indeed.
First off, Richard Levinson wants to know why the United Nations' interpretation of urgent isn't the same as ordinary people's; and then Pete Carew calls to ask whether Andrew's going to try to make political capital from the freezing of Colonel Gaddafi's assets.
"He bloody well should," he says. "Seeing as we'd have a hard time freezing the Coalition's assets in a revolution, wouldn't we? Half the ministers have their money stashed off-shore."
"Good point," I say. "Though I don't see much sign of the UK revolting at the moment, even though some of its inhabitants undoubtedly are. Revolting, that is."
"Mol-ly," says Pete, in a warning voice that makes me feel about five years old. "Those are Andrew's constituents you're talking about."
Honestly, I have no idea what is wrong with Pete. The concept of black humour entirely escapes him - which suggests that he doesn't meet as many of the people he represents as he should.
No wonder The Boss is always complaining that local councillors pass their most difficult cases straight to us instead of first trying to deal with them themselves. If they had to manage the usual suspects, they'd soon realise it's essential to extract every shred of humour you can get from the experience - if you're to avoid going stark, staring mad yourself.
I don't say any of this to Pete, though, as he hasn't yet forgiven me for suggesting that not every single council worker is indispensable, and still refers to me as a fascist whenever he gets the chance. Or so Greg tells me, anyway - Pete doesn't say it to my face. He's a man after Peter Mandelson's heart.
Bearing this in mind, I decide I'd better adopt the precautionary principle, so I bite my lip and act professional - unlike a certain repeatedly-collapsing colleague that I can see out of the corner of my eye. I should never have sent Greg that bloody clip.
"Anything else I can help you with, Pete?" I say. "If not, I'll ring off, if you don't mind. We're rather busy today, seeing as we couldn't get much done during Recess."
"Andrew there all last week, was he?" says Pete. "You should have told him to go home and do some decorating."
"Trish has just had their whole house done up," I say. "And it looks quite nice to me. What do you think's wrong with it?"
"Well, they should have thought twice before using Osborne and Little wallpaper," he says. "Shouldn't they? Though I bet you bloody Osborne's pleased. Laughing all the way to the bank, he'll be."
Honestly, there's no end to the things that an MP needs to consider, is there? It's a mad world when your choice of wallpaper becomes a political act. (Unless you're Derry Irvine, of course - but the less said about that debacle the better. Even the word "Pugin" causes a collective Labour Party shudder.)
But it's not just wallpaper that's making it feel like a mad world today. What's really insane is that Miss Chambers actually seems to have a genuine complaint - for once.
"It's about the Council," she says, slightly more quietly than usual - though Greg can still hear her from where he's standing in the doorway between our offices. He pulls a face, scribbles something on the back of a Council Planning Committee report, and then throws it at me.
"Read it," he mouths, so I do - while also trying to listen to Miss C, who's becoming more agitated by the second.
Greg's scrawl says,
"Emergency signal. When you can't take it any more, roll your eyes, and I'll collapse. Very noisily, so you can excuse yourself and hang up."
This seems like a very good plan, so I nod at him, while Miss Chambers continues to explain that she's had enough of the Housing Department's Repairs Service.
"What exactly is the problem, then?" I say. "Are they actually refusing to do the repair?"
"No," she says. "But they won't make a bloody appointment to do it. They just turn up and, if you're not in, then they leave a card and bugger off. Then you have to report the repair all over again and wait weeks for their next visit. And they don't make an appointment for that one, either."
This doesn't seem to make any sense at all, so I double-check. This is Miss Chambers I'm talking to, after all.
"So, let me get this straight - you're saying they don't actually make any appointments; that they just turn up and expect tenants to be in, as if by magic?"
"No," says Miss C. "I mean, yes. They say that that's their system."
"Oh, for goodness' sake," I say. "That's not a system, that's a -"
I'm interrupted by a loud crash, which suggests that I am not as conscious of my involuntary facial expressions as I might have expected. Though I'm a lot more conscious than Greg is, after he hit his head on the door-frame.
Let's just say that explaining the concept of playing dead is not as much fun as it sounds. Not in A&E on a busy Monday afternoon. And definitely not when they ask for details of your injured colleague's occupation.
"Great clip you emailed me of that dog pretending to die, Mol," he says, when he arrives this morning. "Watch this!"
Then his bones appear to turn to jelly, and he collapses on the spot. Admittedly he doesn't nail the landing, but it's a pretty impressive display, even so.
"Very good," I say. "Have you spent much time practising?"
"Hours," he says. "My blind date stood me up last night, so learning how to play dead seemed a good way to fill the time. Offers endless possibilities in the workplace, too - once I've stopped losing my spatial awareness as I go down, that is."
"Possibilities like what?" I say, before I work it out for myself: excruciatingly boring constituent - emergency collapse of caseworker. Fan-bloody-tastic.
"I'll teach you how to do it," says Greg. "For a fee. Payable in gin and general slavery."
I don't have time to learn the technique, though, as the phones are so busy - presumably because callers have realised that Recess has now finished, and that The Boss won't be answering the phone himself any more. Which would usually mean that they could realistically expect a sensible reply to their queries, but I'm not doing much better than Andrew today. There are some very tricky questions indeed.
First off, Richard Levinson wants to know why the United Nations' interpretation of urgent isn't the same as ordinary people's; and then Pete Carew calls to ask whether Andrew's going to try to make political capital from the freezing of Colonel Gaddafi's assets.
"He bloody well should," he says. "Seeing as we'd have a hard time freezing the Coalition's assets in a revolution, wouldn't we? Half the ministers have their money stashed off-shore."
"Good point," I say. "Though I don't see much sign of the UK revolting at the moment, even though some of its inhabitants undoubtedly are. Revolting, that is."
"Mol-ly," says Pete, in a warning voice that makes me feel about five years old. "Those are Andrew's constituents you're talking about."
Honestly, I have no idea what is wrong with Pete. The concept of black humour entirely escapes him - which suggests that he doesn't meet as many of the people he represents as he should.
No wonder The Boss is always complaining that local councillors pass their most difficult cases straight to us instead of first trying to deal with them themselves. If they had to manage the usual suspects, they'd soon realise it's essential to extract every shred of humour you can get from the experience - if you're to avoid going stark, staring mad yourself.
I don't say any of this to Pete, though, as he hasn't yet forgiven me for suggesting that not every single council worker is indispensable, and still refers to me as a fascist whenever he gets the chance. Or so Greg tells me, anyway - Pete doesn't say it to my face. He's a man after Peter Mandelson's heart.
Bearing this in mind, I decide I'd better adopt the precautionary principle, so I bite my lip and act professional - unlike a certain repeatedly-collapsing colleague that I can see out of the corner of my eye. I should never have sent Greg that bloody clip.
"Anything else I can help you with, Pete?" I say. "If not, I'll ring off, if you don't mind. We're rather busy today, seeing as we couldn't get much done during Recess."
"Andrew there all last week, was he?" says Pete. "You should have told him to go home and do some decorating."
"Trish has just had their whole house done up," I say. "And it looks quite nice to me. What do you think's wrong with it?"
"Well, they should have thought twice before using Osborne and Little wallpaper," he says. "Shouldn't they? Though I bet you bloody Osborne's pleased. Laughing all the way to the bank, he'll be."
Honestly, there's no end to the things that an MP needs to consider, is there? It's a mad world when your choice of wallpaper becomes a political act. (Unless you're Derry Irvine, of course - but the less said about that debacle the better. Even the word "Pugin" causes a collective Labour Party shudder.)
But it's not just wallpaper that's making it feel like a mad world today. What's really insane is that Miss Chambers actually seems to have a genuine complaint - for once.
"It's about the Council," she says, slightly more quietly than usual - though Greg can still hear her from where he's standing in the doorway between our offices. He pulls a face, scribbles something on the back of a Council Planning Committee report, and then throws it at me.
"Read it," he mouths, so I do - while also trying to listen to Miss C, who's becoming more agitated by the second.
Greg's scrawl says,
"Emergency signal. When you can't take it any more, roll your eyes, and I'll collapse. Very noisily, so you can excuse yourself and hang up."
This seems like a very good plan, so I nod at him, while Miss Chambers continues to explain that she's had enough of the Housing Department's Repairs Service.
"What exactly is the problem, then?" I say. "Are they actually refusing to do the repair?"
"No," she says. "But they won't make a bloody appointment to do it. They just turn up and, if you're not in, then they leave a card and bugger off. Then you have to report the repair all over again and wait weeks for their next visit. And they don't make an appointment for that one, either."
This doesn't seem to make any sense at all, so I double-check. This is Miss Chambers I'm talking to, after all.
"So, let me get this straight - you're saying they don't actually make any appointments; that they just turn up and expect tenants to be in, as if by magic?"
"No," says Miss C. "I mean, yes. They say that that's their system."
"Oh, for goodness' sake," I say. "That's not a system, that's a -"
I'm interrupted by a loud crash, which suggests that I am not as conscious of my involuntary facial expressions as I might have expected. Though I'm a lot more conscious than Greg is, after he hit his head on the door-frame.
Let's just say that explaining the concept of playing dead is not as much fun as it sounds. Not in A&E on a busy Monday afternoon. And definitely not when they ask for details of your injured colleague's occupation.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Hideous Kinky: Molly Bennett's Guide To Inadvisable Methods Of Follicular Camouflage And Stress Relief.
God, my hair just will not grow. Well, it will - but only on my bloody face, and not on my head where it's supposed to be. It's very depressing, and provides nothing by way of cover for the incipient beard, which doesn't seem to have heard that UK growth has gone into reverse.
Talking of depressing, Max and I spend the morning plunged in gloom at the prospect of him losing his job, and things don't get any better when we look at the receipt from last night's shopping trip. Food is so incredibly expensive!
"Those bloody people on Help Me, Gok - I've Eaten Too Much must have a far bigger income than we do," says Max. "It'd cost a fortune to get as fat as some of them."
"Hmm," I say. "Though doesn't Gillian McKeith always say that beige foods are the cheapest - as well as being the most fattening?"
"Yes, but she's an idiot, isn't she?" says Max, "You can't trust anyone who doesn't realise that jungles tend to contain a lot of insects. Anyway, with the price of food of any colour, not to mention petrol, there's no way that we can afford to go out anywhere today, so we'll just have to stay in and try not to eat too much while we're at it."
Before I can reply, he picks up a Sudoku book and a pen, and settles down on the sofa. Honestly, I'm sure he uses those damn puzzles as an anxiety-distraction technique, though I suppose my own aversion to them may explain why he's so much less of a stress-head than I am. Normally.
Puzzles don't seem to be working their magic today, though - not if the twitching muscle in Max's cheek is anything to go by. I just hope it's not the start of a tic. Richard Bloody Levinson's got loads, and they are so contagious. By the time he leaves the office, I'm always twitching and scratching like a total lunatic.
Anyway, prevention is better than cure, so I decide that there must be something that's more fun and less likely to cause muscle spasm than Sudoku seems to be, and that Max and I can do together this afternoon - mustn't there? Preferably something that doesn't cost any money, while relieving stress at the same time, if that's not too much to ask.
"Why don't we go for a walk?" I say, after ten minutes' concerted thought.
"Where to?" says Max, looking out of the window at the pouring rain, and then back at me as if I am mad.
"I don't know," I say. "Round the block. A little constitutional."
As soon as I've said it, I can see that it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi, but I'm stumped for a better alternative - until I have my sudden brainwave. That's what comes of being married for aeons, I suppose: you get into such a rut that you miss possibilities that are staring you in the face.
I get there in the end, though, a bit like Gordon Brown. I just hope it brings me more joy than it brought him.
"We could always give up on today altogether, and just go back to bed," I say. "Seeing as it's raining, and there's not exactly anything better to do."
Much to my astonishment, Max agrees, and is off the sofa and up the stairs like a rat out of a trap. Which is either very complimentary, or a measure of how bored he really is. Beggars can't be choosers, anyway, so I follow him, feeling quite exhilarated by the success of my Big Idea.
This sense of achievement lasts for all of thirty seconds, until I walk past the mirror at the top of the stairs, and spot my face, spotlit by a cruel and unnecessary shaft of sunlight that's just broken through the clouds.
Oh, my God - there are even more hairs on my chin than I thought. Max'll freak out if he spots those during sex. He'll think he's in bed with a transvestite or something, and decide that Sudoku is far more appealing. I have to do something - fast - but the question is: what?
"Hurry up," says Max, who is already in bed, his clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor.
"Um, yes," I say. "Going as fast as I can."
Which is a lie, as I am actually taking my clothes off as slowly as possible, while trying to search for my tweezers on the dressing table at the same time. But there's no sign of the damned things, or of the dreaded Tweezi-wand or whatever it's called - and, anyway, I haven't got all day to start rolling that over my face. Now what, oh Brain of Britain?
I'm just about to pretend that I've suddenly developed a migraine, when I spot my salvation, lying amidst another pile of clothes and shoes in the corner of the room.
I bend down and sneakily pick it up, remove the last layer of my thermal underwear, and then crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. I curl up in a ball, with my back to Max, while I wrestle with with my beard hair disguise. I am undoubtedly the last of the great femmes fatales.
"What on earth are you doing, Mol?" says Max, trying to pull the covers away from my head, and rolling me towards him. Then he lets out an amazingly loud yell, and jumps out of bed with a horrified expression on his face.
"Are you trying to give me heart attack?" he says. "What the bloody, bloody hell is that?"
"It's a balaclava," I say. "I thought it might be kinky."
Max sits down on the side of the bed, rolls his eyes as if he's dealing with a complete lunatic, and then says, very wearily:
"That's not the word that I'd have chosen."
Talking of depressing, Max and I spend the morning plunged in gloom at the prospect of him losing his job, and things don't get any better when we look at the receipt from last night's shopping trip. Food is so incredibly expensive!
"Those bloody people on Help Me, Gok - I've Eaten Too Much must have a far bigger income than we do," says Max. "It'd cost a fortune to get as fat as some of them."
"Hmm," I say. "Though doesn't Gillian McKeith always say that beige foods are the cheapest - as well as being the most fattening?"
"Yes, but she's an idiot, isn't she?" says Max, "You can't trust anyone who doesn't realise that jungles tend to contain a lot of insects. Anyway, with the price of food of any colour, not to mention petrol, there's no way that we can afford to go out anywhere today, so we'll just have to stay in and try not to eat too much while we're at it."
Before I can reply, he picks up a Sudoku book and a pen, and settles down on the sofa. Honestly, I'm sure he uses those damn puzzles as an anxiety-distraction technique, though I suppose my own aversion to them may explain why he's so much less of a stress-head than I am. Normally.
Puzzles don't seem to be working their magic today, though - not if the twitching muscle in Max's cheek is anything to go by. I just hope it's not the start of a tic. Richard Bloody Levinson's got loads, and they are so contagious. By the time he leaves the office, I'm always twitching and scratching like a total lunatic.
Anyway, prevention is better than cure, so I decide that there must be something that's more fun and less likely to cause muscle spasm than Sudoku seems to be, and that Max and I can do together this afternoon - mustn't there? Preferably something that doesn't cost any money, while relieving stress at the same time, if that's not too much to ask.
"Why don't we go for a walk?" I say, after ten minutes' concerted thought.
"Where to?" says Max, looking out of the window at the pouring rain, and then back at me as if I am mad.
"I don't know," I say. "Round the block. A little constitutional."
As soon as I've said it, I can see that it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi, but I'm stumped for a better alternative - until I have my sudden brainwave. That's what comes of being married for aeons, I suppose: you get into such a rut that you miss possibilities that are staring you in the face.
I get there in the end, though, a bit like Gordon Brown. I just hope it brings me more joy than it brought him.
"We could always give up on today altogether, and just go back to bed," I say. "Seeing as it's raining, and there's not exactly anything better to do."
Much to my astonishment, Max agrees, and is off the sofa and up the stairs like a rat out of a trap. Which is either very complimentary, or a measure of how bored he really is. Beggars can't be choosers, anyway, so I follow him, feeling quite exhilarated by the success of my Big Idea.
This sense of achievement lasts for all of thirty seconds, until I walk past the mirror at the top of the stairs, and spot my face, spotlit by a cruel and unnecessary shaft of sunlight that's just broken through the clouds.
Oh, my God - there are even more hairs on my chin than I thought. Max'll freak out if he spots those during sex. He'll think he's in bed with a transvestite or something, and decide that Sudoku is far more appealing. I have to do something - fast - but the question is: what?
"Hurry up," says Max, who is already in bed, his clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor.
"Um, yes," I say. "Going as fast as I can."
Which is a lie, as I am actually taking my clothes off as slowly as possible, while trying to search for my tweezers on the dressing table at the same time. But there's no sign of the damned things, or of the dreaded Tweezi-wand or whatever it's called - and, anyway, I haven't got all day to start rolling that over my face. Now what, oh Brain of Britain?
I'm just about to pretend that I've suddenly developed a migraine, when I spot my salvation, lying amidst another pile of clothes and shoes in the corner of the room.
I bend down and sneakily pick it up, remove the last layer of my thermal underwear, and then crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. I curl up in a ball, with my back to Max, while I wrestle with with my beard hair disguise. I am undoubtedly the last of the great femmes fatales.
"What on earth are you doing, Mol?" says Max, trying to pull the covers away from my head, and rolling me towards him. Then he lets out an amazingly loud yell, and jumps out of bed with a horrified expression on his face.
"Are you trying to give me heart attack?" he says. "What the bloody, bloody hell is that?"
"It's a balaclava," I say. "I thought it might be kinky."
Max sits down on the side of the bed, rolls his eyes as if he's dealing with a complete lunatic, and then says, very wearily:
"That's not the word that I'd have chosen."
Saturday, 26 February 2011
How To Convince A Complete Stranger That He's Mad, Or Yet Another* Reason Why Josh Should Never Be Allowed In Car Parks
Honestly, the simplest thing is fraught with hazards in my family. Max and I decide to go shopping this evening - at the Morrisons near where Josh works, instead of at our local Sainsburys or Tesco.
I have decided that going further afield will lessen the chances of my being spotted and harassed by constituents, and save me the bother of having to wear my balaclava. Now I wish I hadn't bothered.
"We'll pick Josh up from work, and then go and do a quick shop," says Max, which sounds like a reasonable plan at the time.
The trouble starts when Josh doesn't finish work when he's supposed to and then, when he does finally get into the car, he claims that he's too tired to traipse round Morrisons.
By now, I can't face it either. I just want to get home quickly in time to watch The Killing, though I'm not expecting to want to kill my son by the time it starts. Or not yet, I'm not.
"I suppose I'll have to go in by myself, then," says Max. "While you two lazy buggers stay in the car and lounge about."
Which is fine by me, or was - until Josh suddenly opens the car door and gets out.
"Where are you going?"I say.
"Ssh," he says, then rushes over to the Photo Booth machine situated outside the shop. I watch as he fumbles around in the slot where the photos come out, before he comes running back to the car, yanks the door open and throws himself headlong onto the back seat.
"Got it," he says.
Before I can ask what he's got, I see a man pull back the curtain of the booth and step out. He goes to the slot and removes what is presumably a strip of photos, looks down at them, and then jerks his head up and starts scanning the car park. He doesn't look very happy at all.
"Who is that man, and what's he doing, Josh?" I say.
"Shut up, Mum, and tell me when he's gone." Josh seems to be fumbling about and trying to put something into his wallet.
"What have you got there?" I say, at the same time as I make a grab for it. Call it maternal instinct, but I just know when Josh is up to something.
I turn on the interior light, to find myself looking at a photograph of the man that I can see out of the car window. A single photograph, with one neatly torn edge.
"Josh," I say. "What is this? Why have you got a photo of that man over there?"
"He's the Photo Booth repair man," says Josh. "He gives me and the lads hours of fun."
"How?" I say - though I really should know bloody better.
Josh explains that he and his friends are regulars in the Morrisons car park. Which sounds very dodgy indeed, and doesn't get any better when it becomes apparent that their target is the poor repair man.
"He comes once or twice a month," says Josh. "And he gets into the Photo Booth, starts fiddling around with the machinery and then takes some photos of himself. Then he carries on working inside the booth for a while - with the curtain still drawn across the front. When he's finished, he picks up his photos to check whether they've come out okay."
"And your involvement in this is - ?" I say, though I'm not at all sure I really want to know.
"Well, as soon as the photos come out, one of us rushes over, and grabs them out of the machine," says Josh.
"What - you steal his photos?" I say.
"Not all of them," says Josh. "We just tear one off the strip and then put the others back into the slot. Confuses the hell out of him."
"Hand it over," I say. "Now, or you're grounded."
"Killjoy."
Josh glares at me as he passes something over the back seat.
"Joshua," I say, in disbelief. "There are twelve different photos here. How long has this been going on?"
"About six months," says Josh. "He's getting crosser every time it happens."
I can no longer deny the fact that I am, quite clearly, the parent of a juvenile delinquent.
*See here for another reason why Josh should never, ever be allowed into car parks without being accompanied by his parents.
I have decided that going further afield will lessen the chances of my being spotted and harassed by constituents, and save me the bother of having to wear my balaclava. Now I wish I hadn't bothered.
"We'll pick Josh up from work, and then go and do a quick shop," says Max, which sounds like a reasonable plan at the time.
The trouble starts when Josh doesn't finish work when he's supposed to and then, when he does finally get into the car, he claims that he's too tired to traipse round Morrisons.
By now, I can't face it either. I just want to get home quickly in time to watch The Killing, though I'm not expecting to want to kill my son by the time it starts. Or not yet, I'm not.
"I suppose I'll have to go in by myself, then," says Max. "While you two lazy buggers stay in the car and lounge about."
Which is fine by me, or was - until Josh suddenly opens the car door and gets out.
"Where are you going?"I say.
"Ssh," he says, then rushes over to the Photo Booth machine situated outside the shop. I watch as he fumbles around in the slot where the photos come out, before he comes running back to the car, yanks the door open and throws himself headlong onto the back seat.
"Got it," he says.
Before I can ask what he's got, I see a man pull back the curtain of the booth and step out. He goes to the slot and removes what is presumably a strip of photos, looks down at them, and then jerks his head up and starts scanning the car park. He doesn't look very happy at all.
"Who is that man, and what's he doing, Josh?" I say.
"Shut up, Mum, and tell me when he's gone." Josh seems to be fumbling about and trying to put something into his wallet.
"What have you got there?" I say, at the same time as I make a grab for it. Call it maternal instinct, but I just know when Josh is up to something.
I turn on the interior light, to find myself looking at a photograph of the man that I can see out of the car window. A single photograph, with one neatly torn edge.
"Josh," I say. "What is this? Why have you got a photo of that man over there?"
"He's the Photo Booth repair man," says Josh. "He gives me and the lads hours of fun."
"How?" I say - though I really should know bloody better.
Josh explains that he and his friends are regulars in the Morrisons car park. Which sounds very dodgy indeed, and doesn't get any better when it becomes apparent that their target is the poor repair man.
"He comes once or twice a month," says Josh. "And he gets into the Photo Booth, starts fiddling around with the machinery and then takes some photos of himself. Then he carries on working inside the booth for a while - with the curtain still drawn across the front. When he's finished, he picks up his photos to check whether they've come out okay."
"And your involvement in this is - ?" I say, though I'm not at all sure I really want to know.
"Well, as soon as the photos come out, one of us rushes over, and grabs them out of the machine," says Josh.
"What - you steal his photos?" I say.
"Not all of them," says Josh. "We just tear one off the strip and then put the others back into the slot. Confuses the hell out of him."
"Hand it over," I say. "Now, or you're grounded."
"Killjoy."
Josh glares at me as he passes something over the back seat.
"Joshua," I say, in disbelief. "There are twelve different photos here. How long has this been going on?"
"About six months," says Josh. "He's getting crosser every time it happens."
I can no longer deny the fact that I am, quite clearly, the parent of a juvenile delinquent.
*See here for another reason why Josh should never, ever be allowed into car parks without being accompanied by his parents.
Friday, 25 February 2011
A Nasty Surprise, Though Obviously Not To The Office Of National Statistics
Blimey, I can't help feeling that the *ONS know more about our lives than they're letting on. I'm pretty sure I'd score ten out of ten for anxiety today, following the news that Max eventually decides to impart over breakfast this morning.
He's scraping burnt toast while studiously avoiding eye contact, when I decide I can't take it any longer.
"When are you going to start speaking to me again?" I say. "It's bad enough at work with The Boss giving me the silent treatment half the time, without you doing it at home as well."
Max looks at me, then chucks the piece of toast into the bin.
"Mol," he says, rather wearily. "You're the one who isn't speaking to me - ever since last night when you randomly decided that I must have been shagging someone when I was actually at a work meeting. You didn't even look away from the TV when I came in, and you've been scowling like a maniac ever since."
"That's because Question Time was on," I say. "Which effectively means that I was working while I was watching. And what you don't seem to realise is that I saw who dropped you off last night - that bloody annoying Bambi girl. So no wonder I'm scowling. I've got a damned good reason to."
I don't add that I could also smell alcohol on his breath, or that he looked pretty stressed out at the time. As you would, if you'd been cheating on your wife with an airhead whose only topic of conversation seems to be chocolate brownies. And who wears exactly the shade of lipstick that was smeared across his cheek. I am either becoming an absolute model of restraint - or a total coward.
"Correct as far as it goes," says Max. "Seeing as Bambi - bloody hell, I mean Gemma - did give me a lift home. But along with two other staff, who you surely must also have seen if you were spying on me properly."
"I wasn't spying," I say. "I was closing Josh's bedroom curtains, and I didn't even have my glasses on."
"That explains that, then," says Max.
He rolls his eyes, and I'm pretty sure he's counting to ten under his breath. You can always tell when he's concentrating. His breathing goes all funny.
"So why were you all so late, then?" I say. "It must have been a pretty important meeting if you had to work later than I do. Was there a table facing deportation, or a bunk-bed that was about to be evicted or something?"
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mum," says Josh - who has appeared from nowhere as teenagers often do. "For God's sake, give Dad a chance to tell you what's going on."
There's nothing so frightening as a big build-up, is there? Better late than never, I realise that something serious must have happened, so I abandon the attempt to eat my porridge and raise my eyebrows at Max instead.
My stomach feels a bit jittery, but I try my best to ignore it by recalling Nick Clegg's brilliant faux pas yesterday, which has served to make me laugh every time I've thought about it - until now, when it no longer seems to work at all.
I can feel the anxiety mounting while I wait for Max to tell me whatever it is that is causing his agonised expression. Is he going to tell me he's leaving me for a chocoholic faun? Surely he wouldn't do that - not in front of Josh, anyway? But it must be something bad, because he obviously doesn't know where to begin.
I gesture at him to hurry up, and finally he starts to speak.
"The shop's closing," he says, as my stomach does a rather stunning Lutz, followed by what must be at least a triple toe loop. "They may transfer some of us elsewhere, but if we even want to be considered for that, we all have to re-apply for our jobs."
"Elsewhere?" I say. "Where else?" (In normal circumstances I'd be awfully chuffed with the neatness of that reversal, but these aren't normal circumstances. Not by a very long chalk.)
"Either the store in Meadowbridge, or the one in Hansford," says Max. "Either way, they're a hell of a distance from here. And that's if I get through the interview process in the first place - which, as I'm the oldest member of staff, doesn't seem very bloody likely."
I'm so shocked that I don't know what to say, but I've got a funny feeling the ONS must have seen this coming. Why else would they only want to know how happy I was yesterday?
*ONS - Office for National Statistics, charged with trying to assess the nation's happiness levels, amongst other things.
He's scraping burnt toast while studiously avoiding eye contact, when I decide I can't take it any longer.
"When are you going to start speaking to me again?" I say. "It's bad enough at work with The Boss giving me the silent treatment half the time, without you doing it at home as well."
Max looks at me, then chucks the piece of toast into the bin.
"Mol," he says, rather wearily. "You're the one who isn't speaking to me - ever since last night when you randomly decided that I must have been shagging someone when I was actually at a work meeting. You didn't even look away from the TV when I came in, and you've been scowling like a maniac ever since."
"That's because Question Time was on," I say. "Which effectively means that I was working while I was watching. And what you don't seem to realise is that I saw who dropped you off last night - that bloody annoying Bambi girl. So no wonder I'm scowling. I've got a damned good reason to."
I don't add that I could also smell alcohol on his breath, or that he looked pretty stressed out at the time. As you would, if you'd been cheating on your wife with an airhead whose only topic of conversation seems to be chocolate brownies. And who wears exactly the shade of lipstick that was smeared across his cheek. I am either becoming an absolute model of restraint - or a total coward.
"Correct as far as it goes," says Max. "Seeing as Bambi - bloody hell, I mean Gemma - did give me a lift home. But along with two other staff, who you surely must also have seen if you were spying on me properly."
"I wasn't spying," I say. "I was closing Josh's bedroom curtains, and I didn't even have my glasses on."
"That explains that, then," says Max.
He rolls his eyes, and I'm pretty sure he's counting to ten under his breath. You can always tell when he's concentrating. His breathing goes all funny.
"So why were you all so late, then?" I say. "It must have been a pretty important meeting if you had to work later than I do. Was there a table facing deportation, or a bunk-bed that was about to be evicted or something?"
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mum," says Josh - who has appeared from nowhere as teenagers often do. "For God's sake, give Dad a chance to tell you what's going on."
There's nothing so frightening as a big build-up, is there? Better late than never, I realise that something serious must have happened, so I abandon the attempt to eat my porridge and raise my eyebrows at Max instead.
My stomach feels a bit jittery, but I try my best to ignore it by recalling Nick Clegg's brilliant faux pas yesterday, which has served to make me laugh every time I've thought about it - until now, when it no longer seems to work at all.
I can feel the anxiety mounting while I wait for Max to tell me whatever it is that is causing his agonised expression. Is he going to tell me he's leaving me for a chocoholic faun? Surely he wouldn't do that - not in front of Josh, anyway? But it must be something bad, because he obviously doesn't know where to begin.
I gesture at him to hurry up, and finally he starts to speak.
"The shop's closing," he says, as my stomach does a rather stunning Lutz, followed by what must be at least a triple toe loop. "They may transfer some of us elsewhere, but if we even want to be considered for that, we all have to re-apply for our jobs."
"Elsewhere?" I say. "Where else?" (In normal circumstances I'd be awfully chuffed with the neatness of that reversal, but these aren't normal circumstances. Not by a very long chalk.)
"Either the store in Meadowbridge, or the one in Hansford," says Max. "Either way, they're a hell of a distance from here. And that's if I get through the interview process in the first place - which, as I'm the oldest member of staff, doesn't seem very bloody likely."
I'm so shocked that I don't know what to say, but I've got a funny feeling the ONS must have seen this coming. Why else would they only want to know how happy I was yesterday?
*ONS - Office for National Statistics, charged with trying to assess the nation's happiness levels, amongst other things.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Surrealism In Action....And Not A Moustache In Sight (Except Possibly Mine).
Honestly, has everyone gone mad? Even when you disregard the usual suspects, I still don't seem to have had a conversation with a sane person all day.
"Where do I stand on *AV?" says The Boss, upon his return from the Easemount Day Centre - where he's spent lunchtime terrifying the hell out of old people by warning that the Coalition is bound to cut the services on which they depend to shreds.
"I don't know, Andrew," I say. "You'll have to make your own decision on this one. Though it would help if you could hurry up about it, seeing as I've got lots of letters from constituents who want to know exactly that."
He scowls as me as if I've said something unreasonable, then turns towards Greg, who is trying his best to ignore him by staring out of the window.
"Gregory," he says. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me: AV - for or against?"
"It's a bloody stupid system," says Greg, with an air of finality.
Andrew shakes his head, sighs heavily and then starts walking round and round in circles until he finally veers off into the kitchen and comes to a halt. You can tell he's definitely not himself when he offers to make us all a coffee. Probably because Vicky's still so annoyed that he used her as a human shield that she's rung in sick today.
"We'll have coffee and a sit down in the Oprah Room - and discuss this properly," he says. "We could even have biscuits. Mrs Arthurton gave me some Garibaldis before I left the day centre. She said she thought I still looked a bit hungry after my lunch."
So, ten minutes later, Greg and I are sitting on the sofa, sipping at the worst coffee we've ever tasted, wondering what's happened to the biscuits and wishing we were elsewhere. Meanwhile, Andrew sits in the armchair, brushes the crumbs from his beard, and looks at us both expectantly.
No-one seems to want to start the ball rolling but, as usual, I crack first. No resilience, that's my trouble - I'd make an utterly useless spy.
"I'm most bothered about the fact that AV seems to have been the only deal-breaker for the LibDems," I say. "Unlike tuition fees, or cuts to Housing Benefit, or any of the other things they've rolled over on."
"That's just bloody typical," says Greg. "They've been driven by self-interest all along."
"Yes, well," says Andrew, fidgeting a bit and looking down at the floor. "Talking of which, what do you think the effect of AV would be on me?"
"You? Total buggeration, I should think," says Greg. "Seeing as half your constituents are completely mad. Can you imagine the Beales brothers managing to comprehend how the AV system works? They'd end up accidentally voting for everyone except you, even if they've usually voted for you in the past. Which I rather doubt."
Andrew looks aghast for a moment, and then seems to pull himself together. He stands up, and takes the cup out of my hand.
"Right - so I'm against AV, then," he says. "Now that's sorted, you two can get back to work. You can't just sit around here all day."
He's right for once, as I've got lots to do if I'm to be able to leave on time this evening. Which is important, as I'm supposed to be doing the cooking for once.
It's probably a measure of how depressed Max is, that's he's even considering eating something that I've prepared, seeing as he normally doesn't trust me in the kitchen at all. But he's got an important meeting after work - or so he claims.
So I'm standing in the kitchen stirring a rather lumpy-looking sauce for Macaroni Cheese when I realise that I haven't spoken to Dad for days. Or to Connie, either.
Never try to do two things at once when one of them involves cooking, that's all I can say. By the time I've spent half an hour listening to Dad moaning about Dinah's "devil child" and what the hell is wrong with the UK when we can't fly British citizens out of Libya like "even the bloody French" have managed to do, the sauce is looking even more dubious than before.
To make matters worse, I can't get seem to get hold of Connie at all, which always makes me fret like mad. She's not answering her phone, or responding to messages or texts.
"What's up, Mum?" says Josh. "You look even more of a stress-head than usual."
When I've explained that his sister seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, and that my concentration is therefore shot, Josh takes one look at the Macaroni Cheese, declares it ruined - "as predicted" - and suggests we go and watch Channel 4 News instead.
"We can have a mother and son bonding session while discussing world events," he says. "By which time Connie'll probably have finished showering or watching Eastenders or whatever she's doing while she's ignoring your calls, and then she'll get in touch with you."
This seems like a good plan but, although I stare dutifully at the screen, I don't really seem to be taking much in - so I haven't got a clue what leads to Josh's Big Idea to reduce the budget deficit.
"Mum," he says. "Are we still an Empire, or something?"
Sometimes I despair of comprehensive education. What sort of question is that for someone who's supposedly got GCSEs and an A-Level?
"Well, not exactly," I say. "Though there is the Commonwealth. And the Crown Territories. And -"
"Never mind about the detail. All I want to know is: do we own any other countries?"
Never mind the detail? Who does Josh think he is - an MP? I make allowances, though, on the basis that Film Studies probably isn't much use in situations such as this.
"Um, yes, I suppose so," I say. "In a manner of speaking. Why?"
"Problem solved, then," he says. "Why don't we sell one of them? We just phone up China and say, "Hey, China - do you want to buy Australia? I bet they'd jump at the chance."'
While I'm trying to think of an answer to that, my mobile beeps and - finally - there's a text from Connie. Not that it's very informative, considering I've heard nothing from her for ages.
"Mum, I'm fine," it says. "But I can't do a pull-up."
There's nothing for it but to go for a very long lie-down, until people start making sense again.
*AV - The Alternative Vote, which I have trouble understanding unless I am concentrating very hard. Which means that it'll be completely beyond the grasp of certain people I could mention...
"Where do I stand on *AV?" says The Boss, upon his return from the Easemount Day Centre - where he's spent lunchtime terrifying the hell out of old people by warning that the Coalition is bound to cut the services on which they depend to shreds.
"I don't know, Andrew," I say. "You'll have to make your own decision on this one. Though it would help if you could hurry up about it, seeing as I've got lots of letters from constituents who want to know exactly that."
He scowls as me as if I've said something unreasonable, then turns towards Greg, who is trying his best to ignore him by staring out of the window.
"Gregory," he says. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me: AV - for or against?"
"It's a bloody stupid system," says Greg, with an air of finality.
Andrew shakes his head, sighs heavily and then starts walking round and round in circles until he finally veers off into the kitchen and comes to a halt. You can tell he's definitely not himself when he offers to make us all a coffee. Probably because Vicky's still so annoyed that he used her as a human shield that she's rung in sick today.
"We'll have coffee and a sit down in the Oprah Room - and discuss this properly," he says. "We could even have biscuits. Mrs Arthurton gave me some Garibaldis before I left the day centre. She said she thought I still looked a bit hungry after my lunch."
So, ten minutes later, Greg and I are sitting on the sofa, sipping at the worst coffee we've ever tasted, wondering what's happened to the biscuits and wishing we were elsewhere. Meanwhile, Andrew sits in the armchair, brushes the crumbs from his beard, and looks at us both expectantly.
No-one seems to want to start the ball rolling but, as usual, I crack first. No resilience, that's my trouble - I'd make an utterly useless spy.
"I'm most bothered about the fact that AV seems to have been the only deal-breaker for the LibDems," I say. "Unlike tuition fees, or cuts to Housing Benefit, or any of the other things they've rolled over on."
"That's just bloody typical," says Greg. "They've been driven by self-interest all along."
"Yes, well," says Andrew, fidgeting a bit and looking down at the floor. "Talking of which, what do you think the effect of AV would be on me?"
"You? Total buggeration, I should think," says Greg. "Seeing as half your constituents are completely mad. Can you imagine the Beales brothers managing to comprehend how the AV system works? They'd end up accidentally voting for everyone except you, even if they've usually voted for you in the past. Which I rather doubt."
Andrew looks aghast for a moment, and then seems to pull himself together. He stands up, and takes the cup out of my hand.
"Right - so I'm against AV, then," he says. "Now that's sorted, you two can get back to work. You can't just sit around here all day."
He's right for once, as I've got lots to do if I'm to be able to leave on time this evening. Which is important, as I'm supposed to be doing the cooking for once.
It's probably a measure of how depressed Max is, that's he's even considering eating something that I've prepared, seeing as he normally doesn't trust me in the kitchen at all. But he's got an important meeting after work - or so he claims.
So I'm standing in the kitchen stirring a rather lumpy-looking sauce for Macaroni Cheese when I realise that I haven't spoken to Dad for days. Or to Connie, either.
Never try to do two things at once when one of them involves cooking, that's all I can say. By the time I've spent half an hour listening to Dad moaning about Dinah's "devil child" and what the hell is wrong with the UK when we can't fly British citizens out of Libya like "even the bloody French" have managed to do, the sauce is looking even more dubious than before.
To make matters worse, I can't get seem to get hold of Connie at all, which always makes me fret like mad. She's not answering her phone, or responding to messages or texts.
"What's up, Mum?" says Josh. "You look even more of a stress-head than usual."
When I've explained that his sister seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, and that my concentration is therefore shot, Josh takes one look at the Macaroni Cheese, declares it ruined - "as predicted" - and suggests we go and watch Channel 4 News instead.
"We can have a mother and son bonding session while discussing world events," he says. "By which time Connie'll probably have finished showering or watching Eastenders or whatever she's doing while she's ignoring your calls, and then she'll get in touch with you."
This seems like a good plan but, although I stare dutifully at the screen, I don't really seem to be taking much in - so I haven't got a clue what leads to Josh's Big Idea to reduce the budget deficit.
"Mum," he says. "Are we still an Empire, or something?"
Sometimes I despair of comprehensive education. What sort of question is that for someone who's supposedly got GCSEs and an A-Level?
"Well, not exactly," I say. "Though there is the Commonwealth. And the Crown Territories. And -"
"Never mind about the detail. All I want to know is: do we own any other countries?"
Never mind the detail? Who does Josh think he is - an MP? I make allowances, though, on the basis that Film Studies probably isn't much use in situations such as this.
"Um, yes, I suppose so," I say. "In a manner of speaking. Why?"
"Problem solved, then," he says. "Why don't we sell one of them? We just phone up China and say, "Hey, China - do you want to buy Australia? I bet they'd jump at the chance."'
While I'm trying to think of an answer to that, my mobile beeps and - finally - there's a text from Connie. Not that it's very informative, considering I've heard nothing from her for ages.
"Mum, I'm fine," it says. "But I can't do a pull-up."
There's nothing for it but to go for a very long lie-down, until people start making sense again.
*AV - The Alternative Vote, which I have trouble understanding unless I am concentrating very hard. Which means that it'll be completely beyond the grasp of certain people I could mention...
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
The Battle Of Balaclava, Mafioso-Style.
I know it's pathetic to moan about this, given the terrible things that are happening in Libya and New Zealand, but, bloody hell, shopping's such a hazard when you work for an MP. Poor old Greg looks as if he's seen a ghost when he comes back from lunch.
"Christ," he says, before throwing himself onto the sofa in the Oprah Room and closing his eyes as if he's in pain.
"What on earth's the matter?" I say. "And get off there before The Boss and Vicky come back and decide you've been sleeping on the job."
"I shall just tell them that I have had a relapse of *PTSD," says Greg. "Caused by the trauma of encountering Steve Ellington at the pharmacy counter in Boots. Is it too much to expect constituents to keep their bloody distance when you're on your lunch-break and engaged in a sensitive transaction? "
I know exactly what Greg means. MPs' staff should be like teachers and live anywhere other than the town in which we work. You never know who is going to pop up and start demanding to know what the point of the United Nations is, right at the moment when you're trying to read the instructions on a bottle of Durex Play Gel - not that that's ever happened to me, of course. It's just an example I thought up off the top of my head.
"What were you buying?" I ask. "Anything embarrassing?"
"Imodium," says Greg. "I can't tell you how much fun Steve E had with that, but suffice it to say that it involved lots of increasingly-tedious references to politicians' tendency to verbal diarrhoea. So I've come up with a cunning plan to camouflage ourselves while we shop in future, and I've bought you something to help achieve that aim. Pass me that carrier bag."
I do as I'm told, and then wait while Greg rummages through endless packets of Imodium, two cans of Red Bull and three bags of Haribo Starmix. After what feels like hours, he finally says, "Got it!" and chucks something at me.
I'd be lethal in a riot as I can't help catching anything that anyone throws at me. It's automatic after years of parenting Josh, who went through a rather lengthy and dangerous stage of saying, "Catch!" at the same time as throwing hard objects straight at Connie's head.
So of course I obey Greg's instruction, and then stare in disbelief at the shapeless black thing that's landed in my hand, and which seems to be knitted from thick black wool.
"Um, thanks," I say. "It's very nice. But why are there holes in it, and what is it for?"
"It's a balaclava, you fool," says Greg. "I bought myself one, too. We just put them on whenever we leave the office - and then we can stay incognito wherever we go. Brilliant, eh? Let's try them on, and see how we look."
Which may have been a mistake, in retrospect - judging by how Andrew and Vicky react to the sight of us when they walk back into the office. Vicky starts screaming, and The Boss pulls her in front of him as if she were a riot shield.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he says.
"Whapf?" says Greg, which is a significant achievement with a mouthful of Haribos. My teeth are so firmly stuck together that I'm incapable of making any sound at all.
The Boss drops his voice and pulls Vicky closer to him, before continuing:
"Are you the Russian Mafia? If so, I'm not the man you're looking for - but I do know where he lives."
"Nompf, youfoof - s'mee," says Greg - twice, before he gives up and removes his balaclava, and gestures at me to do the same.
Some people have no sense of humour at all. Even after Greg's pointed out that terrorists and mafioso don't usually fill the time spent lying in wait for their victims by typing letters, The Boss still can't see the funny side of the whole thing. He doesn't speak to us for the rest of the afternoon, and Vicky doesn't speak to him, either.
"Why's Vicky giving The Boss the silent treatment?" I say to Greg, when we sneak off to the Labour Party office to get away from the chilly atmosphere pervading ours.
"Didn't you hear what she said when he finally released his grip on her?" says Greg.
"No," I say. "I was still trying to pull my balaclava off, so I couldn't hear anything at all. It's a bit tight and I couldn't get it over my ears."
"Yeah, I spotted that," says Greg. "You looked a bit like Colonel Gaddafi crossed with a Meerkat who'd joined the Special Forces. Anyway, Vicky called Andrew a spineless coward for hiding behind her - so maybe she's not as daft as she looks."
Which is a lot more than can be said for me and Greg when we're wearing our new shopping kit.
*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. What Greg claims to be suffering from whenever he wants a day off to recover from a hangover.
"Christ," he says, before throwing himself onto the sofa in the Oprah Room and closing his eyes as if he's in pain.
"What on earth's the matter?" I say. "And get off there before The Boss and Vicky come back and decide you've been sleeping on the job."
"I shall just tell them that I have had a relapse of *PTSD," says Greg. "Caused by the trauma of encountering Steve Ellington at the pharmacy counter in Boots. Is it too much to expect constituents to keep their bloody distance when you're on your lunch-break and engaged in a sensitive transaction? "
I know exactly what Greg means. MPs' staff should be like teachers and live anywhere other than the town in which we work. You never know who is going to pop up and start demanding to know what the point of the United Nations is, right at the moment when you're trying to read the instructions on a bottle of Durex Play Gel - not that that's ever happened to me, of course. It's just an example I thought up off the top of my head.
"What were you buying?" I ask. "Anything embarrassing?"
"Imodium," says Greg. "I can't tell you how much fun Steve E had with that, but suffice it to say that it involved lots of increasingly-tedious references to politicians' tendency to verbal diarrhoea. So I've come up with a cunning plan to camouflage ourselves while we shop in future, and I've bought you something to help achieve that aim. Pass me that carrier bag."
I do as I'm told, and then wait while Greg rummages through endless packets of Imodium, two cans of Red Bull and three bags of Haribo Starmix. After what feels like hours, he finally says, "Got it!" and chucks something at me.
I'd be lethal in a riot as I can't help catching anything that anyone throws at me. It's automatic after years of parenting Josh, who went through a rather lengthy and dangerous stage of saying, "Catch!" at the same time as throwing hard objects straight at Connie's head.
So of course I obey Greg's instruction, and then stare in disbelief at the shapeless black thing that's landed in my hand, and which seems to be knitted from thick black wool.
"Um, thanks," I say. "It's very nice. But why are there holes in it, and what is it for?"
"It's a balaclava, you fool," says Greg. "I bought myself one, too. We just put them on whenever we leave the office - and then we can stay incognito wherever we go. Brilliant, eh? Let's try them on, and see how we look."
Which may have been a mistake, in retrospect - judging by how Andrew and Vicky react to the sight of us when they walk back into the office. Vicky starts screaming, and The Boss pulls her in front of him as if she were a riot shield.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he says.
"Whapf?" says Greg, which is a significant achievement with a mouthful of Haribos. My teeth are so firmly stuck together that I'm incapable of making any sound at all.
The Boss drops his voice and pulls Vicky closer to him, before continuing:
"Are you the Russian Mafia? If so, I'm not the man you're looking for - but I do know where he lives."
"Nompf, youfoof - s'mee," says Greg - twice, before he gives up and removes his balaclava, and gestures at me to do the same.
Some people have no sense of humour at all. Even after Greg's pointed out that terrorists and mafioso don't usually fill the time spent lying in wait for their victims by typing letters, The Boss still can't see the funny side of the whole thing. He doesn't speak to us for the rest of the afternoon, and Vicky doesn't speak to him, either.
"Why's Vicky giving The Boss the silent treatment?" I say to Greg, when we sneak off to the Labour Party office to get away from the chilly atmosphere pervading ours.
"Didn't you hear what she said when he finally released his grip on her?" says Greg.
"No," I say. "I was still trying to pull my balaclava off, so I couldn't hear anything at all. It's a bit tight and I couldn't get it over my ears."
"Yeah, I spotted that," says Greg. "You looked a bit like Colonel Gaddafi crossed with a Meerkat who'd joined the Special Forces. Anyway, Vicky called Andrew a spineless coward for hiding behind her - so maybe she's not as daft as she looks."
Which is a lot more than can be said for me and Greg when we're wearing our new shopping kit.
*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. What Greg claims to be suffering from whenever he wants a day off to recover from a hangover.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Brothers In Arms, Or Comrades In Dodgy Hats, And An Inability To Think Creatively During Virtual Sex.
Oh, for God's sake. All these revolutions are even more contagious than I thought. Now Igor has decided it's time to stand up to Putin and Dmitry Medvedev. He comes marching into the office, pauses for dramatic effect, and then waves his fist in a solidarity salute.
"Good morning, dear ones," he says. "I come to tell you that freedom starts here. In this small room."
It doesn't feel that way to me, but I just smile politely and get on with typing a reply to yet another letter about cuts to library services.
"Nice hat, Igor," says Greg. "Looks exactly like the one Colonel Gaddafi was wearing last night. Bit of an odd choice for a leader of a revolution, though, isn't it?"
"A lot of body heat goes out through your head - whizz - just like that," says Igor. "And Russia is a very cold country."
The Boss nods sagely at this piece of useless information, then starts eating one of Greg's Twixes.
"Help yourself, Andrew," says Greg. "Don't mind me. What's mine is yours in the socialist state that is Northwick Constituency Office. And, Igor - seeing as Andrew doesn't like to be left out of anything, are you going to get him a hat like that, too? As an alternative to your matching fedoras?"
"Oh, yes, I do that - of course - if Comrade Andrew wishes me to," says Igor. "Then we wear them into battle when the fight begins."
Greg starts laughing, but The Boss doesn't join in. In fact, he's gone decidedly pale.
"What's the matter, Andrew?" says Greg. "Sugar rush, or have you lost your revolutionary zeal, all of a sudden?"
"No," says The Boss. "I've just got a lot on today, what with protesting against the cuts at the County Council and that visit to the Laryngectomy Club, so I'm not sure I've got time -"
"Pfft," says Igor. "There is nothing more important than freedom of people. Now we go to pub to make plans and to drink a little vodka, yes?"
Andrew looks as if he'd prefer to do anything rather than spend the afternoon with a mad Russian with a taste for extravagant millinery, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he just picks up his coat and follows Igor out of the door - making his role in the forthcoming conflict seem likely to be no more than that of camp follower.
"Fan-bloody-tastic," says Greg. "That's what I call leadership. Igor's obviously a natural, unlike some people. And now they'll both get so pissed that we'll be free of The Boss for the rest of the day. God bless Igor, that's what I say."
"Hmm, yes," I say. "Though I can't help wondering when he's going to remember that it's the Russian Mafia that he's actually terrified of. He seems to have forgotten about them in all the excitement about Putin and Medvedev."
"Vodka-related Mafia amnesia," says Greg, which Igor might quite possibly have developed, but which Johnny certainly hasn't. He nearly bites my head off when I accidentally say the M-word while telling him about Igor's plans.
"How many times to I have to tell you not to mention those people?" he says. "If you're not careful, you'll get me thrown out of Russia."
"Well, would that be so bad?" I say. "At least it'd be easier for us to meet up if you were based in the UK instead of in bloody Moscow."
"Be careful what you wish for," he says. "I'm due to hear about my next posting fairly soon. Though if one thing's certain, it's that it definitely won't be in the UK."
Then he goes on to tell me that he's hoping for Dubai. Dubai, for God's sake. As if Russia wasn't far enough away.
"It was supposed to be Bahrain next," he says. "But that probably isn't going to come off now, with everything that's happened. I just hope I don't get Nigeria again."
I don't know what to say as I'm too busy trying to work out how I have managed not only to have a marriage which provides virtually no sex, but a virtual affair which offers even less. And with a man who lives in another country - and soon to be another continent. I am completely bloody hopeless.
"So what will happen to us if you go to Dubai, then?" I say.
"Nothing," says Johnny. "Seeing as we've botched up every attempt we've made to meet so far, I can't see it's going to make any difference. I'll still be flying back to Britain fairly regularly - just not as often as before, so we'll just have to get our act together, and not let anything bugger up our next meeting."
"Oh," I say. "I see. So what do we do in the meantime?"
"We just carry on using our imaginations. Now tell me what you're wearing, and hurry up because I've got a planning meeting in ten minutes."
"A furry hat with earflaps," I say - which is all I can think of for some strange reason.
"Good morning, dear ones," he says. "I come to tell you that freedom starts here. In this small room."
It doesn't feel that way to me, but I just smile politely and get on with typing a reply to yet another letter about cuts to library services.
"Nice hat, Igor," says Greg. "Looks exactly like the one Colonel Gaddafi was wearing last night. Bit of an odd choice for a leader of a revolution, though, isn't it?"
"A lot of body heat goes out through your head - whizz - just like that," says Igor. "And Russia is a very cold country."
The Boss nods sagely at this piece of useless information, then starts eating one of Greg's Twixes.
"Help yourself, Andrew," says Greg. "Don't mind me. What's mine is yours in the socialist state that is Northwick Constituency Office. And, Igor - seeing as Andrew doesn't like to be left out of anything, are you going to get him a hat like that, too? As an alternative to your matching fedoras?"
"Oh, yes, I do that - of course - if Comrade Andrew wishes me to," says Igor. "Then we wear them into battle when the fight begins."
Greg starts laughing, but The Boss doesn't join in. In fact, he's gone decidedly pale.
"What's the matter, Andrew?" says Greg. "Sugar rush, or have you lost your revolutionary zeal, all of a sudden?"
"No," says The Boss. "I've just got a lot on today, what with protesting against the cuts at the County Council and that visit to the Laryngectomy Club, so I'm not sure I've got time -"
"Pfft," says Igor. "There is nothing more important than freedom of people. Now we go to pub to make plans and to drink a little vodka, yes?"
Andrew looks as if he'd prefer to do anything rather than spend the afternoon with a mad Russian with a taste for extravagant millinery, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he just picks up his coat and follows Igor out of the door - making his role in the forthcoming conflict seem likely to be no more than that of camp follower.
"Fan-bloody-tastic," says Greg. "That's what I call leadership. Igor's obviously a natural, unlike some people. And now they'll both get so pissed that we'll be free of The Boss for the rest of the day. God bless Igor, that's what I say."
"Hmm, yes," I say. "Though I can't help wondering when he's going to remember that it's the Russian Mafia that he's actually terrified of. He seems to have forgotten about them in all the excitement about Putin and Medvedev."
"Vodka-related Mafia amnesia," says Greg, which Igor might quite possibly have developed, but which Johnny certainly hasn't. He nearly bites my head off when I accidentally say the M-word while telling him about Igor's plans.
"How many times to I have to tell you not to mention those people?" he says. "If you're not careful, you'll get me thrown out of Russia."
"Well, would that be so bad?" I say. "At least it'd be easier for us to meet up if you were based in the UK instead of in bloody Moscow."
"Be careful what you wish for," he says. "I'm due to hear about my next posting fairly soon. Though if one thing's certain, it's that it definitely won't be in the UK."
Then he goes on to tell me that he's hoping for Dubai. Dubai, for God's sake. As if Russia wasn't far enough away.
"It was supposed to be Bahrain next," he says. "But that probably isn't going to come off now, with everything that's happened. I just hope I don't get Nigeria again."
I don't know what to say as I'm too busy trying to work out how I have managed not only to have a marriage which provides virtually no sex, but a virtual affair which offers even less. And with a man who lives in another country - and soon to be another continent. I am completely bloody hopeless.
"So what will happen to us if you go to Dubai, then?" I say.
"Nothing," says Johnny. "Seeing as we've botched up every attempt we've made to meet so far, I can't see it's going to make any difference. I'll still be flying back to Britain fairly regularly - just not as often as before, so we'll just have to get our act together, and not let anything bugger up our next meeting."
"Oh," I say. "I see. So what do we do in the meantime?"
"We just carry on using our imaginations. Now tell me what you're wearing, and hurry up because I've got a planning meeting in ten minutes."
"A furry hat with earflaps," I say - which is all I can think of for some strange reason.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Hello, Hello, It's Good To Be Back* - But Only If Your Name Is Gary Glitter.
Well, I wish I could say it's nice to be back, but it isn't. It's bloody horrible. Can someone please remind me why I work for an MP?
On second thoughts, don't bother. I probably wouldn't remember the answer for more than five seconds - seeing as I seem to have developed pre-senile dementia over the last fortnight. I can't believe I forgot it was Recess this week.
"Oh, my God," I say, as I walk into the office this morning to find The Boss sitting with his feet propped up on my desk.
"Nice to see you too, Molly," he says. "How's your Dad?"
"Fantasising about the first thing he's going to do as soon as he gets back to Thailand and sees his beloved Porn-Poon," I say. "While unfortunately choosing to share that information with his daughters in rather more detail than is strictly necessary."
"And who can blame him?" says Andrew. "Any man would feel like that about seeing a hot young girlfriend - if he was lucky enough to have one."
I turn my head to look at Greg, who is clutching his throat and making retching motions, but not before I've spotted what I think is Andrew winking at Vicky. Honestly, how has it taken me all these years to work out who The Boss reminds me of? I might just as well be working for my father, the two of them are so alike.
Talking of Dad, it's a good job Dinah agreed to take over nursemaiding duties during half-term. At least I haven't got a murder charge to worry about on top of having to cope with The Boss being around all week. If she hadn't arrived when she did yesterday, I can't promise that today's Dorset Examiner wouldn't be carrying the headline, "MP's caseworker commits frenzied act of patricide."
Which would have been justifiable homicide, as far as I'm concerned, given that Dad had driven me to the verge of insanity by then. Let's just say that having a triple bypass didn't seem to have affected his ability to shout incessant orders for food and drink at full volume, or to complain that the resulting meal wasn't a patch on those prepared by Porn-Poon, which she no doubt usually serves on a bed of lettuce artfully arranged on her naked stomach.
Seeing as I was hardly going to emulate that, I was doomed to fail in the meal provision department despite putting handfuls of chillies and lime leaves into everything I cooked; and I didn't do any better when I disappointed Dad further by what he described as my typically-female lack of appreciation for Sky Sports.
It might not have been tactful to say that I'd prefer to be disinherited rather than ever to be made to watch another Rugby Sevens match, but I thought I was being cruel to be kind - on the basis that, if I annoyed Dad enough, he'd be pleased to see the back of me and wouldn't make a big fuss when the time came for me to leave. So much for best-laid plans.
Dad took one look at Dinah's kids, and started crossing himself while muttering about The Omen again. Then he refused to let me kiss him goodbye.
"Go ahead and abandon your old father, then, Molly," he said, turning his cheek away. "You rush back to your busy life, and your important job. God knows if you'll even find time to phone me this week. Not like my mate Charlie's son, who phones him every day. Every single day. But then he really loves his dad."
"That's because he's a Billy No Mates," said Dinah. "Who doesn't have any kids, or anything approaching what you'd call a life. Unlike some of us, who just have to juggle a load of balls as best we can."
I'd have been a lot more thankful for this undeniably accurate intervention, if Dinah hadn't then felt compelled to add:
"And, anyway, Molly's job isn't at all important."
Which is pretty much how I feel about it, too - once I've finished going through the supposedly-urgent messages that are waiting on my desk. Unless you count managing a bunch of lunatic constituents and a boss with an unerring instinct for saying the wrong thing as being of vital significance to the nation, that is.
*Hello, hello, it's good to be back - an unsubtle reference to Gary Glitter, which I blame on having spent the last fortnight listening to Dad going on about his Thai girlfriend.
On second thoughts, don't bother. I probably wouldn't remember the answer for more than five seconds - seeing as I seem to have developed pre-senile dementia over the last fortnight. I can't believe I forgot it was Recess this week.
"Oh, my God," I say, as I walk into the office this morning to find The Boss sitting with his feet propped up on my desk.
"Nice to see you too, Molly," he says. "How's your Dad?"
"Fantasising about the first thing he's going to do as soon as he gets back to Thailand and sees his beloved Porn-Poon," I say. "While unfortunately choosing to share that information with his daughters in rather more detail than is strictly necessary."
"And who can blame him?" says Andrew. "Any man would feel like that about seeing a hot young girlfriend - if he was lucky enough to have one."
I turn my head to look at Greg, who is clutching his throat and making retching motions, but not before I've spotted what I think is Andrew winking at Vicky. Honestly, how has it taken me all these years to work out who The Boss reminds me of? I might just as well be working for my father, the two of them are so alike.
Talking of Dad, it's a good job Dinah agreed to take over nursemaiding duties during half-term. At least I haven't got a murder charge to worry about on top of having to cope with The Boss being around all week. If she hadn't arrived when she did yesterday, I can't promise that today's Dorset Examiner wouldn't be carrying the headline, "MP's caseworker commits frenzied act of patricide."
Which would have been justifiable homicide, as far as I'm concerned, given that Dad had driven me to the verge of insanity by then. Let's just say that having a triple bypass didn't seem to have affected his ability to shout incessant orders for food and drink at full volume, or to complain that the resulting meal wasn't a patch on those prepared by Porn-Poon, which she no doubt usually serves on a bed of lettuce artfully arranged on her naked stomach.
Seeing as I was hardly going to emulate that, I was doomed to fail in the meal provision department despite putting handfuls of chillies and lime leaves into everything I cooked; and I didn't do any better when I disappointed Dad further by what he described as my typically-female lack of appreciation for Sky Sports.
It might not have been tactful to say that I'd prefer to be disinherited rather than ever to be made to watch another Rugby Sevens match, but I thought I was being cruel to be kind - on the basis that, if I annoyed Dad enough, he'd be pleased to see the back of me and wouldn't make a big fuss when the time came for me to leave. So much for best-laid plans.
Dad took one look at Dinah's kids, and started crossing himself while muttering about The Omen again. Then he refused to let me kiss him goodbye.
"Go ahead and abandon your old father, then, Molly," he said, turning his cheek away. "You rush back to your busy life, and your important job. God knows if you'll even find time to phone me this week. Not like my mate Charlie's son, who phones him every day. Every single day. But then he really loves his dad."
"That's because he's a Billy No Mates," said Dinah. "Who doesn't have any kids, or anything approaching what you'd call a life. Unlike some of us, who just have to juggle a load of balls as best we can."
I'd have been a lot more thankful for this undeniably accurate intervention, if Dinah hadn't then felt compelled to add:
"And, anyway, Molly's job isn't at all important."
Which is pretty much how I feel about it, too - once I've finished going through the supposedly-urgent messages that are waiting on my desk. Unless you count managing a bunch of lunatic constituents and a boss with an unerring instinct for saying the wrong thing as being of vital significance to the nation, that is.
*Hello, hello, it's good to be back - an unsubtle reference to Gary Glitter, which I blame on having spent the last fortnight listening to Dad going on about his Thai girlfriend.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Updated Out Of Office - Molly Bennett, Constituency Office of Andrew Sinclair MP.
Thank you for your email addressed to Molly Bennett, Senior Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
Molly remains on leave, and will respond to your email upon her return to the office on Monday 21 February 2011. However, should your enquiry be urgent, please telephone her colleague, Gregory Duke, who will continue to pretend to be happy to help you.
Mr Duke wishes to re-emphasise that being short-staffed is leading to a delay in this office's usual ability to respond swiftly to enquiries, and therefore asks - yet again - that constituents take simple steps to minimise those problems which may lead them to feel that they have no option but to contact their MP.
The list below should hopefully serve as a reminder as to how this might be achieved, and includes some new suggestions:
1. Avoid reading newspapers, particularly The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mail and The Sun.
2. Avoid watching Question Time; *PMQs, Panorama and Dispatches.
3. Avoid reading LibDem campaign materials from the General Election 2010, especially those containing the word, "pledge".
4. Avoid unnecessary criminal activity.
5. If you are on prescribed medication, please take it - for once.
6. If you believe that your neighbours are stealing your electricity, please contact your supplier.
7. If you have replaced your vehicle with a horse and cart, remember to feed your horse and do not beat it in public.
8. Do not speed past the scenes of accidents, and keep a close eye out for policemen attending the scene, whether or not they are wearing high-visibility clothing.
9. If you wish to send us details showing how the world can be run using only water, please bear in mind that we already hold a large archive of such plans, none of which have yet been put into production.
*PMQs - Prime Ministers Questions.
Molly remains on leave, and will respond to your email upon her return to the office on Monday 21 February 2011. However, should your enquiry be urgent, please telephone her colleague, Gregory Duke, who will continue to pretend to be happy to help you.
Mr Duke wishes to re-emphasise that being short-staffed is leading to a delay in this office's usual ability to respond swiftly to enquiries, and therefore asks - yet again - that constituents take simple steps to minimise those problems which may lead them to feel that they have no option but to contact their MP.
The list below should hopefully serve as a reminder as to how this might be achieved, and includes some new suggestions:
1. Avoid reading newspapers, particularly The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mail and The Sun.
2. Avoid watching Question Time; *PMQs, Panorama and Dispatches.
3. Avoid reading LibDem campaign materials from the General Election 2010, especially those containing the word, "pledge".
4. Avoid unnecessary criminal activity.
5. If you are on prescribed medication, please take it - for once.
6. If you believe that your neighbours are stealing your electricity, please contact your supplier.
7. If you have replaced your vehicle with a horse and cart, remember to feed your horse and do not beat it in public.
8. Do not speed past the scenes of accidents, and keep a close eye out for policemen attending the scene, whether or not they are wearing high-visibility clothing.
9. If you wish to send us details showing how the world can be run using only water, please bear in mind that we already hold a large archive of such plans, none of which have yet been put into production.
*PMQs - Prime Ministers Questions.
Saturday, 12 February 2011
A Speedy Recovery, After A Glimpse Of The Afterlife
God, I'm knackered, and it shows. I've aged ten years in the last week - unlike Dad, who appeared ten years younger by the time I left him in order to return home for a night off. Or, at least, he did until Dinah arrived with her kids to take over from me. Then he didn't look half so full of beans.
"God's sake, Molly," he said. "Don't leave me with them. Damian will be the death of me."
"Seeing as you've just had a pretty thorough MOT," I said, "I don't think that's very likely. And stop calling Jake Damian. Dinah'll hear you."
"Just have a sneaky look underneath his hair before you go," said Dad. "I'm bloody sure you'll find 666 there somewhere."
Honestly, talk about being back to his old self - you'd never believe he's just had a triple heart bypass. The first thing he did when he came round from the operation was to ask how long it'd be before he could fly to Thailand to see his girlfriend. I've never been so embarrassed in my life.
I did feel a bit sorry for him the next morning, though. He looked awfully pale when I arrived at the hospital, so I thought something must have gone wrong during the night.
"What's the matter, Dad?" I said. "You don't look too good today."
"That's because I had a near-death experience," he said. "When I went for a pee."
I couldn't see what that had to do with a heart bypass, unless the surgeon had decided to straighten Dad's willy at the same time, but apparently there was a link, albeit a pretty tangential one.
"Your father decided to walk to the toilet by himself, without asking anyone for help," said the nurse. "Because - apparently - no self-respecting man would use a bedpan. But then when he got there, he became a bit disorientated by the painkillers and had to ring for help."
"I thought I might have died, and that I was in the afterlife," said Dad. "Which was a very disappointing prospect. You'd think Paradise would be better than Thailand, not just some bleak tiled room no bigger than a broom cupboard."
Which must have been very frightening, when you come to think of it; though Dad says it wasn't half as bad as the night before his operation.
"Jee-sus," he said. "That's when I was really scared. I had to ask for Valium to calm me down."
"Well, I told you not to google what the surgeon was going to do to you," I said. "But you wouldn't bloody listen."
Dad muttered something about knowledge being power, though God knows how I managed to refrain from pointing out that, as he was going to be out cold during the operation, it was hardly going to be of any use to anyone that he'd watched the entire procedure on YouTube - even if he had counted exactly how many ribs would have to be broken to get to his heart.
This silver surfing business is a health hazard in itself, as is taking care of those who will insist on doing it and then sharing the results with others - repeatedly, and in butt-clenching detail. If Dad so much as even tries to tell me what was done to him again tomorrow, it'll be me who has the bloody heart attack.
"God's sake, Molly," he said. "Don't leave me with them. Damian will be the death of me."
"Seeing as you've just had a pretty thorough MOT," I said, "I don't think that's very likely. And stop calling Jake Damian. Dinah'll hear you."
"Just have a sneaky look underneath his hair before you go," said Dad. "I'm bloody sure you'll find 666 there somewhere."
Honestly, talk about being back to his old self - you'd never believe he's just had a triple heart bypass. The first thing he did when he came round from the operation was to ask how long it'd be before he could fly to Thailand to see his girlfriend. I've never been so embarrassed in my life.
I did feel a bit sorry for him the next morning, though. He looked awfully pale when I arrived at the hospital, so I thought something must have gone wrong during the night.
"What's the matter, Dad?" I said. "You don't look too good today."
"That's because I had a near-death experience," he said. "When I went for a pee."
I couldn't see what that had to do with a heart bypass, unless the surgeon had decided to straighten Dad's willy at the same time, but apparently there was a link, albeit a pretty tangential one.
"Your father decided to walk to the toilet by himself, without asking anyone for help," said the nurse. "Because - apparently - no self-respecting man would use a bedpan. But then when he got there, he became a bit disorientated by the painkillers and had to ring for help."
"I thought I might have died, and that I was in the afterlife," said Dad. "Which was a very disappointing prospect. You'd think Paradise would be better than Thailand, not just some bleak tiled room no bigger than a broom cupboard."
Which must have been very frightening, when you come to think of it; though Dad says it wasn't half as bad as the night before his operation.
"Jee-sus," he said. "That's when I was really scared. I had to ask for Valium to calm me down."
"Well, I told you not to google what the surgeon was going to do to you," I said. "But you wouldn't bloody listen."
Dad muttered something about knowledge being power, though God knows how I managed to refrain from pointing out that, as he was going to be out cold during the operation, it was hardly going to be of any use to anyone that he'd watched the entire procedure on YouTube - even if he had counted exactly how many ribs would have to be broken to get to his heart.
This silver surfing business is a health hazard in itself, as is taking care of those who will insist on doing it and then sharing the results with others - repeatedly, and in butt-clenching detail. If Dad so much as even tries to tell me what was done to him again tomorrow, it'll be me who has the bloody heart attack.
Monday, 7 February 2011
Out Of Office - Molly Bennett, Constituency Office of Andrew Sinclair MP.
Thank you for your email addressed to Molly Bennett, Senior Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
Molly is currently on leave, and will respond to your email upon her return to the office on Monday 14 February 2011. However, should your enquiry be urgent, please telephone her colleague, Gregory Duke, who will be less than happy to help you.
Mr Duke wishes to point out that being short-staffed may lead to a delay in this office's usual ability to respond swiftly to enquiries, and therefore asks that constituents take simple steps to minimise those problems which may lead them to feel that they have no option but to contact their MP.
The list below gives several suggestions as to how this might be achieved, but is by no means exhaustive:
1. Avoid reading newspapers, particularly The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mail and The Sun.
2. Avoid watching Question Time; *PMQs, Panorama and Dispatches.
3. Avoid reading LibDem campaign materials from the General Election 2010, especially those containing the word, "pledge."
4. Avoid unnecessary criminal activity.
5. If you are on prescribed medication, please take it - for once.
Molly is currently on leave, and will respond to your email upon her return to the office on Monday 14 February 2011. However, should your enquiry be urgent, please telephone her colleague, Gregory Duke, who will be less than happy to help you.
Mr Duke wishes to point out that being short-staffed may lead to a delay in this office's usual ability to respond swiftly to enquiries, and therefore asks that constituents take simple steps to minimise those problems which may lead them to feel that they have no option but to contact their MP.
The list below gives several suggestions as to how this might be achieved, but is by no means exhaustive:
1. Avoid reading newspapers, particularly The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mail and The Sun.
2. Avoid watching Question Time; *PMQs, Panorama and Dispatches.
3. Avoid reading LibDem campaign materials from the General Election 2010, especially those containing the word, "pledge."
4. Avoid unnecessary criminal activity.
5. If you are on prescribed medication, please take it - for once.
*PMQs - Prime Ministers Questions.
The Unexpected Consequences Of Aversion Therapy, Age Gaps, And Marriage.
Oh, bloody, bloody hell. Now Dad's in hospital and I'm sure it's all Dinah's fault. (I told her her supposedly-salutary lessons never worked.)
I've just got off the phone to Richard Levinson, who's complaining about how overpaid some Council officers are, when my mobile starts ringing.
"Shit, Mol," says Dinah. "You won't believe what's happened."
"Oh, I probably will," I say. "I work for an MP, remember. Nothing much surprises me any more."
"Yeah, well," she says. "You won't have seen this one coming. Dad's got to have a heart bypass operation. First thing tomorrow morning."
Oh, dear God. I bet that's because Dinah told him that lie about Connie having a sixty-five-year-old boyfriend. The shock was obviously far too much - not that Dinah's taking any responsibility for what has happened.
"Coincidence," she says, when I ask whether she thinks her attempt at aversion therapy may have backfired. "More likely to be the effect of trying to keep up with the Thai bride that's done it. So what are we going to do? Someone'll have to go down to Dorset tonight."
Why is it that when someone says "someone", they usually mean, "you"?
"Well, who?" I say. "I've got to work."
"Yes, I know," she says, "But your kids are much older than mine, and Max will be there to keep an eye on things anyway. I am a single parent, don't forget."
Honestly, it's like a game of top trumps, which I am always doomed to lose. Maybe that's what Cameron's tax allowance proposals were designed to compensate married people for? There must be some benefits in return for all that hard labour at the coalface of marriage, but getting out of things definitely isn't one of them.
"All right," I say. "You win. I'll ask The Boss if I can take unpaid leave. That's bound to make me even more popular with him than I already am."
"But he's a socialist," says Dinah. "So he'll believe in treating his employees well."
I can't think of anything to say to that ridiculous statement, so I content myself with drawing loops of barbed wire on my notepad instead. Then I create cages around the loops. God knows what Freud would say if he ever saw my doodles.
"Maybe we were too harsh about the Thai bride," says Dinah. "Just think, if she'd been in the UK, you wouldn't have needed to go."
"If you hadn't freaked Dad out and nearly given him a heart attack, I wouldn't have had any reason to," I say, but Dinah pretends she hasn't heard, tells me to call her back when I've sorted everything out, and hangs up.
Once I've done a bit of swearing, I realise that, not only am I patently rubbish at guilt-tripping people, but I've also lost any sense of what's important. What on earth am I doing, trying to score points against Dinah and fretting about work, when I should be worrying about Dad? I need to get a grip, request emergency leave and go home to pack.
After all - it's not as if anyone ever puts "esteemed workaholic" on a headstone, is it? And, if Greg's right about the general uselessness of what we do at work, I doubt anyone will notice my absence anyway.
I've just got off the phone to Richard Levinson, who's complaining about how overpaid some Council officers are, when my mobile starts ringing.
"Shit, Mol," says Dinah. "You won't believe what's happened."
"Oh, I probably will," I say. "I work for an MP, remember. Nothing much surprises me any more."
"Yeah, well," she says. "You won't have seen this one coming. Dad's got to have a heart bypass operation. First thing tomorrow morning."
Oh, dear God. I bet that's because Dinah told him that lie about Connie having a sixty-five-year-old boyfriend. The shock was obviously far too much - not that Dinah's taking any responsibility for what has happened.
"Coincidence," she says, when I ask whether she thinks her attempt at aversion therapy may have backfired. "More likely to be the effect of trying to keep up with the Thai bride that's done it. So what are we going to do? Someone'll have to go down to Dorset tonight."
Why is it that when someone says "someone", they usually mean, "you"?
"Well, who?" I say. "I've got to work."
"Yes, I know," she says, "But your kids are much older than mine, and Max will be there to keep an eye on things anyway. I am a single parent, don't forget."
Honestly, it's like a game of top trumps, which I am always doomed to lose. Maybe that's what Cameron's tax allowance proposals were designed to compensate married people for? There must be some benefits in return for all that hard labour at the coalface of marriage, but getting out of things definitely isn't one of them.
"All right," I say. "You win. I'll ask The Boss if I can take unpaid leave. That's bound to make me even more popular with him than I already am."
"But he's a socialist," says Dinah. "So he'll believe in treating his employees well."
I can't think of anything to say to that ridiculous statement, so I content myself with drawing loops of barbed wire on my notepad instead. Then I create cages around the loops. God knows what Freud would say if he ever saw my doodles.
"Maybe we were too harsh about the Thai bride," says Dinah. "Just think, if she'd been in the UK, you wouldn't have needed to go."
"If you hadn't freaked Dad out and nearly given him a heart attack, I wouldn't have had any reason to," I say, but Dinah pretends she hasn't heard, tells me to call her back when I've sorted everything out, and hangs up.
Once I've done a bit of swearing, I realise that, not only am I patently rubbish at guilt-tripping people, but I've also lost any sense of what's important. What on earth am I doing, trying to score points against Dinah and fretting about work, when I should be worrying about Dad? I need to get a grip, request emergency leave and go home to pack.
After all - it's not as if anyone ever puts "esteemed workaholic" on a headstone, is it? And, if Greg's right about the general uselessness of what we do at work, I doubt anyone will notice my absence anyway.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Playing Catch-Up, Or Why My Family Begins Every Conversation In Media Res.
Honestly, sometimes I'm not at all sure that my family isn't worse than the usual suspects. Talk about barking mad.
I've just joined Max on the sofa, in readiness for catching up with last night's episode of The Killing on iPlayer, when Dinah phones.
"Gah," she says, apropos of nothing.
No reply seems necessary, so I wait for the next instalment, which follows as soon as Dinah's taken a drag on her cigarette. She sounds as if she's turning inside out, she sucks so hard.
"What sort of man describes his Thai bride as a tomboy, for f*ck's sake?" she says.
I assume that this is a rhetorical question, until Dinah repeats it, louder than before. Oh, I see. I am expected to answer, for once.
"Dad?" I say. "When the tomboy in question is five million years younger than him? Or forty-five years, anyway."
"Exactly," says Dinah. "He still has no idea how revolting the whole thing is - so now I've bloody well proved it to him."
There's something about her tone of voice that starts alarm bells ringing, but I'm not sure that I want to know any more, so I stay quiet. Which helps me to concentrate on watching the subtitles, seeing as Max still hasn't taken any notice of my signals to pause the bloody programme.
Max might be oblivious to everything I do, but Dinah isn't - more's the pity. Sometimes I could swear she can see down a telephone line.
"Mol! I can tell you aren't concentrating. Are you even listening? I need to you to back me up on this. It's for his own good."
I doubt Dad will see it that way, whatever it is, Dinah not being known for the efficacy of her lessons in life. Even her so-called "top tips" are notorious for their general uselessness, but I suppose she has got an excuse. The stress of having a seventy-two-year-old Lothario for a father is enough to make anyone go bonkers after a while.
"Back you up on what? " I say. "What exactly have you done?"
"Well, I told Dad a bit of a white lie," says Dinah. "About Connie."
"You brought Connie into it?" I say. Very loudly, so that Max gives me a funny look and turns the TV up. God knows why, as he couldn't speak any Danish the last time I checked. Maybe he thinks it'll make the subtitles get bigger.
I glare at him, while cursing Dinah under my breath. It's one thing to mess with me, but taking my daughter's name in vain is a whole different ball-game. And what on earth has Connie got to do with Porn-Poon, anyway?
"I may have told him Connie has a new boyfriend," says Dinah. "I wanted to see how he'd feel if his grand-daughter started dating someone decades older than her."
"Oh, my God," I say. "That's not a white lie, Dinah - it's a stonking great black one. With knobs on. Oh, hang on, call waiting's beeping me."
I switch to answer the incoming call. Which turns out to be a big mistake.
"Bloody hell, Molly," says Dad, without preamble. (He's probably who Dinah gets it from.) "I've just heard about Connie's new boyfriend. If you can call a sixty-five-year-old man a boyfriend, for God's sake."
"Ah," I say. "Hmm. Yes, I see."
"I don't think you do," says Dad. "Whatever is Connie thinking of? He must be a right dirty old man."
I'm pretty sure that lack of insight is the first sign of psychosis. I just hope that's not hereditary.
I've just joined Max on the sofa, in readiness for catching up with last night's episode of The Killing on iPlayer, when Dinah phones.
"Gah," she says, apropos of nothing.
No reply seems necessary, so I wait for the next instalment, which follows as soon as Dinah's taken a drag on her cigarette. She sounds as if she's turning inside out, she sucks so hard.
"What sort of man describes his Thai bride as a tomboy, for f*ck's sake?" she says.
I assume that this is a rhetorical question, until Dinah repeats it, louder than before. Oh, I see. I am expected to answer, for once.
"Dad?" I say. "When the tomboy in question is five million years younger than him? Or forty-five years, anyway."
"Exactly," says Dinah. "He still has no idea how revolting the whole thing is - so now I've bloody well proved it to him."
There's something about her tone of voice that starts alarm bells ringing, but I'm not sure that I want to know any more, so I stay quiet. Which helps me to concentrate on watching the subtitles, seeing as Max still hasn't taken any notice of my signals to pause the bloody programme.
Max might be oblivious to everything I do, but Dinah isn't - more's the pity. Sometimes I could swear she can see down a telephone line.
"Mol! I can tell you aren't concentrating. Are you even listening? I need to you to back me up on this. It's for his own good."
I doubt Dad will see it that way, whatever it is, Dinah not being known for the efficacy of her lessons in life. Even her so-called "top tips" are notorious for their general uselessness, but I suppose she has got an excuse. The stress of having a seventy-two-year-old Lothario for a father is enough to make anyone go bonkers after a while.
"Back you up on what? " I say. "What exactly have you done?"
"Well, I told Dad a bit of a white lie," says Dinah. "About Connie."
"You brought Connie into it?" I say. Very loudly, so that Max gives me a funny look and turns the TV up. God knows why, as he couldn't speak any Danish the last time I checked. Maybe he thinks it'll make the subtitles get bigger.
I glare at him, while cursing Dinah under my breath. It's one thing to mess with me, but taking my daughter's name in vain is a whole different ball-game. And what on earth has Connie got to do with Porn-Poon, anyway?
"I may have told him Connie has a new boyfriend," says Dinah. "I wanted to see how he'd feel if his grand-daughter started dating someone decades older than her."
"Oh, my God," I say. "That's not a white lie, Dinah - it's a stonking great black one. With knobs on. Oh, hang on, call waiting's beeping me."
I switch to answer the incoming call. Which turns out to be a big mistake.
"Bloody hell, Molly," says Dad, without preamble. (He's probably who Dinah gets it from.) "I've just heard about Connie's new boyfriend. If you can call a sixty-five-year-old man a boyfriend, for God's sake."
"Ah," I say. "Hmm. Yes, I see."
"I don't think you do," says Dad. "Whatever is Connie thinking of? He must be a right dirty old man."
I'm pretty sure that lack of insight is the first sign of psychosis. I just hope that's not hereditary.
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