An Extended, If Muddled, Metaphor About Chickens, And Their Tendency To Steal Their Parents' Drugs.

I'm dying, and there is no paracetamol in the house.

Josh must have used it all up to treat his multiple hangovers, though he's kindly put the empty packets neatly back into the box. I'd kill him, if the room didn't keep spinning around whenever I get out of bed to go and find him.

It's all The Boss' fault for making me drink so much last night. Does he have to be so argumentative?

First he fell out with those young people who'd voted yes to AV - the ones who described most of the UK population as "clueless apes" - and then it was Pete Carew's turn.

He came into the pub halfway through the evening, presumably intending to celebrate having held on to the leadership of Northwick Council. (He can't have been intending to celebrate the referendum result, seeing as he too had voted yes.)

"Evening, Andrew," he said, nodding to me, Greg and Vicky, as if there was an economy drive on words.

"Sixty-nine percent said, 'no'," said Andrew, by way of reply. "Didn't see the way the wind was blowing on that one, did you, Pete?"

"Neither did you, until Molly and I warned you what would happen," said Greg, but Andrew wasn't listening to him, and nor was Pete.

They stood squaring up to each other like a pair of fighting cocks - rather bedraggled ones, so bantams might be a better comparison, except for the fact that they are female.

That's probably why they look so shitty compared to the males: they don't have time to spend on their appearance as they're far too busy laying eggs. (Which turn into chicks, who hang around far too long in the nest, and then use up all their parents' paracetamol without so much as a by your leave.)

I know just how they feel, but now I've lost my thread. How many brain cells did I kill last night? Oh, yes - Andrew and Pete, and the argument.

"Well, at least I gave our leader my support," said Pete, jutting his chin out and loosening his tie.

"More fool you," said Andrew, who wasn't wearing one, and whose chin isn't visible due to his beard. "You might as well have voted no like sensible people did. I know we put AV into our manifesto, but only as a bargaining chip to bribe the LibDems into a coalition with us."

If there was ever a time to kidnap one or more politicians, this would have been it, but Vicky was nowhere to be seen, and both Greg and I were too tired to make a pre-emptive strike.

Instead, we just sat back in our seats, sipped our drinks, and watched in horror while Andrew and Pete had a stand-up row about AV; the meaning of party loyalty; the relative importance of local versus national politicians, and whose fault it was that we're now in opposition.

All in front of a rapt audience of constituents, who were obviously listening to every single word. (They weren't even pretending to talk to each other, like well-mannered people would.)

Eventually, the whole thing just became too much, not to mention that we'd finished our drinks.

"Someone should stop them," I said to Greg. "It looks terrible, them arguing in public like that."

"I know," he said. "Come on. Grab your bag and follow me."

I thought we were just going to the bar but, once we got there, Greg dumped our used glasses on the counter, and then made a sharp turn to the right, pulling me along behind him.

"Keep your head down," he said, as we negotiated our way past various groups of drinkers, all of whom spilled at least part of their drinks onto my head.

"Why?" I said. "Where are we going?"

"Tesco Express," said Greg. "For a bottle of gin, some tonic and lemons. Then we are going to your house, to drink it all. I trust that you do have ice."

Which may be what I need for my head, in the absence of any pain relief.

Vox Pop, Or Unpop: A Voter's View Of The Majority Of The British Public.

I'm in the pub with The Boss and Greg, and beginning to regret that idea already. Mainly because the pub's full of young people who were part of the "Yes to AV" campaign, and they're not in the best of moods.

Nor is Andrew - not since one of them described those who voted "no" as "rubber-spined, clueless apes." Even Greg thought that that was rude.

I think I need another gin.

When Certain Bossy People Continue To Call Other People's Time Their Own.

Still campaigning for the overly-hirsute, then taking numbers at the count. Life as we know it re-starts tomorrow - unless you are a LibDem, to quote The Boss.

A Loss Of Liberty, Thanks To An Off-Shoot Of The Green Ink Brigade.

I'm not going to have time to write my diary in the evenings for the next few days, thanks to The Boss and the local elections. Greg and I have just been ordered to help one of the candidates in his campaign to become a local councillor - in our supposedly free time, of course.

"If he'd just shave off that ridiculous twirly beard and sideburns combo, he wouldn't need any help on the doorstep," says Greg, but Andrew doesn't take any notice of that.

He's probably contemplating the creative possibilities offered by his own facial hair - when he's not fretting about LibDems getting creative with paper and ink.

Jen had promised to send me a letter she'd received last week from the LibDem to whom her MP lost his seat - which finally turns up in the post today. I'm so surprised when I see it that, like a fool, I email a scan of it to The Boss - who then goes up in metaphorical smoke.

"Christ, those LibDems know how to walk a fine line," he says, when he phones me to discuss the damn thing further. "Look at the colour of the paper, and the ink. The only thing missing is the bloody Commons crest."

For once, Andrew's right. The letter is within the rules, but it could very easily mislead. In it, the MP advises his constituents to vote for the various LibDem candidates at the local council elections in his constituency - as party political a message as can be - and which therefore mustn't be sent out on House of Commons headed paper.

Whenever The Boss wants to send anything similar to his constituents, we use the cheapest, plain white paper you can buy - which the Party has to pay for, of course, and not the taxpayer. It looks like shit, and doesn't really carry much clout at all.

However, Jen's new LibDem MP has found a cunning way to suggest that his suggestion of how to vote in the local elections has the official stamp of approval - which is why The Boss is blowing his top.

The letter is printed on cream paper which is exactly the same shade as the proper HOC* stuff, and the header is printed in green ink - also of the exact same shade as that used by the HOC. The lay-out of the MP's name and address is also the same, and the only thing missing is the Portcullis crest.

Now The Boss has decided that, if the LibDems should prove capable of similar campaign creativity in Northwick too, our candidates will need all the help they can get. Which apparently takes the form of me and Greg.

So, in the absence of a good barber with a way with twirly facial hair, that's the next few evenings spoken for - and all thanks to the new Green Ink Brigade. I can't wait for Friday night, and some time alone with Max - if he hasn't gone off and left me by then.

I wonder if you can cite jury service and local elections as grounds for divorce? Not to mention facial hair...



*HOC - House of Commons, as usual.

Uncivil Disobedience Goes Awry; And Why One Should Always Answer One's Phone.

God, I'm glad I don't work for David. (Not that I can quite believe I'm saying that, but he's even more annoying than The Boss.)

He spent most of the weekend trying to trace one of his drivers, who had gone AWOL and wasn't answering his phone.

"He's even worse than you for doing that," he said to me, when we were sitting in the garden discussing whether bosses are more incompetent than staff. (Max and Susie had had the sense not to join in, and were lying soaking up the sun in silence.)

"Thanks," I said. "Though I do have good reasons for hating the phone. And I don't often ignore it on purpose - or not when I'm at work, anyway. Then I'm only screening calls."

"Come on," he said, jumping to his feet, and grabbing his car keys. "You've just given me an idea. We'll go and buy some stuff for brunch. Won't be long, Suze - you and Max stay here and chill."

Never believe anything a successful person tells you, that's all I can say; especially when it involves claiming that they won't be long.

We spent the next two hours driving around in David's great boat of a car - leather seats are very slippery around corners when you're wearing anything containing lycra - apparently searching for the missing Craig.

"Ha," said David, as we finally drove past a cluster of small shops, mainly of the betting and kebab variety. "There's his van."

As he spoke, he screeched to a halt so suddenly, that I nearly flew straight out through the windscreen. Then he got out of the car, raced across to the van and began trying all the doors, without any attempt at subtlety at all.

I was almost expecting him to start wielding a crowbar when all of them turned out to be locked but, instead, he walked round the van and back on to the pavement, and then started peering up and down the street - as if looking for something, or someone. And then he disappeared completely.

He was gone for so long, that I'd just closed my eyes and decided to have a nap, when he opened the passenger door, which I'd been leaning my head against.

"Ow," I said, as my neck jerked sideways. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Come on," said David, pulling me out of the car by my arm. "We'll go and get a coffee to wake you up."

Before I could argue, he dragged me towards what looked like the scruffiest cafe I've ever seen, punching a series of numbers into his phone as we went. Then he held it clasped to his ear, while we entered the cafe and looked for a seat. Or I looked for a seat, anyway. David wasn't exactly helping.

He was standing still, watching a young guy wearing a hat - who was seated with his back to us at a table nearby, looking down at a mobile phone lying next to his cup.

"What are you doing, David?" I said. "Are we having a drink, or not?"

David put his fingers to his lips, then dialled again, and put the phone back to his ear. At the same time, a really irritating ring tone filled the cafe, and Hat Man picked up his phone, as if to turn the damn thing off.

"Answer your phone, Craig," said David, at the top of his voice.

David might be annoying, but I'll give him his due - Craig did as he was told, without even looking round.

A Visit To Someone With Far Higher Standards Than My Own. Unfortunately.

We're off to stay with David and Susie for the rest of the weekend. Unless David tells me I'm the greatest waste of potential he's ever known, again - in which case, we'll be back much, much sooner than that. There's only so much you can forgive your best friend, after all.

Things For Newly-Weds To Take Into Account, And Probably For Judges, Too.

"So, Molly," says Dad, when he phones first thing this morning. "Got the day off to watch the Royal Wedding, have you, then?"

"Yes," I say. "Though I haven't decided whether to watch it or not, actually."

"Oh, for God's sake, I thought you'd grown out of all that left-wing nonsense," says Dad.

Honestly, just because I - very occasionally - agree with a Tory by accident, that doesn't mean that I have become one, does it? And I've never watched any Royal Weddings - or none so far, anyway.

It's not as if I've got anything better to do today, though - unless a gold star might be on the horizon. Max is looking pretty bored this week, after all.

"There goes Will and Kate's sex-life," he says, watching the preparations on BBC One. "Married life starts today."

He makes it sound as if sex is forbidden once you tie the knot, which rather puts paid to the star-earning idea. I may as well go and sit in the garden for the rest of the day and smoke myself to death. Even though I'm pretty sure it's going to rain.

I still haven't got over how fantastic it is to be able to go for a cigarette on my own again - without having to persuade a bunch of militant non-smoking jurors to join me outside, regardless of the weather. (That's when you really begin to understand how it must feel to suffer from leprosy.)

Who knew that jurors aren't allowed to go anywhere without all the other jurors in tow, once they've retired to consider their verdict? I bloody well didn't, and nor did Dan, the only other smoker on one of the juries upon which I sat, during the living hell also known as jury service.

"So," I said, on the first day, when we were huddled together attempting to light our cigarettes in the driving rain, while trying to pretend that ten virtual strangers weren't glaring at us with utter loathing. "D'you think she's guilty, or innocent?"

"Dunno," said Dan. "Whatever the majority think, then that's the decision that I'll go with."

"You can't do that," I said. "You have to weigh the evidence and come to your own decision. There are people's lives at stake, you know."

"There's my sanity at stake, too," he said. "And it won't take much more of this to make me as mad as a hatter. I just want to finish jury service, and get back to my normal life - so I can have a bloody fag whenever I like. Without the chorus of disapproval over there."

He paused, and then stared at me in horror.

"I can't believe I just said that," he said. "Can you?"

"No," I said. "Well, yes, I can, actually. But, seriously, how many trials do you think are decided by this sort of thing? You know, by jurors' nicotine addiction? It's a bit worrying, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Dan. "Especially when you factor in alcoholics, as well. I'm sure that juror called Linda - the one who works in the Silverhill dry-cleaners - has a bottle in her bag."

I wonder how the sex-addicts cope? Not by getting married, that's for sure. Though what time does the Wedding start?

An All-Too-Brief Absence Of Lunacy, And Josh Discovers That Not Everything Is As Funny As He Thinks It Is.

Talk about tempting fate. I've finally caught up with the backlog - at last - and have just congratulated myself that I won't have to deal with any more nutters until next Tuesday, when Josh decides to send me a text:

"Mum, I'm at the Rajah Curry House. Can you come and pick me up? Now? I think I might be about to die."

"Why?" I text back. "What's wrong with you?"

They say a picture is worth a thousand words but, as for the the one that Josh sends me in reply, well - oh, my God. I have never seen a face as red as that in my life. And I'm positive that no-one's eyeballs should stick out that far.

I dial his number, while grabbing my coat, and hunting for the car keys in my bag.

"Umpf," says Josh, when he finally answers. He pauses for what feels like an hour, and then adds: "Inaloo."

The latter turns out to be a dual-purpose comment, designed for economy of effort, though I don't discover this until I arrive at the Rajah, having probably earned a million penalty points for speeding past every single camera along the way.

Once there, I find Robbie and two of Josh's other mates, all sitting comfortably at a table, laughing like fools, and incapable of explaining anything, except that Josh is "in the loo" due to the consumption of a "Vindaloo."

They think the whole thing is much funnier than I do, that's all I can say. And much, much funnier than does Josh, who still looks distinctly unamused when I finally get him out of the Rajah, and into the car.

"What the hell possessed you to order one of those?" I ask him, once I've managed to manoeuvre out of my parking space, without hitting the inconsiderate BMW that has boxed me in.

Josh doesn't answer - probably because his head is stuck so far out of the window that he can't hear a thing I'm saying over the sound of the air that's rushing past. He's gasping at it, like a panting dog, albeit one with unusually bright red ears.

"Josh!" I say again, much louder. "Why a Vindaloo - of all the bloody stupid things to have?"

Josh turns his face towards me. Despite the cool night air, it still has a very definite glow.

"I thought it was a joke curry. Kind of like a Korma," he says.

So much for an absence of nutters until I return to work. Though I suppose I should be grateful that Josh picked the Rajah, and not the Star of India instead. I'd never have been allowed back in there, teenage Vindaloo emergency or not.

Sleeping Beauty: Minus The Beauty Part; And A Sobering Assessment Of The Value Of My Work.

Aargh. So much for a five-minute nap. I've only just woken up. That sofa's much more comfortable than it looks. No wonder The Boss always sleeps so well on it, after he's had a liquid lunch.

"What the hell are you doing, Molly?" says Max, when I answer the phone. "Are you coming home at all tonight?"

"Urghm, what?" I say, trying to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. It seems to have turned into cardboard, which is a very unpleasant feeling indeed. I must have been sleeping with my mouth wide open, probably dribbling like a lunatic while I was at it. I'd better check the cushions in a minute, for traces of drool.

"You sound really peculiar," says Max. "Were you asleep?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, which isn't - strictly speaking - a lie. It's just a political answer. I can do this stuff in my sleep. Or straight after waking up, anyway.

"It's late," says Max. "I'll come and pick you up in the car. Meet me outside in ten minutes."

I look at the piles of folders that are still on my desk, most of which bear the names of the usual suspects. Will another day's delay make any difference to Miss Chambers' latest complaint about the "rude Paki" who runs the Post Office? Or to Reg Beales, and his campaign to allow HGV drivers to accumulate double the usual number of penalty points before losing their licences? Or even to Miss Emms' psychotic guinea pigs?

I can't say I much like the answer to any of the above questions.

"Okay, then," I say. "Thanks. I haven't got anything really urgent left to do, I suppose."

"Well, that's good news, isn't it?" says Max. "There's no need to sound quite so fed up about it."

Easy for him to say. Seeing as it isn't his working life that has suddenly become meaningless.

Overworked And Underpaid; And Why Fathers Are Occasionally Much Less Amusing Than They Think They Are.

I'm still in the bloody office, and God knows what time I'm going to get home tonight. And, yes, this is due to the backlog; and, no, a dose of prune juice won't sort it out - just in case anyone is tempted to repeat Dad's supposedly witty comment: the one that he made when he phoned me ten minutes ago to ask me why I was still at work. He's even less funny than the usual suspects think they are. And they're really not very funny at all.

I think I'll just go and have a five-minute power nap on the sofa in the Oprah room, and then I shall wake up rejuvenated, and ready to throw myself back into the fray...I hope.

Free At Last, Thank God Almighty, I'm Free (From Jury Service) At Last - With Apologies To *Martin Luther King.

God, it's been such a relief to see the outside world again over the weekend, and I'm even looking forward to being back at work - until I actually arrive, that is.

"I'm not talking to you," says Greg, as I walk into the office.

"Why?" I say. "I thought you'd be pleased to see me, after I've been locked up on jury service for so long."

"Huh. Frustrating the democratic will of the majority, you mean," says Greg, glaring at me as if I have committed a cardinal sin. "With all that Henry Fonda nonsense. And hadn't you forgotten something rather important, when you decided you didn't agree with most of the bloody jurors?"

I have absolutely no idea what Greg's talking about. It's almost as bad as trying to work out what planet some of those other jurors were from.

"I don't know what you mean," I say. "What have I forgotten?"

"That it was bloody Recess," says Greg. "Which you managed to completely avoid, leaving me to deal with The Boss's wilder extravagances all by myself."

"Ah," I say, as the man himself walks in. Surely he should be on his way back to London by now?

"Molly!" says Andrew. "Decided to pop in and see you quickly, before I catch my train. Done your duty as a responsible citizen, have you? And how is our judicial system working, when viewed from the sharp end?"

"Not as well as one might hope," I say - which could be to understate the case.

Honestly, where do the Courts Service find some of these bloody jurors? I've never seen a more disparate bunch of lunatics in my life - and that's saying something, given the people I deal with on a daily basis. Thank God we don't hang people any more, that's all I can say. (Not that most of the usual suspects would share that view.)

If I ever get arrested for anything - by which I mean falsely accused, of course - the first thing I am going to do is to instruct all my family members to borrow or steal luxury cars, and then to park them in conspicuous spots in the court car park every morning throughout my trial.

Josh looks and sounds too much like a criminal, though, so he'll have to be left at home, writing letters to the media and to my MP instead: explaining that a miscarriage of justice is about to take place, and begging them all to intercede on my behalf. (Though, on second thoughts, the letter to the MP might not help, if I wasn't at work to deal with it myself. I wouldn't want to entrust my freedom to Greg, not with the mood that he's in this morning.)

"But why would your family need luxury cars?" says Andrew. "I don't think I'm following your argument, Molly."

"No change there, then," says Greg, under his breath - or so he thinks.

The Boss glares at him, while I try my best to explain:

"Well," I say. "One of the trials I was on was of two guys who were accused of dealing cocaine, and I was pretty sure that both of them were guilty. So was one of the other jurors, but the rest weren't having any of it. They were just desperate to get a verdict and go home, especially the ones who were self-employed, or who worked in the private sector and were worrying about their job security."

"Not everyone has a boss as understanding as me," says Andrew.

This outrageous statement doesn't deserve a reply, so neither Greg nor I make any attempt at one. Instead, we both rise above the provocation - Greg by stuffing a large handful of Haribos into his mouth, and me by trying to recapture my train of thought, which is easier said than done, after the events of the last few weeks.

"One of the jurors - a big fat guy with a red face - kept yelling at me that I was making a fuss about nothing when I said that I wanted to be sure I was making the right decision," I say. "He said it was screamingly-obvious that one of the two defendants was guilty, and that the other was completely innocent."

"Well, maybe it was," says Greg. "If you saw Mr Beales come up in court, you'd know he'd done whatever he was accused of, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," I say. "But that's not the point. This case was about coke dealing, and one of the defendants was a bit of a chav from Easemount, whereas the other one was 'a nice middle-class boy' according to Mr Red Face - who said that he knew that the kid from Easemount was 'as guilty as sin", but that the other boy just wouldn't have done it."

"How?" say Greg and The Boss, simultaneously.

"Because he was so nicely-spoken, and from such a well-off home, that he wouldn't have needed to make money by dealing in cocaine," I say. "Apparently. And then Red Face said that he could prove this by the evidence he'd seen on the very first day of the trial."

"What evidence?" say Greg and Andrew, again in unison. I have been back at work for five minutes, and I have already restored harmony. I am so undervalued and underpaid.

"He said that he'd seen the boy's parents getting out of a 'very nice Mercedes' when he was arriving at the court that morning," I say.

"Oh," say Greg and Andrew - in a verdict so unanimous as to gladden any judge's heart. I bet Mr Justice Fraser-Smythe would have killed for a similar result. He certainly looked as if he wanted to kill me - on several occasions.



*Martin Luther King - Freedom speech here, complete with its reference to the Negro Spiritual, Free At Last. Proof, if any were needed, that neither Ed Miliband nor I are in Dr King's league, nor that of the Blind Boys of Alabama.

Out Of Office Reply - Easter Office Closure, And Other Useful Information.

Thank you for contacting Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

This office is now closed for the Easter break, and will re-open on Tuesday 26 April 2011, when (I am enormously relieved to report) Molly Bennett will also be returning to work after a long absence due to jury service.

I am sure that Molly will deal with your enquiry as quickly as she can, although she has asked me to point out that, due to the inconceivably vast number of issues raised while she has been away from the office, this may take some days to achieve.

However, Mr Sinclair would like me to assure you that Molly will be expected to work overtime to deal with the backlog of cases caused by her absence, and that he therefore expects service to return to its normal standard with almost immediate effect.

Molly herself is, as yet, unaware of this arrangement, but will, I am sure, be left with little option but to comply - particularly as I have no intention of helping her out. Not after she took so long to reach a verdict, while I had to deal with you lot single-handed. There is only so much that one man can be expected to cope with, after all.

Happy Easter, though if you could endeavour to stay out of trouble while celebrating it, I would be most grateful. This may involve exercising caution in terms of your alcohol intake; and your chocolate consumption (in case of incipient diabetes); and - in particular - with regard to the siting of any barbecues you may rashly decide to light too close to the boundary with your neighbour's garden.

Gregory Duke
Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair MP and unofficial secretary to Molly Bloody Bennett.

Message from Gregory Duke, Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair MP & Unfortunate Colleague of Molly Bloody Bennett

Dear Constituent (unless you are one of the numerous non-constituents whom The Boss insists upon helping, in direct contravention of Parliamentary protocol),

Thank you for your email/telephone call/letter/abusive verbal assault at the Pharmacy counter in Boots; and for your insistence that it should be Molly Bennett who deals with your case.

Please note that Molly remains sequestered in a hotel in the lap of taxpayer-funded luxury that is also known as jury service, thus leaving her entire workload of cases to me. This is most inconsiderate of her, as I am a busy man with far better things to do in the run-up to Nick Clegg's rather self-interested AV vote; not to mention that I have a new and somewhat demanding poet girlfriend.

Whilst we do indeed have an intern, as you correctly point out, her only talents appear to be looking vaguely pretty, and flicking her hair in a thoroughly annoying fashion. Thus I do not think you would be happy for her to attempt to deal with the (non) issue you have raised, which leaves me as your only hope until Molly's return to work.

As a result, I wish to remind constituents that, whatever Andrew Sinclair MP may promise you at supermarket surgeries, there is only so much that can actually be done to bring inventions intended to run the world's appliances on nothing more than water to world attention; nothing at all that mere humans can do about aliens and the often uncomfortable places into which they insert their probes; and very little that I personally wish to do about potholes and puddles.

The latter would be best dealt with by your local councillors, who have far too much time on their hands if you ask me; whilst the former two issues could be easily remedied by taking prescription medicines as prescribed by psychiatrists. Or by talking to your counsellor. (Please note the distinction between councillors and counsellors - hushed voices and sympathetic manners not being quite as common amongst members of Northwick Town Council as they are amongst the caring professions. Nor do councillors provide boxes of tissues as standard.)

I will continue to be happy to help those of you with genuine problems - probably no more than 20% of the total at a guess - and I shall endeavour to deal with your enquiries in strict order of priority. I am, contrary to public opinion, a caring individual who has no wish to see constituents suffer eviction from their homes; unfair deportation from the UK, or neglect while in hospital.

With reference to the above, I should clarify that I do not, however, consider it negligent for GPs and hospital consultants to insist that overweight constituents lose weight prior to gastric band surgery; nor do I accept that obesity is always genetic. Not unless those living in the third world have completely different DNA to the rest of us. Thus, the criteria I use for assessing whether a case is urgent or not will continue to be unaffected by how loud you shout while on the telephone to this office.

Like you, I hope that Molly will be back at work very soon but, in the meantime, it would be in all our interests to try to exert some telekinetic force, in order to persuade her to stop pretending to be Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men, and to accept that the defendant is not guilty; even if the basis for this assumption on the part of her fellow jurors appears to Molly to be fatally flawed.

Posted via email from Mid-Wife Crisis

AARGH. Molly has been sequestered.

Expect uncharacteristic silence for the next few days, while she sits in judgement upon her peers. Well, not her peers, exactly - she certainly hopes that some of them aren't...

Posted via email from Mid-Wife Crisis

Out Of Office Reply - Molly Bennett, Office Of Andrew Sinclair MP.

Thank you for contacting Molly Bennett, Senior Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

Molly will be out of the office on jury service as from Monday 28 March 2011, and is scheduled to return to work on Monday 11 April 2011.

During her absence, her colleague, Gregory Duke, has reluctantly agreed to help with your enquiry if - and only if - it is genuinely urgent, and does not involve any or all of the following: an inability to ensure that brides and grooms are not rendered headless in wedding photographs taken at the behest of a client; deliberate mistreatment of a horse used to pull a cart, and/or the mowing down of a Policeman carrying a speed gun, whether or not he or she is wearing a high-visibility jacket.

Mr Duke will also refuse to recommend that Mr Sinclair sign shotgun licence applications on behalf of any constituents whom he deems to be unstable. This includes (but is not restricted to) those of you who claim to see little green men in various locations, or who remain convinced that your neighbours are stealing your electricity.

Should any of the above scenarios sound at all familiar, Mr Duke suggests that you should start taking your prescribed medication again.

For those constituents with a tendency to suffer from stress-related hypertension, Mr Duke would remind you of his standard advice: that you take steps to avoid exposure to all newspapers and TV news. He places special emphasis upon avoiding The Daily Mail. (And The Economist, if you are a Labour policy-maker.)

Last, but not least, Mr Duke asks that all owners of fatmobiles check that they do not leave home to visit the seaside without having first charged their batteries, as he will be unable to spare the time to rescue stranded scooter-users while the office is short-staffed. He would also draw your attention (yet again) to the section of the Highway Code that clarifies the upper speed limits for scooting on pavements.

If, as a result of the application of the above criteria, Mr Duke should choose to designate your enquiry as non-urgent, please rest assured that Molly will deal with it as quickly as possible upon her return to work.

In the meantime, she wishes to make clear that, should you be minded to turn up at Northwick County Court in an attempt to contact her to complain about her colleague's classification system, she will not, under any circumstances, be able to discuss this with you. Not even during lunch-breaks or lulls in the court's proceedings.

She also wishes to emphasise that, should she recognise any defendant, she will immediately declare a conflict of interest to the court - thus ensuring that nothing can be gained from attempts either to bribe or intimidate members of her family or, indeed, most of her colleagues.

On Suspecting That The World May Be More Three-Dimensional Than Was Previously Thought.

"So," I say, when Max finally wakes up this morning. "Lots and lots of love, eh? Or, rather, L - U - V."

"What?" he says. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"This," I say, as I put his leaving card into his hand. "Hardly what you'd expect someone who's just a colleague to write, is it?"

Max doesn't even pause for thought, even though he still looks half-asleep. He's already decided how to play this one.

"Honestly, Molly," he says. "Bambi - I mean, Gemma - is just being friendly, that's all."

"Yes," I say. "And black is white, and the earth is flat."

Max glares at me, and then stays silent for the rest of the day, though I try not to admit that I've noticed. He's only trying to make me feel that I've over-reacted, and if I don't watch out, I'll start feeling guilty, or seeing shades of grey all over the place.

Displacement activity's urgently required, so I phone Greg for a chat. It's the best I can do at such short notice.

"How was the march, then?" I say. "Did you behave yourself?"

"Yes, I did - and it was really good," he says. "Apart from those bloody so-called anarchists and the negative coverage on the TV. Oh, and Ed, of course."

"Ah," I say. "I did wonder what you'd make of his speech."

Greg sighs heavily before he replies, which doesn't bode well at all.

"Ed is awful," he says. "We all left at 3:00pm when he started to speak. I'm glad we did, since I found out the rest of what he said."

Honestly, what hope has Ed got if Greg can't handle listening to a word he says? It just doesn't bear thinking about. We've got a General Election to win - sometime in the next four years.

"Didn't you say Max is always moaning about how the Party only cares about the public sector?" says Greg.

"Yes," I say. "The Party and the unions. Max says we're all completely out of touch with anyone who doesn't work for the state, or isn't on benefits."

"Hmm," says Greg, "Sometimes I think he could be right."

The drawn-out pause that follows this remark only serves to remind me how many constituents seem to share Max's views - and who claim that people only engage in vocal opposition to cuts that affect them directly, and don't give a damn about anyone else. Whatever happened to ideology, and taking a wider view of what's best for society?

Now I'm starting to sound like Dad, which is very unnerving, to say the least. He's always saying that democracy is government by the most vocal minority  - which is depressing enough in itself, but isn't half as bad as what Greg asks next:

"You read that article about the People's Policy Forum in The Economist, Mol?"

"No," I say. "Since when do you read that?"

Honestly, what is happening to everyone I know? You just can't tell who is harbouring right wing views these days. Apart from Nick Clegg, of course.

"I don't," says Greg. "Usually - but Carlotta's just emailed me the link. Hang on, I'll send it on to you."

"No need," I say, opening my in-box and scrolling through the spam. "It looks like she's already copied me in."

"Read it, then - and concentrate. It says we need to face up to unpleasant facts. I'll call you in five minutes, to give you time to take it all in."

Greg's so bossy sometimes - whereas I am far too compliant for my own good. Or for my comfortable view of the world.

I read as fast as I can, shudder a bit, and then grab my mobile and go outside for a cigarette. I may even decide to smoke two in a row.

"Hello again, Mol," says Greg, when he rings back. "Still believe the earth is flat?"

"No," I say. "Nor am I convinced that black is white, or even grey. Unfortunately for Max and a certain semi-literate faun."

How To Distinguish A Kindly Gesture From A Bribe, And Will Ed Remember To Mention Max?

Honestly, who'd have thought a bunch of flowers could cause so much trouble? I wish The Boss had never sent the damn things now.

Greg's still sulking when he texts me this morning, though I've got a horrible feeling he may have a point.

"Seeing as I am at least as valuable an employee as you are, Molly, and I didn't get a bloody bouquet" he says, "I can only conclude that The Boss must know about your job interview. Which you stupidly decided not to attend because it only takes a few manky flowers to make you feel guilty."

Not half as guilty as Max thinks I am, though. He wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the arse.

"So who the hell sent those?" he says, when he walks into our bedroom this morning, and notices the vase of flowers on the dressing table. (He might have spotted it last night if he hadn't opted to sleep on the sofa to avoid me moaning about his alcohol-related snoring again, but wine obviously has far more sex appeal than me.)

"The Boss did," I say. "As a token of his gratitude for all the hard work that I do."

"For God's sake," says Max. "I have met him, you know. Can't you do better than that?"

"If you don't believe me, I'll show you the card," I say - which I will, when I can find it.

In the meantime, changing the subject seems the best option by far. I do retain some political awareness, after all.

"I feel bad we're not going on today's march against the cuts," I say. "Don't you?"

"No," says Max. "We can't afford day trips - because I'm already being cut, remember? Today's my last day at work, but I bet Ed Miliband and the unions are only going to bang on about job cuts in the public sector, as per bloody usual."

I suppose I could try and argue that it's the public sector that keeps the private one going, but with the demise of the Audit Commission, I've got a funny feeling that this no longer applies to the furniture retail trade. Or not to its luxury end, anyway. I'm pretty sure that's why Max has lost his job.

Which I'd have done well to remember, before turning down my interview, on the strength of nothing more than a floral display and a pat on the back. What the hell is wrong with me?

My bullshit detector's on the blink - which isn't going to help with next week's jury service. I wouldn't trust me to decide what I want for lunch at the moment, let alone whether someone is guilty or innocent. Apart from Max, of course.

When he finally gets home from the pub tonight, he's bearing a bunch of flowers of his own - and an over-sized card in very bad taste.

"So did Ed mention me?" he says. "In his speech about the cuts, I mean?"

"I don't think so," I say. "Though he did refer to Martin Luther King. Anyway, never mind that - let's see your card."

Max passes it over, which just goes to show how drunk he is. There are the usual bad jokes, and messages saying how sorry his colleagues are to see him go, followed by "Best Wishes" and their names.

Trust bloody Bambi to buck the trend. She sends "lots and lots of luv." Along with an excess of kisses and hugs.

The Hunchback Of Northwick Loses The Plot, And The Boss Rides Unexpectedly To The Rescue

"Something for you," says Max, when he sorts through the post this morning. There must be at least five days' worth in the pile.

"Oh, God," I say. "If it's another bill, just chuck it in the bin."

"Don't think it is," he says. "White envelope, not brown."

I take it from him, but haven't got time to open it, because I can't afford to be late for work again. Even if I haven't slept a wink all night.

Max's snoring was so bad, that I relocated to the sofa at about 4:00am, but then I was so busy worrying about how we're going to manage when his pay cheques stop arriving, that I couldn't get to sleep at all.

I'm making up for it this morning, though - seeing as I seem to be sleep-walking on my way to work. I'm probably lucky I don't get run over en route, although I'm not sure that I haven't been, when sirens start going off.

I pinch myself a few times to make sure I'm not dead, before I realise that there's a fire drill taking place. It takes ages before I can gain access to the office and, when I do, I find that Greg has been sitting at his desk throughout.

He's listening to music on his iPod and looks amazed when I pull his headphones off.

"What the hell are you playing at, Greg?" I say. "You'd have been burned to a crisp if it hadn't been a drill. And why are you already here?"

"I'm not playing at anything," he says. "Though I suppose I did have the music turned up a bit too loud. I think I've got a headache coming on. That might be a hangover, though - Pete Carew and I had a bit too much to drink last night, and I ended up sleeping on the couch in the Oprah Room."

Now why on earth didn't I think of doing that? Probably because my brain isn't functioning at the moment, and I can't keep anything in my head for more than thirty seconds at a time. I've even forgotten about the letter that arrived this morning - until Greg asks me if I've got any Paracetamol he can take.

I open my bag to look inside, and then I spot the envelope lying amidst all the other rubbish that I will insist on carrying around with me. It's no wonder I could give the Hunchback of Notre Dame a run for his money. Or a hobble, to be exact.

"What's that?" says Greg, watching me make a neat cut through the flap of the envelope, as well as right through the letter itself. Why can I never get that manoeuvre right?

"I don't know," I say, putting the two halves back together and taping them down. "Hang on. Oh, blimey. It's an interview for a job - that one at Northwick MultiMedia. And - oh, shit! - I've got to confirm if I'll be attending by the end of today."

Greg has just started trying to persuade me not to leave him to the mercy of the usual suspects when The Boss walks in, accompanied by Vicky - who's looking much more cheerful than she has for most of this week. I'd prefer not to think about what could be responsible for that.

"Ssh, Greg," I say. "Walls have ears. And so do interns. You can see them sticking out through her hair if you look. I'll tell you later when I get a chance."

It's such a manic day, though, that God knows when that'll happen. The Boss has so many radio and local TV interviews lined up that the Oprah Room's living up to its name for once, and we've also got a double surgery that's fully-booked.

I spend most of the morning running around like a headless chicken - rather than a monkey, please note - which probably accounts for why I forget to hide my letter from public view until after lunch. If Andrew or Vicky have spotted it, my "career" will soon be toast. Which is more than Mr Osborne can afford to eat.

Despite the similarity in the name, I'm not referring to our beloved Chancellor - though there'd be some justice if I was. Our Mr O has come to see The Boss for help in obtaining vouchers for use at Northwick's new food bank.

"I think you just have to take proof of receipt of benefit with you," I say. "Or a letter from your doctor or social worker, if you're unwell."

"I'm not getting any benefits at the moment," he says, looking down at his feet. "I've been depressed since I lost my job, but I've been turned down for sickness benefit and I'm still waiting for my appeal. My wife's working, though - but we can't manage on her wages, and there's nothing left for food once everything else has been paid."

The food bank. Oh, my God. It'll be Max and I queuing up there next, trying to get tins of soup to feed to Connie. If we can persuade someone to give us a voucher, that is. If not, what the hell are we going to do?

I'm getting a bit tearful now, what with worrying about whether The Boss might have seen my letter and imagining myself in Mr O's situation - but then I recall that I'm supposed to be emulating the Japanese, so I bite my lip and carry on making notes. Which look a bit like doodles, to be completely honest.

Mr Osborne's is the last appointment, thank God, so I go for a cigarette as soon as he leaves. Not that I'll be able to do that for much longer. I shall have to give up smoking as soon as Max is unemployed - and then I'm bound to become an axe-murderer in no time at all, or a constituent-killer, anyway.

I'm standing outside, making the most of the nicotine and sniffling like a very non-Japanese person, when I hear loud footsteps behind me.

"What on earth's the matter, Mol?" says The Boss, in the kindest voice I've heard in a while.

"Nothing," I say. "But thanks for asking. I've just got some ash in my eye."

"Good try," says Andrew, "but you don't fool me. Tell me everything - but hang on, I'll just light my pipe before you start."

You can tell I'm not myself because - for once - I do as he says. After I've finished, he gives me an awkward hug.

"You'll feel better after you've had next week off," he says.

"No, I won't," I say. "I'm on jury service - remember? I'll probably lose it completely and start demanding we bring back hanging and flogging."

Andrew gives me a worried look, and then pats me on the shoulder. Rather too hard, but I don't think it was intentional.

"Back in a minute," he says. "Just nipping to the shops. Hold the fort - and your nerve."

Which I do - until an hour later, when the intercom buzzes, and I'm the one who answers it.

"Delivery for a Mrs M. Bennett," says someone or other in a muffled voice.

Knowing my luck, it'll be a personalised bomb, though there's nothing for it but to go down and collect it anyway. The man says I have to sign for it myself.

"Here you are, Miss," he says, as he passes me a hand-tied posy of flowers. "These are for you."

The card says:

"Molly, thanks for all you do. I might be a miserable old bugger but that doesn't mean I'm an ungrateful one. A."

Now I'm bloody crying again. And I doubt I'll be going to that interview after all.

*Turning Japanese, Oh Yes, I'm Turning Japanese, I Really Think So.

Honestly, no wonder Max says I've got a memory like an elephant. I'm still in a foul mood about the monkey business when I wake up this morning, and things don't get any better when I arrive at work.

"Nice outfit, Molly," says Vicky, in a very sarcastic tone.

Greg looks up from his desk, winces and looks back down again.

"Oversleep, did you?" he says.

"No," I say, although I did. "I am trying to look more Danish. Sarah Lund takes no shit."

I glare at both of them in what I hope is a suitably-intimidating fashion, storm into my office and slam the door behind me. I don't get any further forward, though, as I seem to have trapped the belt of my coat in the process.

I've got a feeling Greg notices my attempt to open the door again as quietly as I can, but I fall back on my political skills and act as if nothing at all has happened. Which I suppose it hasn't - if you don't count Connie getting sick, my being officially a monkey, and Max losing his job.

I can't even bear to think about that - not since Max added up all our bills last night while I was dozing on the sofa, just before I made an idiot of myself in front of the boys. I finally lost the will to live when he showed me how he'd set the bills against my salary, and had factored in the Budget changes, too. He's turning into a one-man IFS.

"We'll have to turn the heating off altogether," he said. "These fuel bills are way too high."

"We can't, " I said. "Not with Connie here all day, and sick in bed."

"Well, then," he said. "In that case, you'd better write to Ofgem, and persuade them to kick the power companies' arses a little bit harder."

I don't think they're likely to take any notice of me, but I didn't get the chance to say so. Max was on a roll. His next step was to inform me that we won't starve - until four weeks after his final pay cheque arrives at the end of this month.

"But there'll be nothing left in our budget for food every single month after that," he said. "Not once all the bills have been paid."

"Oh, well," I said. "I'm sure you'll find a new job before then, and everything will be all right again."

I don't believe this for a second, considering the state of the furniture retail sector - but I'm also trying to improve my acting skills. And anyway, I've still got a few job applications I'm waiting to hear about myself. In exotic places like Easemount and Silverhill. I can hardly wait.

Nor can Johnny, who emails me this lunchtime to say that he's just heard where his next posting is to be. He's off to Dubai in May, and sends photos of the houses that he and his wife are intending to view. I don't know what to say to those - apart from "Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!"

"Never mind about me - how are things with you?" he says.

No-one ever asks me that, so he catches me by surprise. Before I know it, I've told him everything that is happening in my life; and then immediately wish I hadn't. Talk about sounding like a usual suspect: I'm feeling far more sorry for myself than should be allowed.

"Christ," he says, in his reply. "You can't live hand to mouth like that, Molly. It's ridiculous, especially when I could take you away from it all."

"I think your wife might have something to say about that," I say. "And my husband certainly would. Anyway, you don't marry someone on the basis of what they can provide you with. Not materially, anyway."

Johnny sends a very brief reply:

"LOL."

I wish he'd never learned that bloody awful acronym, and anyway, I am being serious. In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer - I'm pretty sure that those are still the rules. And, if they're not, then they bloody well should be.

"I don't think my wife would agree with you," he says, when I point this out. "She'd be off like a shot if I were to become poor overnight."

"Well, I'm not her," I say.

Profound, I know, but nonetheless undeniably true.

I bet she is being massaged in a luxury spa right this minute, before going to Chanel to pick out a new dress for tonight's Charity Fundraising event. (I live a far more interesting fantasy life as her, than I do as myself. Though do they actually have a Chanel shop in Moscow? And do you call it a shop - or an atelier?)

I'm still mulling over this important question when Johnny signs off for the day:

"Think what our lives could be like together," he says. "Neither of us is getting any younger, and that husband of yours is never going to amount to anything, after all."

What a horrible thing to say! And it's all my fault. I've been such a pathetic whinger that now Johnny's feeling sorry for me. And criticising Max, when no-one but me is allowed to do that.

I need to get a grip, somehow. And start making up for being so bloody self-indulgent.

"Do you guys want a coffee?" I say, to Vicky and Greg.

I might as well start as I mean to go on, even if I still don't feel very charitable towards a certain intern.

"Ja, Kaffe," says Greg, staring hard at Google Translate. "Tak."

"I'm not being Danish any more," I say. "I think being Japanese is the thing to aim for, don't you? They could teach us all a thing or two about being uncomplaining. In the face of such adversity that we can't even begin to imagine it."

That's better - isn't it? I'm getting my sense of proportion back.

"But you speak even less Japanese than you do Danish," says Greg.

That may be true, but it's hardly an obstacle that can't be overcome with a bit of effort. Honour and dignity, that's what counts - and I'll aim to chuck in some stoicism too.

"I'm going to pop home during my lunch-break," I say. "I'll have a Pot Noodle and see how Connie is. Oh, and I think I might change out of this jumper, too."

"Tak and double tak for that," says Greg. "You were beginning to hurt my eyes."

I bet Johnny would think that too - though Max just says I look nice and snuggly.



*Turning Japanese - which would be no bad thing, if it taught me (and some others I could mention) to behave like the people of Japan.

The Birth And Death Of The Joshua Bennett Economic Think-Tank, And The Burial Of My Self-Respect

Bloody hell, MPs' staff should be given the day off on Budget Day. How are we supposed to comment on something when we haven't had any time to read it? Let alone work out whether it's going to be worth our own while to turn up for work tomorrow morning?

I might be feeling a bit brain-dead this week, but I suppose I know the answer to that question already, now I come to think of it. I still haven't got over that whole monkeys earning peanuts thing.

"Try not to spend all your money down the pub tonight," I say to Josh, as he gets ready to go out for a drink with Robbie and the rest of the boys. "Don't forget I'm relying on you and Connie to keep me, in the style to which I'd rather like to become accustomed."

"Don't hold your breath," says Max, who is sorting through the bills again, while watching the news at the same time.

I think he's making notes of the main changes announced in George Osborne's Budget, and trying to work out what the effects on ours will be. I don't think I want to know.

"You look as if you mean business," I say, lying down on the sofa and pulling a blanket over my legs.

Max glances at me over the top of his glasses, then looks down at the calculator he's holding in his hand. He taps in some numbers, and makes a wincing noise when he sees the result.

"I do mean business" he says. "Unlike you."

There's no call for that, seeing as I'm not actually asleep. I'm just resting my eyes for a minute, that's all. Just like Ken Clarke during today's Budget speech in the House.

When I wake up again, I'm even more confused than usual. There's no sign of Troels Hartmann, and the room is full of teenage boys, all smelling strongly of after-shave, along with something else that I can't quite identify.

"Wha -?" I say, trying to sit up and look alert.

"Ssh, Mum!" says Josh. "Me and the boys are having a discussion. High finance, so you wouldn't understand."

"Why are you here, though?" I say. "I thought you were going out."

"We're economising - as per your advice."

Josh raises a can of Red Bull in a toast, as do all the other boys. Oh, and Robbie's holding a bottle of Jagermeister, too. So that's what I can smell.

"Oh, God," I say. "Do you have to do it here? I was hoping for an early night."

"Yes," says Josh. "We do. Staying in is the new going out. Now go back to sleep and don't interrupt. We're trying to sort out what to do with approximately thirty million pounds."

I'm so pleased to hear that the younger generation are taking fiscal matters seriously, that I feel it's safe to relax and close my eyes again. Then I try very hard to recapture my dream, though this proves wholly unsuccessful. Troels seems to have been replaced by a sniggering George Osborne, who is brandishing a sheaf of unpaid bills.

It's all right, though, because the boys are still working hard to restore the public finances by promoting all kinds of growth:

"I'd buy the moon," says Josh. "And make it lavishly hospitable."

"Hmm," says Robbie, approvingly. "Not a bad idea, that."

I'm quite impressed by my son's entrepreneurial thinking myself. I open my eyes, and start taking more of an interest. I could be raising the next Chancellor of the Exchequer, for all I know.

"What about an island?" says Robbie. "That'd be even better than the moon."

"Yes," I say. "Richard Branson's got one of those."

I am clearly witnessing the birth of a new entrepreneurial think-tank, with innovative ideas on how to ensure the recovery of the UK economy. I feel quite moved.

"What would you give me?" says Josh to Robbie, which confuses me a bit. "Could I have a cove all to myself?"

"Yes," says Robbie. "Though it wouldn't be as nice a one as mine."

Cove? I'm about to ask the boys for an explanation, but then Max walks into the room, so I gesture for him to sit next to me. Then I can pick his brains on the sly. All this economics jargon is leaving me behind.

"And we could have a monorail, too," says Josh. "I love a good monorail, don't you?"

"Yes - and one of those Flying Dolphins like the Russians have got," says Robbie, pouring another Jagerbomb.

"So, is this going to be some sort of tourist-based economy, then?" I say, trying to get a handle on things. "Only I think you'd need a manufacturing base to spread the risk."

All the boys look at me as if I am barking mad, which is something I'm becoming increasingly used to this week.

"Mum," says Josh, very slowly, as if speaking to a child. "What exactly do you think we're talking about?"

"A plan for economic recovery," I say. "Or to reduce the deficit and encourage growth. Or something like that, anyway."

My voice tails off as I realise that no-one has any idea what I'm going on about. Including Max.

"Mol," he says, and his voice is strangely gentle. "I think you need to go to bed and get a decent night's sleep. The boys are discussing what they'd do if -"

"If they were in charge of the country," I say. "I know that. I'm not an idiot, thank you very much. Or a monkey - even if I am paid peanuts."

"No," says Josh. "Sorry. We're deciding what we'd do if we won Euro-Millions. You know - that lottery thing?"

I nod, then shake my head and cringe. I think Josh must feel sorry for me, because he pats me on the arm and says:

"Don't worry, Mum. I've already decided I'd give half of it to you and Dad if I win."

"Only half?" says Max.

I assume he's being ironic, but Josh doesn't take it that way. I'm not the only one whose feelings are all too easily hurt.

"That's more than you'd get from Connie, Dad," he says. "She said she'd buy you and Mum a house and clear your debts, but there wasn't any point in giving you any more than that, because you're both so bloody rubbish with money."

It's lucky for Connie that she's ill in bed, though next time she wants a hot drink, she can get it herself. I'm retiring to the monkey enclosure, to curl up in a ball and dream about Troels.