Spinelessness In The Face Of Provocation.

I am knackered. I know I've said it before but, honestly, snoring really should be grounds for divorce. I finally drag myself out of bed mid-morning, but just can't be bothered to get dressed. It's too cold to undress first, anyway.

So I'm still sitting around in my thermals and hideous fleece nightshirt - attractively topped off with both my own and Max's dressing gowns - at lunchtime, when the doorbell rings. Then Max invites Ellen to come in, the idiot.

I glare at him, while she produces a gift-wrapped plant pot and hands it to me.

"This is for you, Molly," she says. "As a thank-you for the loan of the car last weekend."

I'm not exactly sure what comes out of my mouth next, but it's something along the lines of, "Humph."

Gracious is my middle name where nymphomaniac neighbours are concerned. And I don't like Christmas cactuses anyway (or should that be cacti?). They never bloody flower, just sit there promising much and delivering very little. A bit like certain governments I could mention.

My lack of enthusiasm must be obvious, because Ellen says,

"Max said you weren't very happy about him lending it to me - but it was all my fault. You mustn't blame him."

She pats Max on the arm at the same time as saying this, and it's all I can do not to swat her hand away. And what gives her the right to tell me when to be cross with my own husband?

"Humph," I say again.

I'm getting grumpier by the minute, but in the absence of any proof that she is sleeping with Max, there's nothing I can do but try to pull myself together, which is challenging in this outfit.

Luckily, Ellen is off to do her Christmas shopping, so she doesn't stay long. I'm so relieved that I manage to avoid asking why she hasn't already done it, given that her school has been closed since the first hint of snow.

After she's gone, I unwrap the cactus and put it on the table, and then I start to feel a bit guilty for being so rude to her, despite the restraint I showed about school closures. What if she isn't up to anything with Max? That'd make me the bad guy - especially if you  take Johnny into account. Thank God I didn't have virtual sex with him the other day.

If I told idiot brother Robin about it, he'd no doubt start going on about karma, so I decide I'd better try and compensate for any of the bad stuff I may have earned, just in case. I shall lure Max into having real sex by virtue of wearing my new(ish) underwear in his honour.

Putting thermals on top of lace does rather spoil the effect but, as long as I whip them off quickly tonight, Max probably won't even notice what I'm wearing until I get down to my bra and knickers. Then speed will be of the essence if I'm to avoid freezing to death.

The safest bet is probably to turn the electric blanket up to maximum temperature, and dive in to bed as fast as I can. This should avert hypothermia, as long as we don't disturb the covers too much after that. Now the whole thing's starting to sound like a military operation, which could be a bit depressing if I thought about it too much.

I decide not to think about it too much and am very nice to Max for the rest of the day instead. I don't even remark on the whole bottle of wine he downs while he's cooking dinner. He does, though. As he drains his glass, he says,

"Don't worry, Mol. I know I always snore when I've had a drink - so I'll sleep in Connie's room tonight."

Oh, for God's sake. Begging would be far too humiliating, so it seems that the only thing I'm going to score today is a bloody cactus. And even that's been cultivated to remove its prickles.

There'd be a joke there, if I was in the mood to make it.

Insect-Induced Hypothermia - Which Could Only Happen To Connie.

Oh, my God. I am so fed up of wearing all my clothes at once, and even some of Max's. Including in bed. This may have something to do with my lack of a sex-life, but I can't help that. I haven't stopped shivering for weeks.

Connie has to go one better, though. She phones this afternoon and, when I ask how she is, simply says:

"Hypothermic."

"Don't exaggerate," I say. "You sound like Dinah."

"I'm not exaggerating," says Connie. "I nearly died of cold during the night."

Given that she made Max and I buy her a million-tog duvet before she left home, I somehow doubt that - and say so.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't use it, could I?" she says, as if I should have known.

Why do children always think their parents are psychic? When I ask Connie why she couldn't sleep under her quilt, things become absolutely no clearer.

"Because of the spider," she says. "On the bedroom ceiling."

Connie is terrified of spiders, due to some unspecified childhood trauma, which probably had something to do with Josh. Most things trace back to him, as far as she's concerned - but, even so, I'm still confused.

"What's that got to do with your duvet?" I say. "You usually just trap spiders under a glass and wait for someone else to get rid of them."

Connie explains that she couldn't get to sleep while the spider was walking around above her head, so she decided she had to get it down somehow. This was a challenge, as Connie has the same trouble with high ceilings as I do but, eventually, she managed it.

"I flicked it off the ceiling with a pair of tights," she says. "But then it landed on my bed."

"Well, why didn't you just flick it off that as well, then?" I say. "Job done."

"That's what I was going to do," says Connie. "But you know I don't like hurting anything - so I wrapped it up in the quilt and tried to shake it outside instead."

"Well, for God's sake, Connie, there was no reason why you couldn't use your bedding once the spider had gone. Even Gillian McKeith wouldn't have made that much fuss."

"She would have done if she'd dropped the f*cking quilt out of the window as well," says Connie. "Into a huge puddle."

A Nice Surprise, Apparently.

We have a surprise visitor today, shortly after surgery finishes. Andrew and Vicky are closeted in the Oprah Room, doing whatever it is that they do in there, and Greg and I are working away at our desks, when Trish walks in.

"Hi, guys," she says. "Thought I'd drop by and say hello."

Her eyes are going in all directions, and she looks awfully stressed. A bit like I do, actually.

"Hi," say Greg and I, simultaneously. Then we both fall silent.

"Where's Andrew?" says Trish. "Thought I'd surprise him and take him out for lunch."

I'm just about to answer, when there's a loud bump from the Oprah Room, followed by Vicky's piercing giggle.

"I recognise that voice," says Trish. "In here, is he? With Victoria?"

I reach the door just before Trish does, and knock very loudly before opening it.

"Andrew," I say. "Guess who's here! Your lovely wife."

Trish pushes past me, and I beat a hasty retreat.

"I'd like a word with my husband, Victoria," she says. "So if you wouldn't mind..."

"Oh," says Vicky. "I was just going to the loo anyway. To freshen up before I head home."

She comes stumbling out, clutching those stupid shoes, and slams the door behind her. Then she stalks straight out of the office - as well as you can stalk while barefoot.

As soon as she's gone, Greg and I put our ears to the door of the Oprah Room.

"Sod it," I say. "I still can't hear properly, thanks to Miss Bloody Chambers."

"I think they're talking in whispers anyway," says Greg. "Or hisses."

After about half an hour, Andrew and Trish come out, both looking rather flustered.

"Going to take my wife out for lunch," says The Boss. "Might go home after that, if you can manage without me?"

"Molly can manage anything, " says Trish. "As I shouldn't have to remind you."

I think she means that in a good way, so I feel a nice warm glow which lasts until she says,

"Anyway, Molly. Call me next week so that we can discuss that thing."

"What thing?" I say. So much for being able to manage any situation. I have no idea what she's talking about.

"You know - that thing." Trish winks, then continues: "Our discussion about what the staff would like for Christmas. I think Andrew needs to improve upon what he bought you last year, at least for his permanent staff."

"Oh, my mum thought he'd chosen well, " says Greg. "I gave her my copy of Cooking With Northwick Piccalilli. She a fan of keeping things local."

"Very commendable," says Trish. "If more people appreciated the value of what's available where we live, we'd all be better off. And there's nothing like a home-cooked meal - is there, Andrew?"

You've got to admire that woman's way with metaphor. Not to mention with flirty hair-flickers.

Turn On, Tune In, And Cop Out. (I Wish.)

Lightbulb moments are vastly over-rated. I've just had two of them and neither was enjoyable.

In the morning, Mr X phones to complain about his new council flat. Or, more specifically, about the lack of light bulbs in his new council flat. (I'm calling him Mr X because I'm too scared to risk naming him.)

Let's just say the conversation does not go well. My attempts to explain that he is expected to provide and fit his own light bulbs is interpreted as a combination of racism and discrimination; and then Mr X says that this is how he's been being treated ever since he arrived in the UK. From a previously war-torn part of Eastern Europe, which I'm also not willing to name.

Mr X is very het-up and becoming increasingly difficult to understand, so my asking him to repeat every other sentence really doesn't help. Eventually, he loses patience and starts yelling at me. Luckily the pitch isn't as ear-shattering as that which Miss Chambers can achieve, but what he says is much more worrying.

He's threatening to bomb the local housing office if he is not provided with light bulbs by the end of the day. I'd ignore it if he was one of the usual suspects, as they wouldn't have the faintest idea how to build a bomb - but Mr X seems an altogether different kettle of fish.

The detail he gives - not to mention the organisation of which he claims to be a member - makes his threat sound alarmingly credible, so now I am faced with a dilemma.

"Greg," I say. "I think I'm going to have to breach confidentiality again."

After I've explained why, Greg goes off on a rant about how refugees from war zones should be made to undergo counselling as part of the asylum process, so that they realise that they don't have to operate in the same way as may have become necessary in their homeland.

"Yeah, well - not helpful at this point," I say. "I don't think I'm likely to get Mr X any psychological help by this afternoon. I'll have to phone The Boss and get his permission to share the information instead."

"Huh. Good luck with that," says Greg. "Don't you remember what he was like about Mr Humphries? You got a right bollocking - just for giving a statement to the Police."

"Well, this time more people's lives might be on the line if I do nothing. So I haven't got any choice, have I?"

Honestly, imagine how cool it must be to have the sort of job where the biggest emergency you face is a collapsing bedstead. Not mentioning anyone's job in particular.

I pick up the phone and dial Andrew's number. There's no answer, so then I try his mobile - which goes straight to answer-phone. Brilliant. Mr X is probably assembling his bomb right this minute, while lots of unsuspecting housing officers sit calmly typing and drinking fruit tea.

I call Marie-Louise, who tells me that Andrew is in back-to-back meetings for the rest of the day, and has left his pager in the office. For God's sake - I give up. There's nothing for it but to make an executive decision, so I ring the Council and speak to the Head of Housing Services. Off the record, though I never really trust that anyone will honour that particular phrase.

After all that, it turns out that I needn't have worried. Or risked a bollocking. Apparently, Mr X phoned the Council and made the same threats, before he even called me. So the Police have been notified already, and the Housing Office is in the process of being evacuated.

All that's left for me to do is to try to extract a promise that someone from either the Police or the Council will let me know the outcome, but I don't have much faith that this will actually happen. Nor does Greg.

"They always bloody well forget about us," he says. "So I'm not leaving anything to chance."

He spends ages building a barricade in front of the door in case Mr X escapes the clutches of the Police and comes here to take his revenge. Joan knocks it down five minutes later when she comes in to ask for an up-to-date photo of The Boss for a newsletter. She says she didn't even notice it was there.

We're all so jumpy by now that no-one wants to answer the phone, in case it's Mr X again, so we decide to do it on a rota basis. Greg says he'll go first, Vicky's to go next,  and then it'll be my turn. And so on for the rest of the day - or that's the theory, anyway.

After Greg takes the first call - from Steve Ellington - the phone rings again.

"Your turn, Vicky," I say.

She shakes her head, and stray hairs go flying everywhere as usual.

"Count me out," she says. "I'm only a volunteer."

So it's my turn again. This time the caller's a lovely old lady called Mrs Worthington, who sounds very frail, but is scrupulously polite.

"So sorry to bother you, dear," she says. "But I don't know where else to turn."

"Don't worry about that," I say. "How can we help?"

"It's the lightbulbs in my flat."

For one insane moment, I imagine that Mr X has kidnapped Mrs Worthington and is holding her hostage until he is given a stock of lightbulbs, but then all becomes clear.

Mrs W tells me that she was widowed last year, very shortly after she and her late husband had exchanged their council house in the South East for a smaller one in Northwick - which has much higher ceilings.

As if the stress of bereavement and moving wasn't bad enough, she recently had a fall and is now barely able to walk, let alone climb on to a stool or use a ladder to reach the light-fittings.

"The last bulb went yesterday," she says. "And I don't know any of my neighbours, so I don't feel I can ask them for help. I don't like to bother people, and Fred and I were never blessed with any children."

"When you say 'the last bulb' - which room is it that has no lighting?" I say. Cooking by candlelight might be a bit hazardous, to say the least.

"Oh, all of them now, dear," she says. "That's why I had to phone you. I couldn't think who else to contact."

How desperately sad is that? When I finally get home - after checking behind me all the way to make sure Mr X isn't lurking in the shadows - I make a cup of tea, sit down and contemplate the height of our ceilings.

Then I climb onto a chair and try to reach the light fitting. It's miles away, so I try standing on the table, but I still can't reach the damned thing. Josh walks in and looks at me.

"What the hell are you doing, Mum?" he says.

"Trying to change a light bulb," I say. "By myself."

"You've got no chance of managing that. You're far too short. And anyway, this bulb's still working."

"That's not the point," I say. "I'm assessing the situation."

"Hopeless," is Josh's cruel verdict.

If he ever moves out, and then Max leaves me for James Bloody Blunt, I'll never see artificial light again.

Why Being The Pack Leader Means Different Things In Thailand And Russia

This Wikileaks thing just goes on and on, doesn't it? And everyone seems so surprised by what's coming out. Greg and I just don't get it - what did people think happened behind the scenes?

"One minute everyone's a conspiracy theorist," he says," and the next they're shocked at what governments get up to. You'd think people never watched Spooks."

"I know," I say. "But at least these leaked cables make The Boss' faux-pas look pretty minor."

"Oh, I reckon Andrew'd give his princely namesake a run for his money in the tactless stakes," says Greg.

Maybe The Boss has got more in common than he thought with the monarchy he claims to despise, though I bet he'd rather be like Putin. Talking of whom, Johnny emails me after lunch and says,

"You can call me Alpha Dog from now on. And I'm ordering you to have virtual sex with me right now."

It's odd how Johnny's bossiness is so sexy when Max's isn't. At least, it's not when it involves him making unilateral decisions to lend nymphomaniacs our car. I'm still stewing about that, when Johnny gets impatient, and sends another email:

"Tell me what you're wearing."

"Jacket, cardigan, woolly dress, t-shirt, and four - no five - thermal vests," I say. "Oh, and gloves and my coat. The boiler's still broken."

"Ah, well, I've got a conference call in five minutes," he says. "There probably isn't time for you to take all that off, let alone get down and dirty. Not with the speed you're typing at."

Honestly, I'm doing the best I can under difficult circumstances.

"Yes, well, Mr International Director of a Global Oil Company," I say. "I bet you have no idea what it's like to be cold. You just pocket the profits extracted from chilly mortals like me, while expecting virtual sex acts in sub-zero temperatures."

"Oh, don't start going all socialist on me again, woman," says Johnny. "We've got better things to do. And we're short of time, as I keep trying to impress upon you."

He's right, so I try to get into the spirit of the thing, but his odd language is bothering me.

"Since when do you say things like 'down and dirty'?" I say.

"Since I became the leader of the pack," he says.

This kills all desire stone dead. Has Johnny forgotten the ongoing trauma of my Dad's recent transformation into the Gary Glitter of Dorset? I wait ten minutes and then reply:

"Sorry, had to take an urgent call from Julian Assange. He's investigating leaks from oil companies."

That'll teach Johnny, though the usual suspects must be telepathic as they immediately start phoning and wanting to discuss what Assange is up to, and I'm bored stiff with the whole thing by the time I get home from work. It's just a pity that the rest of my family aren't.

First Mum phones to ask me whether I think the stories are true, and then Connie calls to ask the same thing.

"Yes," I say. "Probably. Now change the subject and tell me all your news."

"Well, I had an email from Grandad earlier today," says Connie. "He says he's homesick but he can't come home."

"Why?" I say. "Has Porn-Poon cleaned him out? Can't he even afford a plane ticket back from Thailand now?"

"No," says Connie. " I don't think it's that. He misses Dorset, but says that all the women in this UK are too old for him."

I am trying very hard not to think about Gary Glitter - for the second time today - but I can't help myself.

"What - all of them?" I say.

"Apparently," says Connie.

Oh, for Goodness' sake. The entire female population of this country is too old for a man of seventy-five? I despair. And I bet Stepmothers Mark I, II and III would too, not to mention Mum.

"Anyway," says Connie. "I spoke to one of the neurologists at work about it this afternoon. Described how Grandad's behaving and all that."

"And what did this neurologist say?" I ask.

"That it sounded a bit like frontal lobe dementia," says Connie. "It can cause complete disinhibition. But don't worry, I don't think it's hereditary."

Funnily enough, that thought hadn't occurred to me. Unless it doesn't just apply to a fetish for young Thai girls, and Putin lookalikes are included. I'd better phone Connie back and check.

Festive Madness, And Rash Assumptions About Possible Uses For Batteries.

Oh, dear God. Our local pound shop is selling "Sexy Santa" outfits. I've just had the most traumatic experience in there.

I'm walking around looking for where the batteries have been moved to, when I hear a familiar voice.

"Look at this!" says a man who is almost completely hidden behind a fake Christmas tree.

I'm so mindlessly obedient that I do as he tells me. Oh, Christ, it's Richard Levinson, the man who says he's too refined to live on a council estate.

"This'd put a smile on Santa's face, wouldn't it?" he says.

He's got such a carrying voice that everyone in the shop is looking in our direction by now. For one very long moment, I am convinced that Richard is talking to me, and am paralysed by horror. Has it really come to this?

I look down at the floor, and try to will myself to disappear into it. Which, as usual, doesn't work. When I look up again, Richard's still holding the packet and shaking it at everyone who walks past.

"Ooh - if I was a few years younger, I'd buy one myself," says an elderly woman, whose voice I also recognise. It's Miss Harpenden, of all people. She of the flying rat fame.

To his credit, Richard shudders but doesn't actually reply to Miss H's horrible suggestion. He's too busy waving the "Sexy Santa" set at another woman - a younger one, who seems to be trying very hard to ignore him.

By now, I'm feeling quite panicky. What the hell have I walked into? It's like a re-make of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. All we need now are Miss Chambers and Mr Beales and we'll have the full set. Of people who aren't the full set, if you see what I mean.

Whoever the younger woman is, she's having none of it. She turns her back on Richard, and says,

"For God's sake, put that down. Now. If you think I'm wearing that, you've got another bloody think coming."

So this must be Richard's elusive fiancee, the one with the nasty skin condition. I can't say I blame her for being so pissed off. Even without rampant sores, it'd be a challenge to look alluring in a red polyester bra and knickers, bizarrely topped off with fuzzy red reindeer antlers that light up. Maybe the lack of a hat is why the set is so cheap.

The woman starts to walk away but, by now, half the population of Northwick seems to be getting involved. Some people are so nosy.

"Ah, go on, love," says another man. "Make the lad's Christmas."

This receives no response whatsoever, so then Richard, who never knows when to keep quiet, says,

"Forget Christmas, I was thinking about tonight."

His fiancee looks him up and down, very slowly, then says, "You can fuck off."

With that, she abandons her basket of pan scourers and perfumed candles, and walks out of the shop. Several women start to clap, then stop as suddenly as they started.

Richard looks at his audience, makes one of those "what can you do?" gestures with his hands, then puts the Santa set back on the shelf. Although he tries to look as if he's strolling when he leaves the shop, everyone can tell that he's running.

When I get back to work, and tell Greg about my lunchtime shopping experience, I realise that, after all that, I've forgotten to buy the bloody batteries.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'm going to get a sandwich so I'll pop up there and get them for you. Then I can check the shop's not running regular day-trips from the loony bin."

When he returns, I'm busy talking to Joan, who's hassling me to choose what I want from the Christmas lunch menu of the local pub. I really don't think smearing salmon in chestnut pesto counts as festive, and everything else looks bloody horrible, but Joan's insistent that I have to choose something.

"This combined office 'do' might be the only Christmas lunch you get for work," she says. "If Andrew finds a reason to cancel your proper one again."

"Oh, I don't think he will this year," I say. "Vicky's already bought a new dress for it."

Joan pulls a face that is worth a hundred words - even better than her usual imitation of the bus driver from South Park - then advises me to order one of everything, on the grounds that The Boss will eat anything anyone else doesn't want, and probably some of what they do.

By this time, I've forgotten to ask what else was in the enormous Pound-Den carrier bag Greg was carrying, and I remain in the dark until we're locking up at the end of the day, when he passes it to me.

"Here's your batteries, Mol," he says. "Pay me back tomorrow."

"What's this?" I say, pulling out a large present encased in the tackiest Christmas gift wrap you're ever seen. Santa's nose is redder than The Boss's and alarmingly phallic.

"Just a little early Christmas or birthday present for Max," he says. "I hope it fits you."

"Oh, for God's sake, Greg. Tell me you haven't?" I say, but when I try to give the parcel back to him, he just taps his nose, and says,

"Keep an open mind, Mol. Might render those batteries redundant."

Honestly, how much humiliation can women be expected to take? And, anyway, I bet you need batteries  for glowing antlers.

Cruising, Insulation, And How To Make The Big Society Work

It's still bloody freezing, and I'm thinking about giving up shaving my legs. I need all the warmth I can get and it's not as if anyone's likely to notice, is it? Not unless I ever have to be decontaminated again. (Thank God that didn't happen during cold weather.)

It turns out that George's so-called boiler repair was a temporary fix at best, as the damned thing isn't working again today. Now he says it'll be days before the problem is solved as he needs to order a part. Greg is even more annoyed than I am.

"How do these idiots get jobs?" he says. "We need to find out, before Vicky manages to get rid of us."

"God knows," I say. "I have no idea what we could do instead. Hurry up and think of something."

Greg spends the rest of the morning trying to type while wearing insulated gloves. I can't bear to check the results, but he says it's far easier to hit all the keys at once and then delete the letters you don't want, than it is to try to hit one letter at a time.

Making coffee proves rather more of a challenge, though. There's a lot of crashing and swearing from the kitchen, before Greg comes back into the office and puts a half-empty mug on my desk.

"Sorted," he says.

"Arguable," I say. "There's hardly any coffee in here, and you've forgotten the milk."

"Couldn't risk spilling that as well," he says. "Too smelly. And, anyway, I'm not talking about the coffee. How d'you fancy cruising for a living?"

"Wouldn't be much of a living," I say. "I don't think money usually changes hands. The sex is seen as payment in itself."

This seems a reasonable assumption given that I have a less than fulfilling sex life, but Greg disregards it:

"Not that sort of cruising, Molly, you dingbat. The seafaring kind. Apparently we can do that while claiming Jobseeker's."

I look blank, until Greg starts searching through the pages of the weekend's newspapers, completely decimating them in the process. Licking the fingers of his gloves doesn't work half as well as those damp sponges they used to have in Post Offices.

Eventually he passes me a copy of this.

"I thought we could be the on-board entertainment," he says. "I could rap and you could be the joke act."

"Actually," I say, "Your rapping would cover both bases. I'd be redundant before I'd even started."

You don't always have to take insults lying down, after all.

At least the subject of cruising makes a change from talking about snow, which isn't half as interesting a topic of conversation as the Media would have you believe. Not that this stops constituents from phoning up to complain about it.

"My bloody road still hasn't been gritted," says Mr Beales. "No-one's taking any notice of what Andrew said in the paper."

He has no idea what a relief that is, but he carries on without waiting for me to respond:

"And keeping an eye on that traffic policeman's bloody impossible in this weather. I can't even get my car out of the drive."

"In some countries it's apparently the law to clear the frontage of your property yourself," I say. "Though not in the UK, of course."

This may seem irrelevant, but I do know what I'm doing. At least when I'm at work.

"Well, those Health & Safety nutters wouldn't allow that here, would they?" says Mr Beales. "But you've given me an idea - I'll do the whole cul de sac myself and let the buggers prosecute me if they dare."

Then - thank God - he rings off, very pleased with himself. I'm quite pleased with myself, too: I know I shouldn't blow my own trumpet, but sometimes I am a genius.

Mr Beales - rebel without a cause - has just proved the effectiveness of the technique I used to use on Josh and Connie when they were younger: making something unappealing seem forbidden. David Cameron should try it, if he really wants the usual suspects to become part of The Big Society.

Though if that ever happens, I think the rest of us will have to leave the country. By cruise ship if necessary.

Attempting Not To Shoot The Cigar-Smoking Messenger, And The Return Of The Russian Dream.

I'm still so annoyed about the car that I decide I've got to talk to someone else about it, so I phone David after lunch. Now I wish I hadn't.

When I've finally finished describing all the weird Ellen-related incidents there have been over the last six months, my best friend just says,

"Well, I know you've wasted your potential, Mol, but I never had you down as stupid."

"What d'you mean?" I say, trying not to sound hurt.

"It's bloody obvious what's going on. You'd be the first to say that if it was happening to someone else."

David exhales noisily. I bet he's smoking one of those stupid Cuban cigars he bought on his show-off stag week. For a moment, I hope he chokes on it, until I recall that I did ask him to give me his honest opinion. He's just wrong, that's all.

"But I haven't got any proof," I say. "And Max always goes beyond the call of duty to help people."

"Humph," says David. "If I were you, I'd come here for a visit, while you decide what to do next. Leave Max to stew."

I say I'll think about it, but I know I won't really. Leave the field clear for Ellen? That'd really make me stupid, wouldn't it? And, anyway, it's nearly bloody Christmas, I haven't got any money and David will probably be all superior and annoying if I do go. Better to stay here and confront the situation.

At least, that's what I'm planning to do, until Josh looks out of the window and says,

"Looks like Russia out there."

"It does," I say. "Pretty, isn't it?"

It's odd how much more appealing wearing a fur coat and minus ten temperatures seem, all of a sudden. I must ask Johnny whether he'd consult his wife before lending someone the family car - if it was their only one, of course. He'll have to use his imagination there.

Skinny Jeans, Neighbourly Behaviour & An Apparent Inability To Use The Phone

I am knackered after last night's stint in Casualty, though I'd really like some of their zero tolerance posters for use in the office. We could exclude at least a quarter of constituents if we implemented something similar.

Tolerance is in short supply at home today, though I'm not sure who is the grumpiest: me or Josh. He's disgusted that he has to wear a brace to support his kneecap, particularly as it won't fit under his skinny jeans.

"I don't know what you're moaning about," I say. "Wearing them was probably what caused your kneecap to dislocate in the first place. They're ridiculously tight."

"Don't be stupid, Mum," he says. "They're probably better than a brace - seeing as they cover the whole leg."

"Well, if you don't do as the doctor told you, and it dislocates again over the weekend, you'll have to hop to the hospital. I can't afford any more bloody taxis."

Max looks very uncomfortable when I say this, but he still hasn't volunteered how Ellen happens to have been lent our car without me even knowing about it. He always leaves it to me to broach contentious subjects.

It turns out that her car has broken down, and that Max offered to lend her ours so she could visit her mother this weekend.

"But why didn't you consult me first?" I say. "It is our car, after all. And I am your wife - or I was, the last time I looked."

"There wasn't time," he says. "Ellen was supposed to get to a family party by 8:00pm, and didn't realise her car was buggered until nearly 5:30pm. You weren't even home, so I couldn't ask you first."

"Ever heard of Alexander F*cking Graham Bell?" I say.

Max glares at me, before deciding to go on the offensive.

"I knew you'd be awkward about it if I asked you, anyway," he says. "I was just trying to be neighbourly."

"Being husbandly would make a nice change."

Josh says, "Oooh!" which doesn't help at all, so I stomp off into the living room.

Walking out of the house would have been preferable, but I'd be bound to bugger over in the snow and ruin my dramatic exit. There must be another way to make the same point, given some creative thinking.

I turn on the TV for inspiration. Sod my rule about never watching it in the daytime to avoid brain death: this is an emergency. Max must be able to hear it, because he comes into the room, and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. Some people just can't take a hint, can they?

When I press Play on an old recording of an episode of Swedish Wallander, he gets up and walks out again.

"Bloody subtitles," he says.

Now he knows how it feels to have trouble working out what the hell is going on.

Bratz, Back-Stabbing, And Some Significant Omissions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ellen," he says.

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

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

Julie Christie, And Why A Certain MP Should Avoid The Subject Of Winter.

Talk about over-compensating for my boring life. My dreams are getting more and more exciting by the minute.

I spent last night playing Lara to Johnny's Doctor Zhivago. Admittedly, Johnny did look rather more like Omar Sharif than he does in real life, and was a lot more romantic, but I did enjoy being Julie Christie. She really knows how to wear a fur coat without turning into an Ewok.

The dream is so convincing that, when I wake up, I still think I'm Julie until I look in the mirror. Then I'm distraught to find that it's not her face that looks back at me, but my usual one, incipient beard and all. Now I wish I hadn't mentioned Ewoks.

If I do manage to grow fur all over my body, though, at least I'll be better-adapted for cold weather. I'm so angry with bloody British Gas about their price rises. Seven per cent! It's a national scandal. I'd write to my MP about it, if I wouldn't have to answer my own letter.

Since the announcement of the increase, Max has become obsessed with the cost of fuel and, even though I try to adjust the thermostat when he isn't looking, he always notices and turns it down again. Then I have to blame the whole thing on Josh and the irresponsibility of youth.

God knows how the poorest are going to cope if we have a hard winter. The hospitals and mortuaries will be full of people who were too scared to turn their heating on at all. Or who have injuries caused by falling downstairs or setting themselves on fire while wearing a Slanket.

Mind you, I'm still considering buying one, despite the risks. It's too much being cold at home as well as at work. The office is freezing at the best of times, but when I arrive today, I discover that the boiler has broken down.

Greg and I are freezing our arses off, and have to keep our coats on all morning - but Vicky says that she  will "work" from home. Apparently, she can't risk low temperatures, due to her chilblains.

"Think she's confusing them with bunions," says Greg. "Caused by those stupid bloody shoes."

"She says they're a political statement," I say. "Due to the red soles."

Talking of political statements, it turns out that Andrew has been at it again - holding forth to the local press without speaking to me first. He's told them that he's going to do everything he can to ensure that Northwick County Council have enough grit this year.

You'd think he have the sense to stay schtum on the subject of winter after last year's fiasco, but he seems to have forgotten all about that. George - the boiler repair man - remembers it well enough, though.

"See your boss is going on about snow again," he says, when he arrives after lunch. "It's in the paper. I'd ha' thought he'd ha' learned his lesson, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed," I say.

There's absolutely no point denying that Andrew made some rather ill-informed comments during last winter's white-out.

"Bloody funny, that were. Talking about what a nightmare Northwick's drivers were having when it turned out he weren't even in the country at the time."

"Hmm," I say.

I do wish the bloody phone would ring. Or there'd be a fire alarm. Or something. But nothing happens to interrupt George's flow:

"It wouldn't ha' mattered, would it - not if he hadn't pretended it took him two hours to drive home from the office that night? What a twonk he must be."

Hearing Greg snort with laughter, I decide it's time to take evasive action.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" I say. "Seeing as it looks as if mending the boiler's going to be a long job."

By the time I've made it, I'm hoping that the subject of Andrew will have been dropped, but no such luck. George carries on where he left off when I return from the kitchen and pass him a mug.

"Cheers," he says. "So, tell me something, ducks. Your boss - have an opinion on everything, does he?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that. Though he does like to take an interest in anything that affects his constituents." I turn my back and pick up a pen. "Now, I really must get on with some work."

"I'll tell you what I think," he says, slurping his tea. "That man will do anything to get his name in the paper."

"Couldn't agree more," says Greg, under his breath. Which is still visible, due to the bloody cold.

The New Cold War And Strategies To Deal With It.

God, I had a terrible dream last night. I was standing outside the old Labour Party HQ in Millbank trying to hold the line against the massed troops of North Korea, who all looked like mini-Ellens. By myself, so this turned out about as well as you'd expect.

Those marching clones scare the shit out of me. I get the shivers every time I see them on the news, even when it isn't as freezing cold as it is today. They're much more frightening than the Russian soldiers who used to parade in front of Brezhnev* - probably because they look so much more focused. Like a demented band of pre-teen baton twirlers.

Anyway, my encounter with them leaves me with a sense of dread that lingers for most of the day. Mr Warner seems to be having the same problem. He comes to the office to tell me that TV Licensing still won't believe that he doesn't own a TV, and that things seems to be getting worse.

"Things are coming to a head," he says. "Everyone's out to get me now - including the bloody Council."

"Why do you think that?" I say.

"They haven't collected my rubbish for the last two months. Not since I wrote to TV Licensing and said I'd shoot anyone who tried to break into my flat. They must share information."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case. It's probably just a coincidence."

I make a note of the last date upon which he remembers his bin being emptied, and promise to see what I can do. Then I stand up and wait for Mr W to take the hint, but he just stays in his chair, fidgeting, and plucking at his clothing.

"Was there anything else?" I say.

Talk about a very bad move. Mr W stands up.

"Do you want to see my ulcer?" he says, as he drops his trousers.

Mr W's legs put me right off my lunch, so I donate my sandwich to the Greg winter stomach fuel fund and send Johnny an email instead. I attach a photo of my new haircut to give him a laugh.

"Wow. You look great," he says. "I'd be really proud to walk into a room with a woman who looked like that on my arm."

"Are you taking the piss?" I say. "I am already having a very bad day, so it's inadvisable."

"No. For Christ's sake, woman, can't you ever take a compliment? Thank you is the appropriate response."

Honestly - whatever must Johnny's wife look like if he thinks my haircut is okay? I apologise, anyway, and blame my grumpiness on the fact that, not only did I spend last night protecting the Labour Party from the North Koreans - singlehandedly -  but I am also freezing to death.

"What the hell are you talking about? North Koreans? And have you forgotten that I live in Russia?" he says. "Generally considered to be somewhat chillier than the UK?"

I have the last laugh on that one, though - as it turns out that it's colder here today than it is in bloody Moscow, although Johnny is quick to point out that it's much worse there in the depths of winter.

"Minus 10 is common," he says.

"Good job I don't live with you then," I say. "How on earth does your wife manage?"

"Oh, she has a mink coat."

The phones start ringing again then, so I don't manage to send my anti-fur response until after the office has closed. Johnny is completely undeterred.

"Yes, yes, PETA* and nasty fur coats - sometimes, darling, you are so predictable," he says. "But just wait until you've tried a winter here without one. You'll do a Naomi Campbell within days."

I'm not at all sure about this last comment. What's with the use of "you will" instead of "you would"? Mind you, with the Cold War that's raging at home at the moment, it's a very tempting thought.

Just imagine: instead of being Molly Bennett, overlooked wife and under-rated MP's caseworker, I could be Molly Hunter, wife of an adoring (if bossy) oil baron. I'd spend my life dancing at embassy parties and swanning around Moscow in designer clothes.

Including a fur coat which, even if I didn't object to it on moral grounds, would make me look like a Ewok. I suppose I'd better don my Primark jacket and head for home.


*Brezhnev, Leonid Ilyich. For those of you too young to remember him.
*PETA - People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, for whom Naomi Campbell was a spokesperson. Until she started wearing fur again.

A Particularly Ineffective Game Of Cluedo.

Max was so late home last night that it's a good job I didn't ask Joan to come home with me to do her Medusa act. She'd have been bored to death and would have probably turned me to stone to alleviate the tedium, not that it would have made much difference if she had.

I was fast asleep on the sofa when Max walked in and, then, when I woke up, my thoughts were too muddled to be able to face an argument. (I also didn't want to pick a fight while my hair was looking more capable of standing up for itself than I was, but that's a different issue.)

So the uncertainty's all still there - unresolved - when I wake up this morning. Late, so I have to tackle Max while I'm running around like a headless chicken. He is almost ready to leave, so I don't have much time to prepare.

I take a deep breath, mutter, "Be assertive" to myself, and then demand to know what happened.

"Mrs Bloom again," says Max.

"Oh, really?" I say. "Mrs Bloom. Not Mr Blunt?"

"That sounds like something out of Cluedo," says Max. "And I have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't even got a customer called Mr Blunt."

"I didn't say he was necessarily a customer. Or that she was."

"Too cryptic for this time in the morning, Mol. Got to rush, I'll see you later."

Max pats my head - as if I were a pet dog - then dashes out of the door. So then I have to go and re-build my bloody hairstyle again.

The day doesn't get any better when my hair repair results in me being five minutes late for work. Vicky looks at her watch as I walk in, says, "Tut-tut, Molly," and writes something down in her notebook. I must start reading up on voodoo - there's a wealth of her fallen hair to use for an effigy, after all.

There's no time to do any research today, though, and I just can't seem to catch up on that lost five minutes no matter how hard I try. There's still work left unfinished when I admit defeat at about 5:30pm and go home. Thanks to fretting about Max - and Korea - I can't concentrate anyway, so it's probably safer to start fresh in the morning.

Max makes me a cup of tea when I arrive, and seems in a fairly good mood, so I take a deep breath and say,

"Max, I need to talk to you about something important."

"Hmm?" he says, turning the TV on.

I turn it off again, at which point he looks slightly less good-humoured.

"Talk," I say. "You know, that thing we used to do occasionally. Along with having sex."

"Oh, you've had that sort of day, have you? Is this really a good idea, in that case?"

Max sips his coffee and stares at the blank screen. He must be able to see something that I can't, given how hard he seems to be concentrating.

"I want to know - um, well, I think I want to know - er, what is going on with Ellen."

There, I've said it. Now I feel sick.

"How would I know?" says Max. "Haven't seen her for days. Why?"

Honestly, could he make this any more difficult? I run my fingers through my hair and then regret it. You should probably look your best when questioning your husband about his other woman.

"That's not what I meant," I say. "I want to know what's going on between you and Ellen. I know there's  something."

Max starts laughing, and I glare at him until he stops. It takes a lot longer than if Joan had done it.

"You're serious?" he says. "Oh, for God's sake, Mol. If you don't know me better than that after all these years, what hope is there? Now can you please turn the TV back on?"

There's so much I want to say to that, but for some reason, I can't seem to find the words. I press "On" and go outside for a cigarette instead.

It's probably a good thing I don't have any spare artillery shells lying about, or I might become the Kim Jong-Il of Northwick. I could cheerfully lob one at the sofa right this minute.

The Medusa of Northwick, Or Why One Can't Always Be Expected To Rise Above Gossip

Joan stops me in the corridor this morning. I suppose it's preferable to her usual tactic of cornering me in the loo, but not by much.

"Molly, what's going on with Andrew and Trish?" she says.

"What d'you mean? " I say.

"She picked him up from GC* on Friday night. Didn't look like he was too happy about it, either."

Joan fixes me with that look. No wonder it terrorised the kids in South Park.

"Ah," I say.

"Exactly," says Joan.

After I've dredged up several acceptable reasons why Trish might have insisted on collecting Andrew rather than leaving him to find his own way home - such as cold weather, or that she just happened to be passing - Joan gives me the look again. It really makes your bowels clench.

"Come on, Molly," she says. "There was more to it than that. I overheard them arguing in the car park."

"Ooh, did you?" I say. "What about?" One can't rise above curiosity indefinitely, after all.

"I don't know for sure. First Andrew refused to get in to the car, because he said he had another engagement to go to, and then Trish said 'The fuck you have.'"

Blimey. Trish doesn't share Andrew's penchant for swearing, so her using that sort of language is unheard-of. I wonder who the "other engagement" was with? I bet it was bloody Vicky.

"What happened then?" I say.

I know I should rise above office gossip, but I might as well get the full story - as it's not as if everyone else won't already know the gory details, after all. Joan's not known as the bush telegraph of Northwick Labour Party for nothing.

"Trish leant over, and grabbed Andrew's new pipe out of his mouth. Then she snapped it in half and threw it at him. Really hard."

I don't quite manage to hide my laugh, as Joan continues:

"He noticed me when he jumped out of the way, so then I had to get into my car and drive off. Oh, sorry - hang on, Molly." Joan's mobile is ringing.

Thank God for that. I am saved from having to comment on what she's told me by the bell. Or by her phone's massively annoying ring-tone, anyway. I make a break for it, while Joan starts a heated argument with the photocopier engineer.

When I get back to my desk, I find that Trish and I aren't the only ones whose relationships are in trouble. There are three letters from people whose "partners" have cheated on them in today's post.

They all want Andrew to report their cheating ex-loves to the DWP* for benefit fraud, and their letters provide comprehensive and detailed information - such as National Insurance numbers, places of work and car boot locations - to facilitate the process.

The Boss will never have any truck with this sort of thing, so I have to write back and make vague references to our inability to use third party data due to the Data Protection Act. No doubt I'll eventually get replies asking why the Benefits Agency's Fraud Hotline doesn't share the same scruples.

All this stuff does make you think, though - doesn't it? I may have to revise my position on talking to Max about what is going on with Ellen.

In fact, I've decided I'm going to take a leaf out of Trish's book and tackle him when I get home tonight. Perhaps Joan would like to come along and back me up with some more of her looks.


*DWP - Department for Work and Pensions, for those of you lucky enough to still have jobs.
*GC - General Committee Meeting of the local Party, as before. For those of you lucky enough never to have to go to them.

Why Erect Is Not Always A Good Thing.

Let's just say I am not having an Edith Piaf moment. I could not regret this haircut more.

I nearly have a heart attack when I spot myself in the mirror this morning.

"Holy shit," I say to Max. "What the hell happened to my hair in the night? Was I actually swirling around?"

"It's just sticking up a bit," he says.

Given the lack of gold stars, I don't know how he considers himself an expert on such matters, but I refrain from mentioning that. Instead, I start trying to resurrect my hairstyle, which takes a lot longer than you'd think.

"Brilliant," I say. "Now I'm going to have to go through all this every bloody morning."

"It does look much better short, though," says Max.

As far as I'm concerned, this is right up there with "You have a great body for your age" in terms of being a backhanded compliment. Why didn't Max tell me my longer hair looked terrible at the time?

My ostentatious sulking seems to have no effect whatsoever on anyone, though - probably because there's no-one at home to witness it. Josh and Max decide to go into town, while I go back to bed in an effort to stop the room moving.

When they arrive back home - after what appears to have been a diversion to the pub - I decide to risk returning to an upright position, and am rewarded with both good and bad news. The bad news is that lying down has made my hair stick up again, but the good news is that Dad has sent me another email.

There are more photographs attached but, yet again, there's no text to give me a clue as to the contents, so I call Josh and order him to open the files. You can't be too careful, after all.

As I put my hands over my eyes, just in case of a sudden vertigo-inducing attack of naked Thai brides or man-boobs, Josh starts double-clicking.

"Here we go," he says.

We both stare at the screen in disbelief.

"Fish," I say.

"Yes, indeed, Mother," says Josh. "Nothing gets past you."

"Very funny. But fishing? For fish?"

It's hardly a common hobby for a man with a short attention span, is it? But at least Dad's got a new interest. Maybe he'll decide to come back home now, and the Porn-Poon saga will be over. Stepmother Mark IV averted.

"Yes!" I say, and punch the air. Josh raises his eyebrows.

"Yes, what?" he says. "Since when do you like fishing?"

"I don't," I say. "But this means Dinah's right: Dad must be bored."

"He's probably just passing the time 'til he can get score some more Viagra," says Josh. "I wouldn't get your hopes up."

After yesterday's triumph of reality over optimism, this is probably good advice, but it has given me an idea: I wonder how Max would react to Viagra? You could probably extract it from my hair. That's definitely got a problem with frequent erections.

Some Things In Life Should Be Taken Much More Seriously Than They Are.

Argh, what made me do that? It's all Max's fault. He obviously likes women to look like bloody boys, as per the whole James Blunt thing.

I ask him how he thinks I should have my hair cut, before he leaves for work this morning. Admittedly, he's already running late and so doesn't have much time to look at all the pictures of hairstyles I put in front of him - but, honestly, this is a serious decision and demands careful thought.

He ignores all the photos I have put stars next to, and opts for something completely different instead. A messy crop.

"Are you sure?" I say. "I don't want to look like those women of a certain age who work on the cosmetics counters in Debenhams. Like they've jammed their fingers in the plug socket."

"It'll suit you," he says. "You're only small and longer hair drags your face down."

"That's gravity," I say, but he's already rushed out of the door.

I stagger off to the hairdresser's shortly afterwards, in the hope that a haircut will make me feel better, and I'm still feeling quite optimistic after I hand Gino the photograph.

"You'll be a new woman after this," he says.

"I do hope so," I say. "I've gone off the old version."

Things seem to be going quite smoothly until, half-way through the haircut, I have to lie down on the floor until the room stops spinning. It takes ages, and Gino seems pretty fed up by the time I can sit up again. I think I may have been lying in his way, but he didn't need to step over me with quite so much exaggeration on his way to the sink.

Anyway, he's definitely taken his revenge. Now I have no bloody hair left, and look exactly like an extra from Oliver!* You should be made to sign a declaration that you are of sound mind before changing your hairstyle.

And you should never listen to your husband, either. When I get home and take another look at the haircut in the photograph, I see that it is entitled, "For the mature woman." Thanks, Max. Why does "mature" make me think of decayed, rather than ripe?



*Oliver! - I'd rather look like Jack Wild than Mark Lester, just in case anyone's wondering. Though should a grown woman - albeit a headless childlike version - really look like either of them?

A Strategy To Produce Better MPs, By Molly Bennett, Aka The Mother Teresa Of Northwick

While I've been pole-axed by swirling rooms and trying to think philosophical thoughts, I've been mulling over the state of our politicians. Especially the one who ate my bloody sandwich this lunchtime.

It's occurred to me that MPs should be made to take sabbaticals, particularly as more and more of them seem to be becoming professional politicians before they've had any work or even life experience outside politics. Six to eight weeks a year ought to do it.

I know MPs already get months off when Parliament's in recess, but that's not what I mean. I'd make them take the same (i.e. much shorter) holidays as the rest of us (except for teachers like Ellen), then spend the rest of each Recess working at the sharp end. Under assumed identities, so they don't just get to see the bits that have been pre-gilded to impress them.

If The Boss had to spend a week or two in a hospital ward as an orderly, and then another few as a debt adviser, for example, he'd have a much better idea of the real situations his constituents face. And of the obstacles and possible solutions to their problems. Any attempt he made to influence policy formation as a result would at least have the virtue of being genuinely informed.

Andrew used to get some real-life input from constituents during surgeries, of course, but that was in the days when he was really listening. I don't know what's happened to him lately - whether he's burned-out, chronically tired, or just distracted by whatever is going on with Vicky - but he doesn't really seem to absorb what he's being told any more.

The only exception to this was the Leylandii business the other day, which is what got me started thinking about this, actually. I know his solution was completely impractical - as well as probably illegal - but at least he saw Mr and Mrs Parker's situation and really understood it, for once. And he brought it up afterwards, too. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

Maybe The Boss doesn't usually worry about the outcomes of constituents' cases because he's started to believe that his almighty power as an MP will override everything, whether it be social security regulations, or waiting lists, or even the housing shortage. Even so, it's depressing that, the longer he's been an MP, the less interest he seems to take in what happens to the people he promises we'll try to help.

I mean, it's nice that Greg and I are trusted to do a good job without any oversight, but I can't understand how Andrew can just forget about most of the constituents once they leave surgery. You'd think curiosity would kick in sometimes, if nothing else. Unless he just has a short attention span, like Dad. (And look where that's got him, not to mention me and Dinah.)

Greg and I have completely different attitudes. Even when we take annual leave, the first thing we do upon returning to work is to check what's been happening with our cases while we've been absent. That's if we haven't already phoned in during our holiday, especially if a significant deadline's been scheduled to occur while we're away.

We don't do it because it's our job - but because these people are real to us. (Too real in the case of the usual suspects, but that's a different issue.) At the risk of sounding like Mother Teresa, I wish that Andrew still seemed to care as much as we do. He was a much better MP when he did.

Anyway, I'm going off on a bit of a tangent, so I need to re-focus on the main argument - I really hope Mum's rambling Kevin Turvey thing isn't hereditary - and explain why my sabbaticals suggestion would be good for MPs in other ways, too.

When Michael Portillo spent a week living with that single mother on benefits, it didn't do him any harm, did it? Even though he didn't go undercover, it did bring him good publicity. I've had a sneaking affection for him ever since, and I bet I'm not the only one.

It also helped that, although Portillo did look completely out of his depth, he did at least seem aware that he was in deep water. I'm starting to wonder if Andrew thinks he can bloody walk on it. And as far as his political philosophy goes, well - there's more to that than smoking a pipe and wandering around trying to look like Jean-Paul Sartre, isn't there?

So, to sum up - quick, before Channel 4 News starts - if MPs really want to help anyone, and to make policies with a chance of achieving their aims, then a regular reality check would be A Bloody Good Thing.

There endeth the sermon as delivered by Molly Bennett in uncharacteristically dictatorial mode. This may be due to vertigo, but hopefully normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

A Right Earful, And The Shortcomings Of Georges Bloody Perec

I've given up on Perec. His bloody book's no help at all when it comes to real life. It must be the most useless user's manual ever.

He obviously never met anyone like Miss Chambers - who phones this morning to complain that someone has posted more dog poo through her letterbox. When I ask if she's reported it to the Police, she says,

"How can you be so stupid? You can't trust them an inch."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case," I say, but this seems to enrage her even more than usual.

"I told you they stole my teapot!" she screams. "I can't take any more of this. If I kill myself, it'll be your fault."

Oh, for God's sake. I'm not having that on my conscience. I take a deep breath, brace myself to return the phone to my ear, and then say,

"Well, if you're feeling like that, I really think you should speak to your GP and see if he or she can help."

"I haven't got a GP. My last one threw me off his list."

Then she starts screaming. No words, just a long, drawn-out sound that I can't even begin to reproduce.

The noise travels down the phone line, hurtles in through my left ear, and exits through the other one, apparently making it all the way into Greg's office, and causing him to come rushing in to mine.

I drop the phone, but Miss C has already hung up.

"What the hell?" says Greg.

"She's threatening suicide, so I suggested she go to see her GP and she just went ballistic," I say. "God, my ear hurts."

"I'm not surprised," says Greg. "Never heard anything like it. Not even from her."

"Well, it's probably your fault. Have you been posting more dog poo through her door?"

"Don't be stupid, Molly. I'm not risking that again. I value my life too much."

Greg shows me an article about a man who was killed after urinating through someone's letterbox, but I can't read it as the whole room is starting to swirl.

After about an hour, I am feeling so sick that I have to lie down on the sofa in the Oprah Room, much to Vicky's disgust, and eventually, Greg sends me home. Via my GP.

Apparently I either have Labyrinthitis - whatever that is - or damage to my eardrum. So now I'm stuck with having to lie down to stop the room moving, while I bet Miss Bloody Chambers is sitting in an armchair, happily watching TV and knitting.

Unless she's making herself a straightjacket, there is no justice.

In Which My Brain Is Discovered To Be Deader Than Previously Thought

Oh, dear God. Things are worse than I thought. Just spent hours banging on about Sophocles, and mocking Vicky's inability to pronounce it, when all the time I meant Socrates.

Is this what is known as a senior moment? What a complete idiot. I am quite clearly no longer an intellectual. Or even vaguely competent...

An Intellectual Voice In The Wilderness, And The Shortcomings Of Marriage Guidance.

I've had a brainwave. Maybe Max and I could go to Relate. I mean, that's what they're for, isn't it? Propping up the marriages that are the foundation of social stability. I decide to phone them at lunchtime, while Vicky and Greg are out.

In the meantime, I'm going to think about ways to make myself more interesting, in between dealing with the usual suspects. I think I've turned into Mrs Dull and Boring, as well as a headless child. I used to be an intellectual!

Someone mentioned Plato the other day, and I was shocked to realise that the only thing I can remember about him is that thing in the Crito about Sophocles not standing up for himself when he was wrongly accused.

I only recalled that because it came up in a discussion I had with Connie while she was studying Philosophy and Ethics at A-level. I had a terrible time convincing her of the validity of Sophocles' claim that, if you believe in the rule of law, then - logically - you should accept your sentence even if it is unjust.

"Sod the rule of law if it means I get punished for the stuff Josh has done," she said. "I'd rather have anarchy any day."

I doubt she would, actually - Josh would be bound to come off best in that situation, but Connie got even more annoyed when I said so. I had to change the subject and ask her when R.E. became Philosophy and Ethics. I might even have been tempted to have studied it if it had been called that in my day.

Whatever, it occurs to me that the way we fight cases on behalf of constituents is quite similar to old Soph's approach: force small admissions, and build on them until we've indisputably won the whole argument. (When there is an actual argument to be won, of course. I'm not talking about Miss Bloody Chambers and Edmund Beales here.)

I mention my new theory to Greg and Vicky when they get back from lunch. They look at me as if I am mad.

"What the hell are you on about, Mol?" Greg says. "Greek philosophy has absolutely nothing to do with what we have to take from this circus of freaks."

Vicky just says, "Who's Sopholololes?"

I am a rose amongst thorns. I shall put aside Henning Mankell and start reading something intellectual as soon as I get home. I might even give Perec another go.

I need something to give me hope, as it turns out that Relate's service isn't free. Can you believe it? I have no idea what I've been donating my clothes for all these years for. Big Society, my arse.