New Year's Resolutions, and all that jazz. (Why do I bother? I never keep the bl**dy things.)

Right, here goes: time for my New Year's resolutions. They won't take long, seeing as I can sum them up in a single sentence:

"Do everything differently next year, i.e. better."

Oh, and "Ignore over-active imagination", too.

It was Max who insisted I add that second resolution, but he won't tell me what any of his are – so I bet he's planning on everything remaining exactly the same. I can't say I'm surprised, but I bet other people's resolutions are much more interesting.

In fact, I'm so sure that's the case, that I'm going to go and email some of them now, to check. Back in a minute...

.....

.....

.....

As usual, I was right, which is as unsatisfying as it always is. Here's the evidence:

Josh:

1. Improve roundhouse kick. Use padding. Don't kick Connie 'til aim improves.
2. Grow longest beard in whole of UK. 
3. Find out if wearing hat all the time is why fringe looks like pubic hair.
4. Prove to Mum and Dad how much they favour bloody Connie.

Connie:

1. Find permanent contract after uni so don't ever have to move back to Mum and Dad's and live with Josh again.
2. Pay Josh back for everything annoying he's ever done. Could take years.
3. Get exposure therapy for thin hair/sticky-out-ears phobia, in case can only get customer-facing job.
4. Prove to Mum and Dad how much they favour bloody Josh.

Mum:

1. Avoid all foods that newspapers say are bad for you. (Keep up-to-date on what those are.)
2. Remember not to "like" every single thing on grandchildren's Facebook pages. (They don't like it, for unknown reason.)
3. Remember not to leave comments on every photograph grandchildren post on Facebook. (They don't like that either.)
4. Wear pants when leaving house. (Note from Molly: I added this one. The general public owe me a favour.)

Idiot Brother Robin:

1. Show compassion in everything I do. (Think of Dalai Lama, when require encouragement.)
2. Buy snakeskin briefcase, and sharkskin shoes. There's no rule saying Buddhists can't look sharp.
3. Double 2013 winnings at poker.

Dad:

1. Sell house. Reduce price if necessary. 
2. Convince Porn-Poon it will sell, and we can live it up, once it does.
3. Disown Dinah if she doesn't stop telling people I fly Steradent Airlines every time I go to Thailand.
4. Disown Cousin Mike for laughing when she does. Every single bloody time. (He's only jealous.)
5. Convince authorities to make rugby the Thai national game.

Greg:

(He says his are in order of priority.)

1. Lose the man-boobs.
2. Find girlfriend I fancy but mother doesn't detest. Alternatively, get two girlfriends: one sexy, one not (considerably easier if resolution number one is kept).
3. Get new job, for sane employer. (Rules out most MPs.)
4. Drink more gin, until get new job.
5. Get Molly sectioned if she doesn't also get new job this year.
6. Sign up for political correctness refresher course. (Molly added this one. She's a wimp.)

The Boss:

1. Decide whether for or against cycle helmets – once and for all. Can't spend whole life sitting on the fence: just look what that's done for Clegg.
2. Refuse all requests for live interviews. (Molly added this one. Does she think I can't manage journalists safely by myself? Molly: "Yes".)
3. Remind students about LibDems' broken tuition fees promise at every opportunity. I'm bound to get re-elected in 2015 if I do.

Greg says another five years of The Boss is a thought too horrible to contemplate, even if we would both be unemployed if Andrew were to lose his seat. 

"At least we'd probably get concessionary gym memberships if we didn't have jobs," he adds, when he phones to check if I received the copy of his resolutions and to find out what The Boss's were. "And we'd have tons of free time to use them, if we didn't have to bother going in to work. I'd definitely lose the man-boobs, then – and get laid."

I haven't got any man-boobs (and not much in the way of woman ones either), but even so, I'll drink to us both achieving the second part of Greg's last sentence. 

Oh, God – no, I won't! I've just read it back, and it sounded as if I meant I'd drink to having sex with Greg myself. That's a worse thought than having no sex at all. Much worse. In fact, I'm so traumatised by the idea, that I'm off to have a very large gin. And then another one, and another.

Happy New Year to all of you. Have a great time tonight, seeing out the old year, but do try to stay sober enough to avoid accidentally sleeping with anyone named Gregory Duke – or Andrew Sinclair (MP). Both may well be on the prowl.

Oops, forgot this: I made you all a Christmas card. (Am on an economy drive, hence the DIY.)

It's rubbish, but at least the thought was there.

Merry Christmas – and how a gift horse feels when it's looked smack bang in the mouth.

I am never buying Mum a Christmas present – ever again. Talk about ingratitude!

I'm trying to tart myself up, ready for this evening's festivities, when my straighteners decide to give up the ghost.

This is a disaster, because I am a victim of the manufacturers' conspiracy to ensure that, once we start straightening our hair, we will never, ever be able to stop. Not unless we want to spend the rest of our lives looking as if we've had a nasty shock – which we will, every time we look in a mirror.

Max doesn't try to shut me up by claiming I look "fine", either, so the situation's obviously worse than I thought.

I dive into the car and race round to Mum's.

"Can I borrow the straighteners I bought you last Christmas?" I say, at which Mum looks a bit confused.

She also looks extremely peculiar, as she's wearing snowflake-patterned knee socks and a tinsel hairband, so she must have got over her earlier lack of enthusiasm for the festive season. I haven't, mainly due to the state of my hair, which it'll take far more than tinsel to resolve.

"Straighteners?" says Mum eventually, after what feels like half an hour. Then, seeing my expression, she tries again: "Ah, yes, dear. Those straighteners. I'm not entirely sure where I've put them, at the moment. Your hair looks very nice, anyway, so I shouldn't worry about it."

This is an outrageous lie, which I treat with the contempt it deserves, so Mum looks half-heartedly behind the sofa cushions and in a couple of kitchen cupboards, before saying, "Maybe they're in my special drawer upstairs. You put your feet up, Molly, while I have a look."

I haven't got time for sitting down, so I ignore that instruction and instead follow Mum upstairs into the spare bedroom, where I watch as she pulls out an enormous drawer built into the base of the bed. I had no idea it existed until now, though it's far from obvious why it's so special.

I try to look inside as Mum pulls it open, but she moves in front of me, and tries to nudge me out of the way. When that doesn't work, she nudges a bit harder – and then a bit harder, as I resist – until we're almost pushing and shoving. I'm good at that, thanks to all the years I've spent watching Connie and Josh in action, and so eventually, experience pays off and I'm the winner  – which leaves me staring into the drawer in disbelief.

It seems to contain every single present I've bought Mum for at least the last five years, along with loads of other gifts from unknown donors, some still partially covered in wrapping paper.

Well, actually, I should have said every single present I've bought Mum, apart from the bloody straighteners. There's absolutely no sign of those, anywhere.

"Oh," says Mum, closing the drawer so fast that she shuts the hem of her skirt in it, and has to pull it open again. "I think I may have given them to Robin's new girlfriend, now I come to think of it. She's such a nice girl, isn't she?"

"No," I say, not because she isn't, but because if Mum didn't want the damned straighteners, she shouldn't have put them on her Christmas list, and then I wouldn't have had to spend a fortune on them – all so that idiot brother Robin's girlfriend will have lovely sleek, shiny hair when she arrives at my house in less than an hour. While I most certainly will not.

Mum tuts at my ungraciousness , and then helpfully suggests that I try a tinsel hairband like hers – which proves such a bad idea that now I'm going home, to borrow one of Josh's baseball caps. That's if any of those will fit over an atomic mushroom-style cloud of frizzy hair that makes me look as if I've been electrocuted. It's no wonder I have no sex life, is it, even during so-called celebrations?

Merry Christmas to those of you who do, anyway – unless you also manufacture straighteners. I'm going to suggest the Government deals with your irresponsible lack of product warnings, as soon as I return to work.

The return of the prodigal wife, mother, daughter – and senior caseworker. Metaphorical tail between her legs.

Well, I'm finally back, though for God's sake don't talk to me about oil barons – or MPs.

I'm probably not worth talking to at all, now I come to think of it, seeing as I haven't got anything of interest to add to a conversation. Life seems to have gone completely back to normal, except that it's almost time for Christmas, and nothing about Christmas could ever be described as that.

Before you know it, the whole thing will be over, though – which would be great, if Christmas wasn't immediately followed by New Year's Eve, when you're supposed to review your successes and failures over the past twelve months, and then work out how to have rather more of the former than the latter in the coming year.

That shouldn't be too difficult, given my total lack of anything even approaching an achievement during 2013. Or 2012. Or...I'm bored with this now, so I'm not going to think about New Year's Eve any more, or Christmas, either, if I can help it – which I can't, as forgetting about Christmas seems to be prohibited.

When did the shops start banging on about the so-called festive season this year? I'm sure it was even earlier than usual, which is totally counter-productive, if the effect on me is anything to go by. I haven't bought a single card or present yet, and I still haven't developed a sense of urgency either – precisely because I'm so aware that the fuss about Christmas starts too early. It makes me feel I've got forever to prepare for it.

I didn't even react when Mum mentioned the C-word when she phoned last night, to say that she's already fed up with it – until she added that this lack of enthusiasm meant that she and Ted wanted to come to our house for Christmas Day, instead of us going to theirs, as we usually do. I nearly had a heart attack at that point, and so did Max. He's still worrying about it when we get up this morning.

"What the hell are we supposed to cook for their Christmas dinner?" he says, as I'm struggling to pull my thermal leggings over fleece-lined tights. "There can't be anything left that your mother's still willing to eat, what with all the health-scare stuff she reads."

"She said they'll bring things with them, to go with whatever we're all having," I say. "She suggested what she called a healthy combination of quiche, pizza, avocados and cottage cheese. I'm not quite sure how the first two made the cut."

"Well, they'll go brilliantly with turkey and all the trimmings," says Max, rolling his eyes. "Though at least I won't have to make vegetarian gravy, I suppose. I doubt even your Mum eats that with quiche."

I consider not responding to this, in an effort to avoid annoying Max further, but then decide I probably should. Respond, I mean, not make him more annoyed. (I'm working on the principle that honesty's the best policy from now on – the "from now on" part being the crucial factor, as that means that I don't have to mention Johnny.)

"Um, I think you will, Max," I say, wincing. "Ted's given up dairy, so he doesn't want the same as Mum. He wants vegetarian sausages...with gravy. He hasn't read that article she keeps quoting about soya and its effect on thyroid function yet."

"Well, obviously neither he nor your mum give a toss about the effect cooking their Christmas dinner will have on my health," says Max, demonstrating even less festive cheer than that with which Mum is currently endowed. "I can feel my blood pressure rising, at the thought of it."

His spirits look as if they're plunging in the opposite direction as he stalks off downstairs, turning the thermostat down as he passes it, and then flicking off all the light switches that Josh has left turned on – so I'd better think of something to cheer him up.

It's a bit of a challenge, in the middle of a recession, and with energy companies doing their best to bankrupt everyone bar themselves. Especially everyone blessed with a teenager whose only contribution to the cost of energy bills is to add to them – not that I can blame Josh for the latest rise in the price of gas and electricity. I'm pretty sure we've got Ed Miliband to thank for that.

If he'd had the sense to keep quiet about his plan to freeze the cost of energy, and waited to surprise the companies with it if he gets elected – I mean when he gets elected (must try much harder to sound as if I think that's likely) – then it wouldn't have occurred to them to raise their prices in anticipation, would it?

You'd think Ed and his "special" advisors would have thought of that, seeing as I have – and I'm only a lowly MPs' caseworker. (I put the apostrophe in MPs' after the P to start with, which resulted in "a lowly MP's caseworker", which was probably equally accurate.)

Anyway, I can't sit here tinkering with apostrophes when I'm supposed to be coming up with ways to cheer Max up...and there's no point me trying to do Ed Miliband's thinking for him, either. According to Mr Beales, the unions are already in charge of that.

I join Max in the kitchen, where he's staring hopelessly at a vegetarian cookbook I bought some time in the early 1980s, when all non-meat dishes were apparently brown and mushy-looking, according to the photographs. Max doesn't seem to find those at all inspiring.

"It could be worse," I say, rather too brightly, as Max looks distinctly optimistic for all of a second. "At least Dad's in Thailand this year, so you won't have to fight him for the remote control on Christmas Day."

Max doesn't even bother to pretend to be impressed.

"Is that really the best you could do, Mol?" he says. "I thought you were supposed to have political skills."

That's number one on my New Year's resolutions list, then, isn't it? Improve my political skills. Let's hope it's on Ed Miliband's, too. Oh, and The Boss's.

Important notice from Gregory Duke, caseworker to Andrew Sinclair MP. 

Molly Bennett has just contacted me from a secret location, to ask me to apologise to any of you who were sent a bizarre email containing a link to God knows what earlier today.

Molly says that the link had nothing to do with her, and she is very sorry if you thought it did. She can only assume that a mad constituent has somehow accessed her blog, spotted a less-than-flattering reference to him or herself, and spammed readers as revenge. Either that, or The Boss has found out about it. (He is in a particularly foul mood today.)

She would also like to thank all of you for your comments and "where are you?" messages, and promises to update you soon. I'll believe it when I see it.

Happy New Year, Rather Belatedly

And thanks to one and all for your good wishes and enquiries about the state of my sex-life, sanity and/or health. I am still alive - or, at least, I think I am. It's hard to be sure judging by what I look like in the mirror. Anyway, I shall be back, either in this or another format, very soon, I hope. It's just a question of deciding where on earth to begin...

A Big Thank-You

To everyone who voted for me in this year's Total Politics Awards, particularly as I've been uncharacteristically quiet of late. I promise I'll be back soon.

In the meantime, thanks also to those of you who have messaged me asking where the hell I am - details to follow upon my return...

Update - Still Having Trouble Identifying Body Parts

Josh very ill in hospital for last two weeks, so telling arse from elbow is currently even more difficult than it was before. Thanks to you all for the messages via Twitter, Facebook and elsewhere.

To be continued.....

When I know my arse from my elbow. This may take some time.

Fall-Out Of The Political (And Emotional) Kind. And Burning Bridges All Over The Place.

"God, I thought you were never coming back to work," says Greg, when I walk into the office rather late this morning.

"How did you know?" I say, wondering if he can read my mind.

"Know what?" he says, proving that, thankfully, he can't. He doesn't wait for an answer, though. He's far too agitated for that.

"Where did you get to yesterday?" he says."The Boss was going completely mad. He was desperate to talk to you."

I can't imagine why. It's not as if Andrew speaks to me when I'm at work, half the time.

"I was still on holiday," I say. "I booked Monday off as well as last week, don't forget."

"Ah," says Greg, who obviously did, despite the red sticker on the holiday chart. "Well, anyway, you'd better call Andrew straight away. He's got himself in a bit of a mess."

"Haven't we all?" I say, as I pick up the phone and start to dial.

"Where the hell have you been?" says Andrew, apropos a greeting. "Don't they have phones in bloody Dorset?"

I take a deep breath, and wish I was allowed to smoke in the office.

"There's been a bit of a problem," says Andrew. "So you need to get on to it, tout de suite."

It must be bad, if he's speaking French.

Andrew's so frazzled that it takes him ages to explain what the problem actually is, at which point I light up a cigarette anyway. I may as well burn some bridges of my own, seeing as everyone else is at it.

"So," I say. "Let me get this straight: it didn't even occur to you that the local media might object to you saying that all journalists are bound to have been hacking people's phones?"

"Nrmph," says Andrew.

"Or that Northwick Police might take offence at you implying that all policemen are corrupt?"

There's no reply, so I repeat the question. Twice.

"Nrmph," says Andrew, finally.

I don't know if he's eating, or choking, but eventually he recovers enough to counter-attack:

"It's your job to stop me accidentally doing that sort of thing," he says. "And to help me clear up the mess when I do. But you were deliberately ignoring your phone."

"I was on holiday," I say. "Supposedly."

By the time Andrew's quoted the "any other duties that I may deem necessary" part of my contract, along with the section about overtime, I've lost my patience and set light to the bin with my cigarette butt. You wouldn't think campaign postcards would catch light so easily.

"So what are you going to do to minimise the fall-out from this?" he says.

"Nothing," I say, throwing my coffee into the inferno. "Maybe you should sort it out. I've got other priorities at the moment."

I think Greg assumes I'm referring to the fire that's still burning, caffeine-based extinguisher notwithstanding, because he runs to the kitchen, and then returns, carrying a washing-up bowl full of water. He pours it into the bin, then smiles as if the problem's solved.

It isn't. The Boss carries on yelling down the phone at me, adding fuel to the other (metaphorical) fires that have been lit over the last few days.

"Please stop shouting at me, Andrew," I say, in a tone that would have rendered Dubai pretty chilly in no time at all.

Greg recognises this frosty manner immediately, from listening to me dealing with the usual suspects - and he knows what it denotes about how near my temper is to being lost. He's just not used to hearing it when I'm in conversation with The Boss. Neither am I, but today I just don't seem to care.

Greg, however, does.

"No-o-o," he mouths at me, while trying to grab the phone - but I fend him off with a manoeuvre I learned from that self-defence video I bought after Mr Humphries went berserk.

It proves to be a lot more effective than one of Josh's roundhouse kicks, and Greg looks quite shocked as he makes a gesture of submission while getting to his feet.

"Sorry, Greg," I say, "But this time, I'm not backing down."

It would be nice if, for once, The Boss did - seeing as he's  the one who approved Vicky's idiotic press release. But you can't reason with a panic-stricken MP, or not one who's still in the yelling phase, anyway. (Just ask anyone who's ever worked for John Prescott or Gordon Brown.)

"Andrew," I say, interrupting yet another tirade. "Call me back when you've calmed down. I'm not talking to you while you're in this mood."

"In that case, you'd better go home," says Andrew. "Right now. And consider your position while you're there."

Which is exactly what I have been doing, ever since Johnny and I found Max with Jemima in the gazebo. And Johnny asked me to join him in Dubai.

School Reunions, Virtually Topless Bumping, And The Mosquito From Dubai.

"Why do you always wear black when we go somewhere special?" says Max, as I'm getting ready for the school reunion.

"Because it makes me invisible," I say. "You don't want to draw attention to yourself when you're going to be the least successful person in the room."

It certainly achieves that, as no-one takes any notice of me for the first hour after we arrive at the hotel. Including Max.

I'm not sure he wouldn't rather have stayed at Dad's, hopping channels and drinking beer.

"What's the matter with you?" I say. "You've hardly said a word so far."

"Well, I'm not as comfortably invisible as you," says Max. "Not at my height. And I didn't even go to this school, did I? I bet I'm the only person here who's both unemployed and under-educated."

I feel a bit guilty then. How did I forget that Max failed his eleven plus? Not that passing it has done me much good, unless that's the fault of this stupid outfit. Someone's already asked me to take their coat.

I'm about to suggest we do a runner, and go for a drink somewhere else, when I hear a distinctive voice.

"Well, if it isn't little Molly James, playing the wallflower - as usual. Some things never change."

"Hello, Jemima," I say, through gritted teeth. "Nice to see you too. Though, actually, it's Molly Bennett now." I gesture at Max, who's got his back to me and is staring hopefully at the fire exit. "This is my husband."

"Max?" says Jemima, as he turns to face her.

"Jemima," says Max. "Bloody hell."

He looks an awful lot more enthusiastic about reunions now.

"Do you two know each other?" I say.

"I should say so," says Jemima, saying so. "Though not from school, exactly. More like after school - eh, Max?"

I'm pretty sure Max actually laughs when she winks. I've never liked people who wink.

"Can I borrow your husband, Molly?" says Jemima, not waiting for an answer. "Come and dance with me, Max."

"Oh, Max hates danci - " I say, as Max follows her on to the dance floor.

They're still there more than an hour later - and I'm still sitting at the bar by myself, eavesdropping on Phil Mould. He's discussing accountancy with James Oakenfield, (who's a merchant banker - like bloody Jemima - but who isn't any more interesting for that). Neither Phil nor James has the faintest idea who I am.

I'm not sure that I know, either. As if it wasn't bad enough having to say that I work for an MP when anyone asks, now I don't feel like Max's wife. I feel more like mosquito bait. If I get bitten one more time, I'm leaving - with or without Max, though the latter option seems more likely.

In the meantime, I'll have another gin. If Greg were here, he'd tell me to get my own back by having it put on Jemima's bill, but I don't have the nerve - unlike her. I'm sure her bosom fell right out of that dress a minute ago.

I turn my back on the room, and concentrate on fishing the lime out of my gin. What is wrong with a slice of lemon?

"Blah, Sage, Blah, Accounts," says Phil.

"Blah, Hedge Fund, Blah, Bonus," says James.

I've finally lost the will to live, and have just laid my head down on the bar, when I feel something tickle my neck.

"Argh," I say, swatting it away. "Fuck off, you bloody thing."

"Ow," says Johnny, rubbing his cheekbone, where my ring has caught it. "Do you have to injure me whenever we meet?"

I look down at my glass, trying to work out if I have drunk so much that I'm hallucinating, but Johnny's still there when I look back up.

"Surprised?" he says.

"Yes," I say, though surprise doesn't really cover what I'm feeling. Panic might be a better word.

"Why on earth didn't you tell me you were coming?" I say. "My husband's here, you idiot."

"Very funny," says Johnny. "I've been watching you for the last twenty minutes, and you've been on your own the whole time. No sign of any husband at all."

"That's because he's over there," I say, pointing towards Max, who really doesn't need to be slow dancing with Jemima to The Bump.

Johnny looks over at Max, but doesn't say anything. I don't think he knows quite what to say.

I certainly don't, so I finish my gin and order another. God knows how much food money we'll have left for the month if I don't slow down.

"Isn't that Jemima your husband's dancing with?" says Johnny, still staring towards the dance floor.

"Yes," I say. "So he got there before you. All the way from Dubai, and then you end up being stuck with me."

Johnny gives me a funny look, pulls up a bar stool, and sits down.

"What are you talking about, Molly?" he says. "I'm here to see you, you know that."

"Huh," I say. "You told me you weren't coming, so don't think you're fooling me. I know when I'm not wanted."

"You don't bloody know when you are wanted, though," says Johnny. "You told me you were coming, didn't you? And without your husband - which is why I decided to surprise you."

"Oh," I say.

I can't think of anything to add, though Johnny can.

"I do wish you'd try a bit harder to keep up," he says. "Now let's go outside. There isn't a Science Block in the hotel garden - but there is a rather nice gazebo."

"I can't," I say. "Max is over there - somewhere. And I'm supposed to be his wife, not yours."

"Doesn't seem to be bothering him," says Johnny, as he takes my hand.

Caught In The Fall-Out From The News Of The World Affair. Somehow Or Other.

Thank you so much, Rupert Murdoch. I am trying to enjoy my holiday.

I'm having a lie-in, in an attempt to amass as much beauty sleep as possible before Sunday night's school reunion, when Greg sends me a text, which I don't read.

Instead, I text him back:

"If this is about work, I don't want to know."

"It's an important message from The Boss," he says. "To tell you that he told you so."

Oh, God. Apparently, Andrew's decided that, if all these other people's phones were hacked, then his definitely must have been - as he's been claiming all along.

"He says that, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean that the bastards aren't out to get you," says Greg, when I get fed up of texting, and call to speak to him instead.

"Usually, it just means you're mad," I say. "Feel free to tell him so."

I don't know what's got into me. Ever since those few hours Max and I spent on Chesil Beach, work doesn't seem to have the same importance. Or appeal - if appeal is something it ever had.

"Couldn't we just sell everything, buy a camper van, and bugger off?" I ask Max, when he joins me at the table for breakfast.

"And live on what?" he says.

"Well, we're not doing too well at that, anyway," I say. "Not on my salary alone, since you stopped working."

Max gives me such a filthy look that I almost choke on my coffee.

"I didn't stop working," he says. "I was made redundant. Just like the staff at The News Of The World. That's what happens in the private sector. Moaning about pensions is a luxury only public servants can afford."

"It's no fun being a struggling pensioner like me," says Dad, putting aside his latest Thai travel brochure.

I decide the time is ripe to make yet another trip to Tesco. Preferably by myself.

When I get there, I spend ages wandering around the store, looking at the vast range of stuff they sell - and trying not to think about whether there'll be any other shops left for Max to work in if Tesco carry on like this.

By the time I've checked out their stock of stationery, clothes and electrical products, it's almost lunch-time. According to Dad, anyway. Routine becomes very important once you're retired.

I'd better text him to warn him I'm going to be late. That'll be so much easier than phoning him, and letting him give me the third degree.

"In a very long queue. Be about twenty minutes. Don't worry about my lunch. Will cook something when I get back."

I know the queue thing is a lie, but I do work for an MP, don't forget. Sometimes, telling the truth is highly inadvisable.

I drive back to Dad's house as quickly as I can, but it's almost 1:40pm by the time I arrive. And Dad is really not amused.

"Where the hell have you been?" he says. "Your egg on toast is nearly ruined."

He and I obviously do not define the word "nearly" in the same way. I have never eaten anything like that, in my life.

"I told you not to cook me anything," I say, chewing and chewing, but unable to swallow. "In the text I sent you earlier."

"No, you didn't," says Dad. "You just said you were in a queue."

No-one likes to be accused of lying about the thing they weren't lying about. I get out my phone, to show Dad what my message actually said.

He reads it, but doesn't give in.

"I only got the first sentence of that," he says, passing me his phone as evidence. "Look!"

I open the message, and there are all my sentences, as clear as day.

"Huh?" says Dad, when I point them out. "Where did all those come from?"

"I just scrolled down," I say.

"Scrolled down?"

Dad's unimpressed when I can't stop laughing - even after I've explained what scrolling is.

"I don't like using a mobile," he says. "Not to you, anyway."

"Why?" I say.

"Because journalists will be able to read everything I write," he says. "Seeing as you're bound to have been hacked, what with who you work for."

He'll never understand the relative unimportance of an opposition back-bencher, no matter how many times I try to explain. He's got even more in common with The Boss than I thought.

A Less Than Premature Arrival At Chesil Bay; Largely Thanks To Dad.

So much for Dad having told us to please ourselves. We've done nothing exciting since we arrived, unless you count eating the meal that he'd already cooked and served while we were still en route. (Taking the first mouthful of that felt like bungee jumping, in terms of the anxiety it provoked.)

Apart from a quick trip to Tesco, we spent yesterday sitting on his new patio furniture, and admiring the fence he's recently built. I don't think I was as effusive about that as Dad would have liked, but it just looked like a fence to me.

"I like the pointy bits along the top," I said, when things got really desperate.

They became even more so in the evening, once Dad turned the TV on. I've never been so confused in my life.

Every time I went to the loo, or to make a cup of tea, I'd come back and spend the next ten minutes trying to work out how I could have missed enough of the programme for it to have become utterly incomprehensible.

When I returned from phoning Josh, to find that yet another guest had mysteriously appeared on Come Dine With Me, I had no choice but to admit that I was having trouble keeping up.

"So who are these guys?" I said. "And why are they all dressed as cowboys? Did the host specify fancy dress?"

"It isn't Come Dine With Me," said Max. "Your Dad got bored with that while you were on the phone, and so he turned over - yet again."

"Great to have so many channels to choose from these days," said Dad, while I wondered whether you can develop ADHD in your seventies. And whether you can buy Ritalin over the counter.

A sneaky call to NHS Direct confirmed that you can't, so Dad spent the rest of the evening channel-hopping, and Max and I were both exhausted by the time we went to bed. Then we didn't sleep a wink.

We might have stood a better chance if Dad hadn't chosen to wake us up at 5:30am this morning, for reasons known only to himself.

"Did you have a good night?" he says, yanking the curtains open, and opening the window.

I make a non-committal noise, while Max asks Dad where he bought the spare bed.

"No idea," says Dad. "It was a wedding present."

For one horrible moment, I think he's married Porn-Poon in secret, and that this is his way of casually dropping it into the conversation. (That's exactly what he did after his wedding to Stepmother Mark III, so he's already set the precedent.)

"What wedding?" says Max, while I'm still hyperventilating.

"The one to Molly's mother," says Dad - as if that was obvious.

Seeing as it must have been forty years ago, it wasn't - but I think it's safe to assume the mattress has had its day. No wonder Max and I are so completely knackered.

We're determined to have a proper day out, though - once I've found the courage to tell Dad we're not taking him with us today.

"That'll be nice," he says, much to my surprise. "You two go off and enjoy yourselves. You don't get enough time alone what with that layabout grandson of mine still living at home."

"Too true," I say.

I know I should stand up for Josh, but now is probably not the time. I want to get ready before Dad changes his mind.

"Just take a look at this sofa for me, before you go, Max," he says. "There's a big saggy bit where I usually sit."

Which probably matches the equally saggy bit in the mattress upon which Max and I were expected to sleep last night, but we're both far too polite to say so. God knows why.

Anyway, mending the sofa takes Max until lunchtime, at which point Dad decides that we may as well have "a snack" before we leave.

"You make a start on the toasted sandwiches, Molly," he says. "I'll have cheese and onion. While you're making it, I just want to show Max the drawer that keeps sticking - and the wardrobe door that's loose."

It's almost 3:00pm - and raining - by the time we get into the car, and then we get lost on the way to Chesil Beach.

It might not seem the most advisable destination for a couple with a less than demanding sex-life - or not according to Ian McEwan, anyway - but when we finally arrive and step out onto the shingle, nowhere could feel more wonderful.

The sun comes out from behind the clouds, and shines directly onto East Cliff, turning it into a terrine of ochre and gold - and there's no sound other than the breaking of waves. Even better, we seem to have no signal on our mobile phones.

"Your face looks totally different," says Max, as he bends to kiss me. "As if it's suddenly softened up."

I don't reply, as I'm far too busy wondering how long we can stay. Forever would be rather nice.

How Not To Please Yourself, Or Why You Should Always Take Premonitions Very Seriously Indeed

Honestly - men.

I'm running around packing and writing a series of instructional notes for Josh - in which I threaten him with various painful forms of death should he burn the house down while we're away - when Max decides to tell me he doesn't want to go to Dad's.

"For once, couldn't we just have a holiday that didn't involve visiting your relatives?" he says.

"I wish," I say, trying not to think about what he'd get up to with Ellen if I went without him. "But we can't ever afford a proper one and, anyway, it takes up all my annual leave to fit in the parental figures."

"God," says Max.

Which sums up how I feel about it, too - though I don't say that. What would be the point? I'll have to try to prevent Dad being so annoying instead, which could be easier said than done.

"Have you left yet?" he says, when he phones for the third time this morning.

"No," I say. "As you obviously knew already, seeing as you rang the landline. Now, stop fretting. We'll get there when we get there. You said we could turn up when we liked."

"Did I?" says Dad, who can't remember anything for longer than one second. "But what time will you want to eat?"

"We'll go and buy some food once we arrive."

By far the safest option, given the near-poisoning incident the last time Dad cooked me a meal.

Max is rolling his eyes and clearly losing his patience, so I decide I'd better get off the phone if we're to reach Dorset before midnight.

"What's your Dad on about now?" he says, as he puts the last of the bags into the boot, while I kiss Josh and get into the car. "I thought he said we could please ourselves while we're there?"

"He did," I say. "And that it didn't matter what time we got there. He said he didn't mind at all. So we can take it easy - and arrive feeling relaxed and calm."

"Huh," says Max, who must have had a premonition.

We haven't been on the road for more than half an hour when my mobile starts to ring.

"Have you still not left?" says Dad. "It's already lunchtime."

"I know," I say. "We're on our way. You can hear the engine if you listen."

"Well, tell that husband of yours to drive carefully," says Dad - who is a really fine one to talk.

Almost as soon as I hang up, the car judders and Max says, "Oh, shit." Then he pulls off the road, and stops.

"Lost all power," he says.

By the time we've worked out that a lead has come loose; fixed it; discussed whether it's a portent of doom or not, and finally started driving again, we've already lost well over an hour, and Dad has rung for another update.

By the time we're half-way to Dorset, he's rung twice more; and when we stop for a coffee and a fag, he rings again.

"Where the hell are you?" he says. "Is Max driving at 20 miles an hour or something?"

"No," I say. "We're just taking it nice and easy, like you told us to. We'll get there eventually, so do stop worrying so much."

"Well, I've got your bloody dinner on," says Dad. "And it'll be ruined if you take much longer."

Ruined is a movable feast in this context, seeing as it's arguable whether you can ruin something that is bound to be inedible anyway. Feast probably isn't the most appropriate word, either - but I take a deep breath, and try to rise above the provocation. It's exactly like being back at work.

"But, Dad," I say. "You told me we could please ourselves - and turn up when we liked."

"You can," says Dad. "Just hurry up."

It's a miracle we get there in one piece, given how stressed Max gets by Dad's continuing calls; the seemingly-endless traffic jams, and by Josh - who phones to say he has already managed to lock himself out of the house.

I'm feeling a bit panicky too, by now, and am wondering whether this so-called holiday wasn't one of my stupider ideas. And I really want another cigarette - before the nagging starts.

There'll be more than enough of that over the coming week - no doubt accompanied by a list of all our relatives who've died from smoking, often by extremely indirect means. (Dad even counts Great Aunt Flo, who died en route to the newsagent to buy cigarettes; as well Great Grandpa Bill, who died of cirrhosis of the liver, but who apparently smoked the occasional cigarette while he was drinking everything in sight.)

So, as soon as we turn into Dad's road, I say to Max:

"Quick - pull over under this tree and let's have a fag, before we drive right up to the house and Dad spots us from the window."

"Good idea," says Max. "Let's have two. And a drink. We're obviously going to need one of those."

"Don't be rude," I say, though I do know what he means. "That's my beloved father you're talking about."

"Talk of the devil," says Max, as the car door is suddenly pulled open.

"What the hell are you doing?" says Dad. "Your dinner's on the bloody table. It's been there for the last twenty minutes."

Teachers: A Sensitive Subject, And Not For The Reasons You Might Expect

If anyone mentions teachers to me again today, I think I may be going to scream.

I spend half the morning listening to a group of them who've come in to this week's surgery to lobby The Boss about the Government's reforms to their terms and conditions; and the other half trying to deal with constituents who want to discuss why they should pay for teachers' pensions that are better than their own.

The Boss relies heavily on his tried and tested "Ah" manoeuvre, but I'm not sure that it convinces anyone from either side that he knows what he really thinks.

They're united in looking pretty unimpressed, though - a response which Andrew always finds traumatic. He's desperate for a drink by the time it's over.

So am I, seeing as you can get PTSD just by witnessing a distressing event.

It's lunchtime by then, so I'm about to join Andrew and Greg in an emergency trip to the pub, when Johnny phones. That's the third time he's called me this week - God knows what his phone bills must be like, unless the Global Oil Company pays. I bet I'm tax-deductible.

I start telling him about my morning, but he interrupts me as soon as I mention teachers.

"Ever miss those days?" he says. "When we were at school, I mean."

"Every day," I say. "Whenever I look in a mirror, in fact."

"You're sexier now than you were then," he says. "Which is saying something."

It may be, but I'm not sure what.

Then he mentions next week's school reunion again.

"You decided if you're going to go yet?" he says. "While you're back home visiting your Dad?"

"I might, actually," I say. "Seeing as I'll probably be desperate for a break from listening to him telling me about Porn-Poon's creative sexual techniques by then."

"Shit," says Johnny.

Before I can say, "My feelings exactly", he goes on to explain that he definitely won't be able to go. He has much more important things to do in Dubai. Like lying in the sun drinking cocktails, and making multi-million dollar deals.

I'm so depressed by this thought that I can't help thinking about how miserable Max must be feeling since he lost his job. Not that that involved much luxury - or many deals since VAT went up and everyone stopped buying furniture - but he misses it, even so.

Maybe I should suggest he accompanies me to the reunion? He usually finds that sort of thing incredibly boring, but there'll be free drink, and we could always lie about our occupations, if anybody asks. That would save us both from embarrassment in the face of all my horribly-successful ex-classmates - and their equally-successful spouses.

"I'd love to," he says, when I phone him to ask if he'd like to go. "It'd be nice to do something sociable. And it would get us away from your dad for a bit."

It doesn't take much to make Max happy, does it? I should be grateful for that, especially given what my face looks like. I am going to tell Johnny it's all over - whatever it is - and concentrate on appreciating the good things about my husband. I shall start as soon as I get home.

Which seems like a very good idea, until I arrive, and find an unfamiliar cardigan lying abandoned on the stairs. It's pink, and covered in glittery stuff - so it's definitely not mine; and Connie wouldn't be seen dead in it. Neither of us go in for "girlie" clothes.

"Whose is this?" I say, walking into the sitting room, and brandishing the cardigan.

"Oh," says Max. "Ah. Um."

"None the wiser," I say. "Try again."

It must be something about my tone of voice - or Max's expression - that makes Josh suddenly recall that he has to go out. Immediately.

"Well?" I say, once he's shut the front door behind him.

"It might be Ellen's," says Max. "She popped round after school, with a bottle of wine - to say sorry for yesterday."

"Yesterday?" I say.

The plot is thickening very fast.

"Well, she came round while she was on strike," says Max. "She said she was bored, and wanted some company - and thought I'd be at home with nothing to do since I lost my job.

"Oh," I say. "Did she think you could offer that thing she's always so desperate to find? To alleviate her boredom?"

"I don't know what you mean," says Max, who can't possibly have forgotten that.

I raise my eyebrows much higher than Ellen is capable of doing, so then he makes a last-ditch attempt to throw me off course:

"She wasn't here that long, anyway," he says. "She went on about her pension so much, that we had a bit of an argument."

Which is as nothing to the argument that he and I are about to have.

If I'd known about this yesterday, I'd have held my own one-woman counter demonstration: in support of a certain teacher losing all of her bloody pension. And being made to work eighteen hour days to keep her out of my house while I'm at work - and my husband isn't.

It's not as if I don't know exactly what Ellen means by company, after all.

Ciao, Baby - Unless You Have An NVQ in Retail Skills. Or In Working For An MP.

If Greg says, "Ciao" to any more constituents, I may have to see if the local Mafia can spare a horse's head.

Constituents keep phoning back after they've spoken to him, to ask me if we have a new member of staff.

"Your boss employing even more bloody foreigners now, is he?" says Mr Beales. "Keeping British jobs for British people, that's what he should be doing."

"No, he isn't," I say, which is a neatly dual-purpose answer. "And, anyway, we are part of the EU, don't forget."

"There you go," says Mr Beales. "Exactly what I'm talking about.  Isn't that where those girls in your London office are from?"

"Well, yes," I say. "France and Spain. Though let's not forget that you and I are also from the EU. Technically."

This leads to Mr Beales indulging in a long rant about how he's not prepared to be grouped in with "all those frogs and Romanian gypsies" while I inspect my tan in my handbag mirror. It looks even worse in the magnifying side.

"So, the short and long of it is that our MP - here in Northwick - doesn't think a Brit's up to the job, then?" he says. "Even though they can at least speak the bloody lingo?"

"I think you'll find that Mr Sinclair's Westminster staff speak perfect English," I say.

I'm tempted to add, "unlike you," but decide I'd probably better not.

"It's the accent, though, ain't it?" says Mr B. "That's the real problem."

Indisputably, on the basis of his.

When he finally gets to the point of his original phone call, it turns out that he wants to discuss something he's read in today's Daily Telegraph. My workload would be halved if its journalists went on strike.

"Sick of these buggers moaning about tax breaks for married couples," he says.

"Because?" I say.

You have to pretend to take an interest, after all. It's part of demonstrating listening skills.

"Well, if they want to be treated the same as the rest of us who are married, then there's a simple answer, isn't there?"

Mr B pauses, presumably to allow me to guess, but I've just taken a mouthful of my sandwich, so I just grunt in a vaguely encouraging tone.

"Get - bloody - married. Simple as that, seeing as anyone can do it these days."

It's so unnerving whenever Mr Beales seems to have a point.

Having made this one, he finally rings off; and it's a relief when the rest of the day's calls prove to be about nothing more contentious than metal thefts.

"I should do that for a living," says Max, when I mention it while he's cooking tea. "It's more of a growth area than bloody retail, isn't it? Thornton's closing branches, and then there's Jane Norman, and Habitat, too. I'll never get another job in a shop."

I'm starting to think he'd be more cheerful if he spent his days watching Jeremy Kyle, rather than rolling news.

"Oh, don't be silly," I say. "With all your years of experience, of course you will."

"Not without a stupid NVQ," says Max. "Turns out that's what the bloke who got my job had. He'd only worked in a shop for a few months, but the boss was so impressed with him having a qualification in retail skills, I didn't stand a chance."

"What, even though you've got other, higher professional qualifications, and more than twenty years in the game?"

I am starting to feel a bit sick now.

"Yes," says Max. "So I'm on the bloody scrap heap, seeing as I didn't keep notes of what I did while I was at work every day, and no-one gave me any marks for them. I thought it was better to concentrate on actually doing the job."

"Ah," I say.

So did I.

Now I'd better go and check if they're offering an NVQ in working for an MP. I might mention it to Greg, too. It's bound to be more useful than conversational Italian - unless he met any Mafioso while he was in Venice. I bet they could guarantee our jobs.

Molly And The Tango* Factory, With Apologies To Willy Wonka - And To Anyone Who Has To Look At Me.

"Good God," says Max, when he finally gets up and staggers downstairs. "What the hell have you been doing?"

"Nothing," I say. "I am just sitting here on the sofa, enjoying the peace and quiet, and reading my book. In an all-too-brief, intellectual interlude - before you and Josh insist on watching the bloody Grand Prix yet again."

Max glares at me, as I make a very convincing "nee-aw, nee-aw" sound. It's something that never ceases to amuse me, though I think Max is tiring of it. Maybe that's why he decides to get his own back.

"Yes, very funny," he says, in a tone that implies that it's anything but. "So, why so cheerful this morning, Mol? Haven't you looked in a mirror yet?

"No," I say. "Why? Is my hair sticking up or something?"

"It's more the colour of your face," says Max.

Talk about unkind. I know I look a bit wrecked when I haven't got any make-up on, but even so. Long-serving wives have feelings, too.

As do mothers of teenage boys - not that that seems to occur to Josh, who walks into the sitting room; takes one look at me; and then starts laughing. So hard he almost hyperventilates.

"Holy shit," he says, once he's able to breathe again. "There's an Oompa Loompa on the sofa."

For a split second, I have no idea what he's talking about, until I remember what an Oompa Loompa looks like - and that I applied my new fake tan before I went to bed last night.

I rush to a mirror and stare at my reflection in disbelief. Oh, my God.

"Can you read me the instructions?" I say to Josh, as I hand him the can.

"It says 'spray evenly onto exfoliated skin'," he says. "Did you do that, Mum?"

"Ye-es," I say.

It's partly true. I did the spraying bit, though it's tricky to cover every angle by yourself. I may have forgotten the exfoliation.

Josh rolls his eyes, and carries on reading:

"Then you're supposed to rub it in."

"Ah," I say. "Oh. That may be why my legs look a bit streaky."

"Massive understatement," says Max, whose opinion I don't recall asking for. "Did you actually read any of the instructions?"

"I couldn't," I say. "They're so small I couldn't make them out, not even with my reading glasses on. I should sue the company for breach of the Equality Act."

"Personal injury might be more appropriate."

Max is really enjoying himself now. I wish I'd never mentioned Formula One.

"Not an option," says Josh, continuing to read the back of the can. "Not when it's Mum's own fault. It clearly states: 'Not for use on the face'."

I think he can tell from mine that that's the first I've heard of that.

No wonder the packaging was geared to the teenage market. No-one else would be able to read it, without a magnifying glass. (Which I haven't been able to find, since Connie used it to set light to some bark chippings, and nearly burned the whole house down.)

I spend the next two hours scrubbing at my skin, but it seems that exfoliation only works if you do it before you apply the tan; and Max is no help at all. Or not unless you consider the offer of a sheet of sandpaper helpful - which I don't.

At least now he's turned the TV on, and he and Josh have settled down to watch cars go round in circles, so I shouldn't have to listen to them singing this anymore. It's beginning to get boring now.

*Tango - fizzy orange drink that I used to love when I was a child. I like it much less now, thanks both to Peter Hain, and to Josh asking me if I've been tangoed. Repeatedly. That's getting boring too.

Left Out Of The Loop, In More Ways Than One.

Huh. I'm not surprised scorned women decide to get their own back on the men in their lives. Miss Randall should be let off with a caution. It was obviously a crime of passion.

Her sister comes in to see The Boss during this morning's surgery, to ask for his support, but when Andrew hears what Miss R did to her unfaithful husband's possessions, he doesn't seem quite sure if he wants to give it. He's probably too busy wondering what Trish would do to his, if she ever caught him cheating.

He gets over this unusual bout of introspection pretty quickly, though, and is back to his usual self by the time we show the last constituent out.

"Thought I'd take Vicky out for lunch today, Molly," he says. "To thank her for covering for Greg while he's been on holiday. Her help has been invaluable."

There's no answer to that, so I don't attempt one.

"You're probably too busy to join us, aren't you?" he continues. "What with all the surgery letters to do?"

"Yes," I say. Or that's what I say out loud, anyway. I say considerably more under my breath.

I'm still feeling unwanted and unappreciated while I eat my sandwich, but then I check my emails, and find this:

Hi, Molly,
Was great to see you again after so long. Got your email address from the Steering Group administrator - said I wanted to check if you could help out with our funding application, but really wanted to know if you fancy meeting up for a drink sometime?
Patrick x

Bloody hell. I'm so surprised I have to read the email twice. I'm quite flattered, too - until I realise that Patrick probably only wants to show me how a professional pours a drink.

I'm still cringing at that memory, when Johnny phones. It's all happening today.

"Still no dates confirmed for my next trip to the UK," he says. "So God knows when we'll manage to have sex."

"No change there, then," I say. Unwisely, as it turns out.

"Well, when did you last have any?" says Johnny.

I am outraged. You can't ask your mistress that, even if she is only virtual.

"When did you?" I say, before I realise I don't want to know.

"Good point," says Johnny, neatly side-stepping the issue. He'd make a far better politician than The Boss.

There's a rather uncomfortable pause after that, while we both try to re-group. We're much better at conducting this so-called bloody romance by email than by phone.

"Have you had your invitation to the Northwick Grammar reunion yet?" says Johnny. "I was thinking we could go if I can fly back that week."

"What, together?" I say. "Don't you think people might wonder what we'd done with our actual spouses if we tried to pull a stunt like that?"

"Shouldn't think so," says Johnny. "They'd probably assume we got married once we left school. Seeing as they all knew about that business behind the Science Block."

That's news to me. Seeing as I certainly didn't tell them.

"On the basis of that sort of thing," I say, "they'd probably assume you married Jemima, not me."

"You might be right about that," says Johnny, rather too enthusiastically for my liking. "I wonder if she's going to go?"

God. That's it, isn't it? Johnny's never shown the slightest interest in school reunions - until he just happens to hear from good old Jemima Fuck. So now I've got a husband I don't trust an inch, and a so-called lover who's no better. Bloody brilliant. Well done, Molly.

I can't decide how to get my revenge. Though I'm sure if I give it enough thought, I'll come up with something. Failing that, I might know a constituent who could give me advice.

How To Forget Friends And Make An Idiot Of Yourself In The Name Of Refreshment.

Talk about how the other half live. There's Greg, living it up with Jess in Venice, and then there's me, stuck here listening to a one-sided conversation about dog poo.

I don't think Vicky's finding standing in for Greg as easy as she anticipated, or not in terms of setting priorities, anyway. She spends most of the morning in conversation with Miss Harpenden, leaving me to deal with everyone else.

So, when the phone rings again, straight after she gets back from lunch, I wait for her to answer it. It's about time she did some work.

"Oh, hello, Miss Harpenden," she says. "How are you now? Oh, really? You trod in another one? Yes, I know."

I raise my eyebrows, but Vicky doesn't take any notice.

"Oh, I know," she says, again. She sounds exactly like Sybil from Fawlty Towers. "I know just how you feel. It's awful. Some dog owners are so irresponsible."

They may be,  but I do wish Vicky would hurry up and get off the phone. She knows I'm waiting to brief her on what needs to be done this afternoon while I'm away from the office, and I'm going to be late if I don't leave soon.

"I've got to go," I mouth at her, while pointing at my watch. Then I make one of those "wrap it up" gestures, but you'd swear Vicky's suddenly lost her sight. It's probably hysterical blindness, from over-exposure to Miss H. Unless it's Toxocariasis.

In the end, I have to write a note listing everything that needs to be done, prop it on Vicky's desk, and hope for the best. I don't want to make a bad impression by being late for my first meeting of the Northwick Debt Advice Service Steering Group. My outfit will probably achieve that all by itself.

I'm still amazed to have been invited to attend in my own right, and not just to represent The Boss. Maybe the Chairman's had a sneaky look at my bank statements, and wants to use me as a test case. I certainly look like a pauper compared to everyone else who's there.

They're all immaculately dressed: the (rather few) women wearing understated but ferociously chic dresses, and the men in very well-cut suits. As if that wasn't bad enough, they look as if they dress like that all the time, not just because they're attending a meeting at Shearlings' Solicitors.

I've worn my best skirt, and a jacket - but I wish black didn't fade so much. I look like a paint swatch of shades of grey, which isn't half as sophisticated as it sounds. Washed-out would be the best description.

The same thing could be said for the result of my attempt to pour myself a coffee from one of those giant steel flasks. Why don't people label them?

First I succeed in pouring myself half a cup of hot water, much to the amusement of a snooty-looking blonde woman whose name tag reads "Jacintha", and then, when I try to save face by pretending that I like to add water first - to ensure that I keep my caffeine consumption down - the next flask I pick up turns out to contain milk.

I can't even discard the revolting combination I've created and start again, because there aren't any spare cups, and there's nowhere to pour the damn thing away.

I'll just have to drink it, I suppose. Then, once I've emptied the cup, I should finally be able to pour myself an actual coffee, now that I know which flask contains what. As long as no-one moves them just to confuse me, of course. I'd better keep an eye on that Jacintha.

"Molly Bennett," comes a man's voice from directly behind me. "What the hell is that you're drinking?"

"Urgh-urm," I say, trying hard to swallow, but succeeding only in choking. Noisily. Honestly, was I behind the stable door when dignity was being handed out?

"Here, give me that cup," says the man, holding his hand out in a rather bossy fashion.

He looks oddly familiar - as far as I can tell, given that my eyes are watering. I'm not in any position to argue, anyway, not once he starts banging me on the back with his free hand.

"Okay now?" he says, once it seems as if I've stopped coughing at last. I nod, just in case I haven't.

He walks over to the window, opens it, and then tips my cup upside down. He takes no notice of the shout of "Oi!" that comes from below, shuts the window, and walks back to join me at the refreshment table.

"Buggered up the flasks, didn't you?" he says, picking up one of the offending objects and beginning to pour. He doesn't give any sign of relief when coffee comes out. He's obviously used to things doing as they're told.

Then he adds milk, passes me the cup, and looks me up and down.

"You've haven't changed a bit, Mol," he says.

I look confused in lieu of an answer but, luckily, I'm saved by the bell. Or by the snotty blonde woman, anyway. She's tapping her pen against a bottle of water that's standing on the conference table.

"I think we should probably make a start," she says. "If we've all got coffee now?"

She really doesn't need to look straight at me when she says that.

I scowl at her, and then pick a seat at random, praying that the man won't sit next to me while I still can't work out who he is. He doesn't. Instead, he walks to the head of the table, and sits down, looking very much at home.

"Welcome," he says. "Perhaps, before we start, we should all introduce ourselves. My name is Patrick Reeve, and I'm the managing partner here at Shearlings.

Holy shit. Patrick Reeve. When did he become so handsome? I can't believe it. Do all men get better-looking as they age? Life really is unfair.

Mind you, no wonder I didn't recognise him, considering what he looked like the last time I saw him. No-one should ever combine a Phil Oakey haircut with a wardrobe based on Spandau Ballet, or that's what I thought at the time, anyway. Now it seems that it may have been somewhat unwise to judge by appearances - or to assume that party animals will never pass their law degrees.

I'm so busy contemplating Patrick's semi-miraculous transformation, that I can barely take in what's being said around the table and, before I know it, the meeting's winding up - much later than was planned. God knows how Vicky's managed without me for so long.

I'm in such a panic, that I rush past Patrick without even saying, "Goodbye". Now he'll think I'm rude as well as incompetent.

Not as incompetent as Vicky, however. She's still on the phone when I get back to the office.

"I always walk in the middle of the road if I can," she says. "Dogs don't like pooing there."

Fathers And Daughters, Or Rather, Fathers Who Need To Clarify Who Their Daughters Are.

"Molly - you awake?" says Dinah, when I answer the phone at what seems to be a particularly unearthly time of the morning.

"I am now," I say. "Thanks to you."

"You're not supposed to need as much sleep as you get older,' says Dinah, who never knows when not to add insult to injury. "And, anyway, this is important. I have to talk to you about Dad."

Bang goes my Sunday morning lie-in. I suppose I may as well admit defeat.

"I'll call you back in a minute, Dinah," I say. "When I've properly woken up."

"Well, don't leave it too long," she says. "This is an emergency."

Anyone who didn't know Dinah would take this statement literally. However, she is my sister, and therefore I don't.

I hang up, then make a cup of tea; smoke a cigarette; have an argument with Josh, who looks at me as if I am insane when I suggest he might want to get up and cook Max breakfast for Father's Day; smoke another cigarette to get over that; and finally call Dinah back.

"You took your time," she says. "What if it had been a real emergency?"

"It wasn't, though, was it?" I say. "Now tell me what the problem is."

It turns out that Dinah has discovered that Dad isn't just trying to sell his house because it's too big for him, but because he wants to buy somewhere in Thailand instead.

"And he's selling it at a knock-down price," she says.

"God," I say. Now that is worrying. If there's one thing Dad does take seriously, it's his money.

"Exactly," says Dinah, dragging on a cigarette as noisily as only she can. I don't know how she doesn't turn inside out when she sucks that hard. "So if it doesn't work out with Porn-Poon, and Dad has to come back to the UK, he won't be able to afford to buy anywhere else to live. And you know what that'll mean."

"Yes," I say, feeling very slightly sick, and trying hard not to think about that Panorama programme about care homes. "He'll want to move in with one of us."

"Unless we can have him declared insane before he sells," says Dinah. "If we could get power-of-attorney first. I'm going to drive down to see him today, and take him out for lunch. Then I can see if he really has gone mad with lust."

Power-of-attorney? Is she serious? Dad might be acting like an idiot, but it's up to him what he does with his house - as long as he doesn't want to live with me. And I'm pretty sure he's not mad, either - or not technically, anyway.

If he is, then he's no more so than all those other men of his age who seem to keep Pattaya in business. (I can think of a number of words that would apply to that demographic, but "mad" isn't one of them.)

"Well?" says Dinah. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," I say.

"For God's sake, Molly."

Honestly, Dinah's so impatient. She never takes time to consider anything. A bit like Dad, now I come to think of it.

"Stop being such a ditherer," she says. "I'll report back later tonight, once I've seen how he is - and then we can make a plan."

So that's something for me to look forward to - which is more than can be said for Max, unless Josh gets up before the shops are shut. I've been telling him to buy a Father's Day card for weeks, but he hasn't taken a blind bit of notice.

"Couldn't you have bought one for me, Mum?" he says, when he finally drags himself downstairs. "When you were buying yours?"

"No," I say. "If I can buy cards for both my father figures, I'd have thought you could afford the only one that you have to get."

I almost add, "thanks to the sheer effort of will that I have made to remain married to your father so that you don't have to buy more than one," but I don't. Talk about restraint.

Not that Josh notices my internal struggle. He's too busy looking at the envelope that he's just spotted on the mantelpiece.

"Who's that from?" he says, picking it up and reading it. "To Max Bennett. Not to be opened until June 19th."

"It's from Connie," I say. "Don't you recognise your sister's handwriting?"

"No," says Josh. "She only ever sends me texts. Shit, has she actually posted a Father's Day card? The bloody creep."

There's nothing like sibling rivalry for motivating a teenager. Josh throws on some clothes, rushes out of the house and returns an hour or so later bearing a card (unsigned); a bottle of Max's favourite wine (unopened); and a box set of the Die Hard films on DVD.

Then he insists that he and Max must watch all the films tonight, in a father-son bonding session. It's not quite clear whether I am invited to join in or not, which is probably a good thing as, by the time I've phoned Ted to wish him a happy Father's Day, the first film has already started; and then Dinah calls again.

It's time for the promised update on Dad.

"Mad as a hatter," she says. "I took him to the pub. And you should have seen how he behaved."

I don't say anything. There's not usually much point. Dinah doesn't ever need encouragement to continue to the bitter end.

"We were sitting having a drink, and then a group of people about Dad's age sat down at the next table," she says. "I'm sure he'd never met them before. Anyway, he leaned over to them and said, out of nowhere, 'Don't worry. This isn't my girlfriend, it's my daughter.' "

"What?" I say. "Had they asked? Or given him a funny look, or something?"

"No," says Dinah. "But after that, he kept saying it to everyone who came into the pub. It was as if he'd been sensitised to people thinking he's dating someone much younger than him."

"Well, he probably has, given what people must say when they see him with Porn-Poon," I say. "Not that you're anything like as young as her."

I haven't entirely forgiven Dinah for that jibe about needing less sleep as you get older yet.

"Don't try and make him sound rational," she says. "Not when the next thing he did was to get out all his photos of Porn-Poon and show them to everyone - while saying, 'Now this is my girlfriend.'"

I'm so shocked that now I can't face phoning Dad to check if my Father's Day card arrived. And Dinah seems to think I've agreed to find out tomorrow how one does go about getting power-of-attorney.