A mystery parcel arrives. And it isn't from a nutter, for once.

"Bomb delivery," says Greg, first thing this morning, as he walks into the office bearing a large brown cardboard box.

He dumps it on my desk, then adds,

"Luckily, it's for you, not me – so just wait a sec, while I retire to a safe distance. Then open it."

I take no notice, not because I'm brave (or stupid), but because the parcel is clearly addressed to my alter ego. The one who writes the books.

Here's what I found inside. Greg says the fedora suits him best, but it really doesn't. His head's even more enormous than mine.

Free sample of my new book

If you'd like a taster of "Would Like to Meet", you can access a free sample by clicking here.

My new book (at long last).

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? However, contrary to Greg's tactless insinuations, I haven't been sitting on my arse doing nothing since I last blogged here. 

I have been sitting on my arse, if I'm being honest – and that's become enormous as a result – but I certainly haven't been doing nothing. I've been writing a new book, one that hopefully runs less risk of getting me sacked than the last one did. 

The fact that that hasn't happened so far probably says more about The Boss's chauvinistic attitude to anything described as "chick-lit" (however erroneous that description may be), and less about how incandescent with rage he'd become if he found out I'd written about him in a less-than-dishonest way, for once.

Getting back to the point – which is my new book, rather than my expanded arse – it's finished, at long last. I almost had a nervous breakdown while writing it, but that's beside the point. 

It's out on June 30, and I really hope you'll all buy a copy and tell all your friends (unless The Boss is one of them) to buy a copy too. Then maybe I can finally tell him to stuff his job where the sun don't shine.

In the meantime, here's the cover which is being revealed for the first time today, and which I really hope you like. (Greg says the mugs look just like the ones we have at work.) If you'd like to read a free sample, you can access one by clicking here. 

Don't forget I'm also on Twitter at @Mid_WifeCrisis, and would love to have a chat and catch up on all the news I've missed while buried in Nervous Breakdown Land. You can find out more about that particular experience at my fancy new website at http://www.pollyjamesauthor.com.

Greg says the moving eyes are "seriously creepy", and remind him of how The Boss' eyes follow you everywhere when he's in a mood with you, but I think they make me look as if I have a sense of humour – which I obviously have, given what I've spent the last God knows how long doing for a living.

Hope you're all well, anyway, and that you'll comment either here or on my website, or join me on Twitter at some point.

Where to find me at the moment...

I haven't disappeared entirely, and will be returning to blogging here once I start writing the sequel to "Diary of an Unsmug Married".

In the meantime, you can keep up with what I'm doing now at http://www.pollyjamesauthor.com, though that's actually very little, other than panicking and swearing about the difficulties of writing my current book.

What it's really like, being an elf.

Apropos today's Twitter reports of parents complaining about a "Winter Wonderland" theme park which features smoking elves and reindeer who "look bored"(see randomly-chosen tweet containing link below), I thought I'd share with you the story of the only job I've ever had that was worse than working for an MP. 

I was fifteen, and it was my first taste of paid employment – as a Saturday girl, or rather as a Saturday elf – in Father Christmas’s grotto in my home town's main department store. 

I only applied because I stupidly thought it sounded fun. Also, I'd never before come close to exceeding the maximum height criteria for anything. (Someone no taller than five foot was required.)

Here's how every working day would go:

Elf (i.e. me) shows family group into cubicle No.1 to see Santa No.1, opening only the curtains to that particular cubicle. 

Elf waits outside the cubicle, while small child sits on Santa No.1’s knee and says what he would like for Christmas. Mum or Dad confirms that small child has been good all year (usually a filthy lie, which older sibling loses no time in pointing out). This is followed by small child having his photo taken with Santa, (who barely raises a smile, so bored has he become already). 

Elf continues to wait outside until family leaves the cubicle, the small child clutching a present chosen by Santa from one or other of the barrels marked “Boys” and “Girls”. (This stage most often goes wrong after Santa has treated himself to a liquid lunch. Santa No.3 was always the worst for that.)

Elf guides family towards the exit, while simultaneously manning the till, stopping fights breaking out in the queue, and answering questions about where the nearest toilet is. Elf becomes a little harassed.

While Elf’s attention is elsewhere, original small child (the one who earlier claimed to be well-behaved) spots the second set of curtains – and yanks them open before Elf can stop him. (Elf discovers on first day of employment that dead-legging a child isn’t allowed.)

The following conversation then takes place between small child and his mother (at full volume so everyone in the queue can hear it too):

“Mum! Mum! There are two different Santas! Why are there two of them?” 

“There aren’t, dear. Don’t be silly. You must be getting muddled up.” 

“I’m not! There are two. Look in here!” 

Small child opens both sets of curtains again, this time with a flourish, while Mum and Elf struggle to work out what to say.

“See? Two Santas! One in here...and one in there.” 

Elf and Mum remain in a state of paralysis, while small child spots third set of curtains and opens those as well.

“Oh, no! Here’s another, DIFFERENT Santa!”

Three Santas, one Elf and one mother all look at each other in a panic, while cynical older child says to curtain-opening sibling, 

“Well, if there are three Father Christmases, then none of them can be real – can they, stupid?”

Curtain-opening child then cries as if his heart will break, while Mum and all the Santas accuse Elf of gross incompetence. This complaint is repeated shortly afterwards by every parent waiting in the queue, accompanied by a demand for a full refund to compensate for their children’s belief in Father Christmas having been destroyed.

By the time this scenario has been repeated at least once an hour, every hour, for most of each day, Elf feels like crying too.

The job's got a lot more in common with working for an MP than I realised, now I come to think of it. 

Brace yourselves - I'm on TV tonight. (And apparently they can't edit out double chins, which is something that should be remedied urgently.)

Yes, that's right - I'm going to be on the TV tonight, talking about what it's really like to work for an MP. (As if regular readers of this blog didn't already know the answer to that.)

Anyway, the programme was filmed while I was in Wales a few weeks ago, during a fantastic visit to the Welsh Assembly, (which I'm intending to write about in full later on this week), and also features Peter Black AM, and his office manager, Nick Tregoning.

Peter and Nick are long-term supporters of this blog, as is the very lovely Adrian Masters, ITV Wales' Political Editor, who's interviewing us. (He really is lovely, and I'm not just sucking up to journalists like The Boss does, no matter what Greg may claim.)

I'd barely slept the night before filming, so I look knackered, and I was also a nervous wreck – partly due to being forced to ride up and down in the Welsh Assembly building in a glass-sided lift, and partly because I'd forgotten what soft Welsh water does to my hair  – so I probably don't make much sense at all, as well as looking as if I've been electrocuted. It turns out it's much easier to make sure your MP doesn't make an idiot of himself on the television, than it is to avoid making an idiot of yourself.

To prove the point about electrocution, here's a picture of the interview being edited, courtesy of Adrian Masters and Sharp End:

@Mid_WifeCrisis Look who’s on the editing screens! pic.twitter.com/cxDzkjdzca
— Adrian Masters (@adrianmasters84) June 2, 2014

I'm not sure whether you can see the programme right across the UK, as it's on ITV Wales, but - if not - it should be available online, here.

Almost entirely lost for words.

I have just walked into the office, to find Greg wearing one of these:

He says it's working. Not for me, it isn't.

In which there are calls for my book to be banned, and my dad is even more annoying than usual. (Possibly a minor exaggeration re the book.)

"The product information should warn that this contains politics," says Greg, reading from his computer screen.

"I quite agree," I say, only half-listening. I am otherwise engaged in reading an email from Dad, who's back in Thailand for the umpteenth time. In it,  he says he's split up with Porn-Poon but there's "no need to worry" as he's already fallen in love again. 

"With a much older woman this time," he adds, which is a big relief. Maybe he is capable of ageing with dignity, after all. 

I send a reply asking, "How old?" just to double-check. 

"You're not listening to me again, Molly," says Greg. "Which is particularly stupid on this occasion, given what I'm trying to draw your attention to. This review goes on to say that politics shouldn't be allowed in books. If you're not careful, you'll end up as the Salman Rushdie of chick-lit and all copies of your book will be burned in public."

"What?" I say, nearly having a heart attack. "What the hell are you talking about? Why would my book be burned – other than by The Boss, if he found out about it? And why are you reading the reviews anyway? I told you I didn't want to know about them in case they were terrible."

I walk over to Greg's desk, feeling slightly sick, and peer over his shoulder at the screen. 

"There," he says, jabbing his finger at a review that gives my book one star. One star! I've never even given a product that failed to arrive one paltry star, just in case it was the Post Office's fault and not the seller's. 

"Oh, my God," I say, sitting down heavily on the corner of Greg's desk and knocking his coffee over a letter to the Treasury. " I am doomed. And all my efforts have been for nothing."

"Don't be so dramatic," says Greg, dabbing ineffectually at the coffee stain and then putting the letter into an envelope anyway. "I'm only reading the worst reviews, as they're by far the funniest. Quite a lot of people really like the book, though I'd be tempted to assume they were all your friends and family, if I didn't know you hadn't told anyone about the book. So I suppose even the good reviews must be genuine, however unlikely that might seem."

"Thanks for that resounding vote of confidence," I say, heading for the corridor. I need a cigarette – and urgently. 

Honestly, how stressful is this book publishing business? It's worse than working for an MP, and that is really saying something. As if to prove that point, I'm still sitting on the wall outside the office, smoking and fretting, when Mr Beales shows up, looking even madder than usual. His glasses make his eyes look almost as large as his enormous ears.

"Hear about the police giving that nutter his shotguns back?" he says, by way of introduction. "He only went and shot his family with them, didn't he?"

"Allegedly," I say. Innocent until proven guilty, after all. That's the defence I'll be using if there are any more calls to burn my book.

"Pfft," says Mr Beales. "The police are bloody idiots. Only responsible people should be allowed to hold licences for guns. Talking of which, mine needs renewing. I'll leave the form with you, for Andrew to sign when he's next in the office."

I'm still so stressed about the book, that I just take the form without making any attempt at protest, which seems to surprise Mr Beales even more than it does me. Then I make things worse by rushing inside the building so fast that I accidentally let the door slam in his face. (I know it's only Mr Beales, but I'm not normally rude, even to him. I don't know what's wrong with me, which is exactly what Greg says when I finally arrive back in our office after walking up one too many flights of stairs and then having to walk back down again.)

"What did Big Ears Beales want?" he says, closing the window he's obviously been using to spy on me while I've been gone.

"He wants Andrew to sign his shotgun licence renewal form," I say. "I didn't have it in me to argue with him about it today."

"Are you mad?" says Greg. "It's MPs and their staff not handling this sort of thing properly that gets politics a bad name in the first place."

"Well, clearly the public don't care one way or the other," I say, "if they think politics is so irrelevant to their lives it should even be banned from being in books." 

"Now you're sulking," says Greg. "And all because of one little review. Don't be so pathetic, Mol. Imagine what Andrew's Amazon ratings would be like, if MPs ever got reviews."

"Well, abysmal, of course," I say. "But that wouldn't bother The Boss, would it? His ego's indestructible. Mine isn't. Think of a way to cheer me up, quick, if you want me back to my usual responsible self."

It takes Greg quite some time to come up with something, but finally he says he thinks he may have succeeded. 

"See this?" he says, gesturing at the video clip I took of the machine Clays the printers used to deal with the pallets on which my books were stacked. "Imagine this being installed above the entrances to MPs' constituency offices."

"Ye-es," I say, not entirely sure where he's going with this, but quite intrigued all the same. 

 "Well, then the machine just sits there, minding its own business – almost invisibly," says Greg, "until someone like Mr Beales walks in."

"And then what happens?" I say. It's still far from obvious to me where this is heading, but then I'm still distracted by the fear of being at the centre of a book-burning controversy.

"The automatic nutter sensor activates, of course," says Greg. "The one I'm going to design to make the machine suddenly drop down over the heads of the usual suspects – at which point this will happen:"

I feel much more cheerful now I've envisaged Mr Beales being silenced by a whirling roll of opaque plastic. Who cares if my book ends up being burned? Or that Dad replies to my email asking how old his new, "much older" woman is with this highly-complimentary response: 

"About the same age as you are, Molly." 

I shall just get Greg to programme the nutter sensor to shrink-wrap annoying fathers, as well as shotgun-wielding constituents. Then almost all my problems will be over.

********************

PS Thank you  – sincerely  – to everyone who has read and reviewed the book so far. I'm genuinely grateful to you (as long as you didn't call for my book to be banned). 

Greg says I should start "shamelessly posting good reviews, like other authors do", so I may take his advice, if I can get over my grandfather's no boasting rule. If the whole thing becomes too nauseating, do feel free to tell me to stop.

Peel me a grape, or how Greg plans the saddest book launch ever known to man – or woman, i.e. me.

God, I'm so stressed. It's publication day, and here I am – not luxuriating in a bubble bath and ordering minions to peel me grapes – but sitting at my desk and listening to Greg telling me how useless at book marketing I am.

(I don't know why I assume other authors lie in baths with grapes flying at them in all directions on the days their books are published, but I just do. That's exactly the sort of delusional thinking that got me into this mess.)

Anyway, now Greg's going on about what he calls my "utter failure" to organise a launch.

"How the hell can I have a book launch, when you're the only person who knows about the bloody book?" I say. "It'd be even more poorly attended than whatshername's was - you know, that poet you were in love with last year?"

"The name of that poet, as you call her," says Greg, glaring at me,"was Jessica, as you very well know. And she was an exceedingly good poet – and masseuse. Her particular form of poetry was just too specialised for the masses to appreciate."

That's one way of putting it – and Jess could be an excellent masseuse, for all I know – but she also encouraged Greg to write everything in rhyme for the six months they were together, so I shall never ever forgive her for that. I doubt any of the usual suspects will, either.

Anyway, I decide not to wind Greg up any more – on the basis that it's unwise to fall out with the only person who'd still be talking to me if news about my book ever got out – so I make him a coffee without being asked, in an attempt to maximise his loyalty.

I even make Joan a cup, as faffing about in the kitchen stops me fretting, for all of five minutes. I've been on tenterhooks ever since I woke up this morning, especially whenever an email or a text arrives – in case it's from Max.

It'd be just my luck if he suddenly decided to take up reading, and went to Waterstones at lunchtime  to browse for books. (Then he'd be bound to notice mine and go ballistic, not least at the suggestion that he'd ever wear pyjamas like the ones on the cover.)

Or The Boss might spot a copy in WH Smith when he buys today's papers (to check he's made it into all of them), and then he'd sack me on the spot – and mean it, too. And what about if Johnny sees it – or Dad? Or Dinah? Oh, my God.

I'm having one of those anxiety-fuelled hot flushes now. Honestly, if I keep this up, I shall be in a right state by the end of the day, even if no-one's found me out by then.

"You already look like a madwoman, " says Greg, when I tell him why I'm so agitated. "You need to calm down, and enjoy the experience of being a published author."

I raise my eyebrows at the total impossibility of that suggestion, but Greg just sips his coffee (which he hasn't even bothered to thank me for), and then adds:

"I know, we'll hold an event ourselves – just me and you. I'll phone the Star of India and see if they've forgiven us yet."

He's the only one they need to forgive, but they haven't, anyway – somewhat unsurprisingly, given what happened last time we went – so now we have a booking at the Jewel of the Orient, for 7:00pm.

I love Chinese food, but I bet I'll be starving again by the time I get home – that is, if I can go home. I could be the first MPs' staffer to live at the YWCA, if Max is the one who catches me out.

"Doesn't the "YW" stand for 'young women'?" says Greg, who urgently needs a refresher course in handling the vulnerable.

I can't get him a place on one today, though, despite the fact that it's an emergency – so now I'm going to swig Joan's entire bottle of Rescue Remedy and then have a lengthy lie down.

I'll be on the sofa in the Oprah Room if anyone wants me – anyone who doesn't want to talk about the book, that is. You can tell them I've left the country.

Dave from the bindery does his thing, or "how my book was made, part two".

Thank God for that. I've sent The Boss off to the Silverdale Tracheotomy Club for the rest of the day so now I can get on with part two of how my book was made.

I'll have to send Mona (who runs the club) a giant box of chocolates for letting me foist Andrew upon her at such short notice. I don't think she's had a tracheotomy herself, so I hope I won't be committing an horrendous faux-pas, though I can't guarantee Andrew won't make up for that when he gets there.

Anyway, back to my arrival at Clays. After a lovely cup of tea, I was given a high-vis jacket - which would have sent Mr Beales into a semi-orgasmic state, but did absolutely nothing for me – and then it was off to see around the factory, with Dave from the bindery in charge of explaining everything. (This is where I get a bit hazy about the order of things. Greg says my brain's turning to mush, but I say it's because there was a lot to take in, all at once.)

The factory's quite noisy in places, but nothing like as noisy as I'd expected it to be, and it's immaculately well-ordered. We had to walk along a fairly narrow track painted onto the floor which is there to keep people from endangering themselves and others, (and which I kept forgetting about and stepping off.)

There were giant rolls of paper everywhere, like these behind Dave from the bindery. (You'd think he'd get fed up with being called that, but he genuinely didn't seem to mind.)

Anyway, first we went through a series of smaller areas, and looked at things like how a check is kept on the colours being used, which is done by an extremely fancy machine I've completely forgotten the name of, but which is pictured below:

Then it was on to seeing how the layout is done for the printing plates (This isn't the one for my book, but for one that mentions Sherlock Holmes, so it should really please all you Benedict Cumberbatch fans. I don't know what you see in him.)

Anyway, after that, we went out into the main part of the factory where the big print runs are done – which was where I started getting totally over-excited, when Dave (from the bindery) showed me this: 

I once took a simple book-binding class (thinking I might be able to change career and tell The Boss to stuff his job) but I hadn't realised that all books aren't made like hand-made ones. On a larger scale, the way they're put together is mind-bogglingly complex, especially to a layperson like me.  

"Here's your book now," said Dave, as we approached a big conveyor belt and I looked across to see long thin sections of the book rolling past me:

I didn't dare go anywhere near them as they were moving so fast, but Dave reached over and pulled one off, then put it into my hand. It was the front page of my book!

The sections were quite thick, by which I mean they contained a number of pages already fixed together. It obviously takes quite a lot of separate sections to create a whole book, though. (Please note that I am now saying, "obviously" like the expert I have so suddenly become.) God knows how they get all the sections in the right order.

"I'll turn this section over," said Dave, "and then you'll see." 

So he did – and so did I.

See the marks along the sides? Turns out they aren't just grubby splodges of ink, as I assumed, but have a very important purpose: to give a visual clue as to whether the book's being put together in the right order, once all the sections are put together. When they are, they form clear, diagonal lines, so any deviation should be obvious.

That's probably as clear as mud, but hopefully it'll become clearer as we continue our virtual tour – which is taking so long, I'd have another tea-break if I didn't think The Boss might come back at any moment after doing something stupid like suggesting they hold a singsong at the Tracheotomy Club. (He did that last time he went, but he never learns.)

I'm even more hazy about the next bit of the printing process but, somehow or other, the sections then end up on huge conveyor belts like the ones below, which are holding the sections of my book.

That's when things started to get really exciting (as if they weren't already exciting enough): I was about to see the last stages of Molly Bennett's random ramblings becoming a book. A book that might even be in a library one day!

"That's if the ConDems don't get rid of all the libraries before then," says Killjoy Greg. "They're having a bloody good go at it." 

I'm ignoring him, as I'd rather show you a video of what happened next. 

Someone must have pressed a button somewhere, because the line suddenly jerked into life, and everything started moving forwards towards where I was peering through a glass box-type construction that ran along the front of the line.

Dave (from the bindery) started explaining what was happening – as you can see in the clip that's coming up, but can't hear, so I'll have to explain instead, which won't be half as accurate. 

Anyway, the sections basically move forward along all those production lines you can see above – somehow or other getting put together in the right order – and then they shoot along sideways while glue (at an unbelievably-hot temperature) is applied along what is about to become the spine of the book. 

Then at some stage they get compressed, really hard, by someone wielding a big red tubular thing, which I was desperate to have a go at but didn't dare ask if I could.

Watch what happened when the next stage occurred: if you wait until I turn round, you'll see why I nearly fell over.

There was my book – with a cover on it for the first time – but it was a double book: with each half facing in opposite directions. (Does that make sense? Greg says not, but he's being awkward.)

There were so many of them, too. I couldn't believe it: thousands of "double" books all heading off to the next stage. (Warning, this one might make you feel dizzy: I know it did me.)

They were trimmed next, and finally, chopped in half with what Dave described as a "wood saw"...and then, all of a sudden, proper single books were moving along the production line.

"Look up there," said someone, and "Over there, too" said someone else.

There were books rolling along conveyor belts everywhere I looked: my book. 

I'm so short I couldn't really see them properly while they were overhead, but then they started rolling along a lower conveyor, at which point someone said, "Smile". This lunatic gurning was the result:

"What the hell are you watching, Molly?" says The Boss, who's just reappeared from nowhere. (Well, the Tracheotomy Club, actually, but you know what I mean.) I suppose I'd better go and find out what he's done to upset them now. 

The bit about what happened next at Clays will have to wait for yet another post – unless you all tell me to stop showing off now. My grandfather would have done that ages ago, so I wouldn't blame you at all.

In the meantime, thank you to everyone from HarperCollins and Clays, especially Dave from the bindery – who I think should take a bow:

The Boss, Wendi Deng and a serious shortage of lipstick. Oh, and how my book was made, part one.

Thank God for Wendi Deng and her (alleged) "thing" for Tony Blair.

Greg's so distracted by the note she apparently wrote about Tony's physical charms that he's spent all morning forging versions addressed to The Boss – which has kept him so quiet that I'm finally able to concentrate on writing a proper post about my book being printed.

"Quite right, too, Molly," says Greg, when I tell him that's what I'm doing. "You need to get on with marketing that book, otherwise you won't sell a single copy and then you'll be stuck working for Andrew – for the rest of your life."

Greg's tone makes that prospect sound even less pleasant than it normally would, but I'm not following his logic at all.

"Well, that's what you'll probably end up doing as well," I say. "So I don't know why you're going on at me about it."

Greg gestures at me to wait while he scrawls "Wendi" at the bottom of his latest draft love-letter, then walks up to me and shoves it against my lips. Hard, so he almost knocks me off my chair. When I push him away, he inspects the results, then rolls his eyes.

"You've worn all your lipstick off eating that bloody croissant," he says. "And when I expressly told you not to, too."

I didn't have any lipstick on in the first place, which shows how much notice anyone ever takes of me and, anyway, I needed to eat that croissant, fast. The Boss has just called to say he's on his way in.

"My mouth's nothing like the shape of Wendi Deng's," I say, "so Andrew wouldn't have been fooled by kisses I'd done, anyway. And talking of him, you still haven't answered my question about why you're warning me against being stuck here forever, when you're just as stuck as me."

"Well, that's where you're wrong, Molly," says Greg, drawing a large heart on the letter, then adding an arrow. "I have youth on my side, so the world remains my oyster. Whereas in your case..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but then he doesn't need to, does he? I seriously hope someone's going to buy this bloody book.

Anyway, talking about that, I can't believe how complicated books are to produce. Just wait 'til you see what the process involves! I couldn't believe my eyes.

So, without further ado: here is how a book is made. My book, in fact. (I may have got the various processes a bit out of order, though, so don't even think about trying this at home. I was a bit over-excited, which is not a feeling with which I'm over-familiar, so the adrenalin went straight to my head.)

To re-cap, the printing was done at Clays, which is in Bungay, in Suffolk (though only just across the border from Norfolk, which apparently matters a lot). 

It employs hundreds of people, and is miles bigger than I realised. It's also been responsible for printing the books of some very important people (obviously not including me), and you realise this as soon as you walk into the building and are confronted by this wall of famous names:

I shouldn't think my name will ever be added to the wall but, even so, I was treated as if I was pretty famous myself, despite what I looked like – and there were some very important people from Clays and HarperCollins there to greet me. They were nice people as well, which is much more important than being important, as I'm always trying to tell The Boss. 

Here are some of them, anyway:

(Left to right: Dave from the bindery, of whom more later; Vicky Ellis, Account Director at Clays; Steve Jones, Account Controller at Clays and Charles Light, Production Director at Avon/HarperFiction at HarperCollins.)

I didn't get to talk to Steve Jones much, which I feel a bit bad about as we only met very briefly and I got distracted when I was introduced to him, but the others all came round the factory with me. 

Charles Light was rather handsome (though don't tell him I said that), and Vicky Ellis was absolutely lovely – but the star of this show's going to be Dave from the bindery, of whom much more in part two. 

I'm doing this in two parts because I'm thinking of your eyes, which will cross if I write one very long post, and anyway, The Boss has just arrived, so now I've got to go and pretend to listen to one of his entirely pointless "briefings", while Greg hides the Wendi Deng love-letters somewhere safe. 

He's refusing to give them to Andrew until he's found someone in the building who's wearing lipstick. Good luck with that, seeing as they're all men apart from Joan – and I shouldn't think she's ever worn lipstick in her life. It would ruin her resemblance to the bus driver from South Park, which would be a tragedy as far as I'm concerned. 

Some excitement at last! (Not THAT kind of excitement – don't be daft.)

"How the hell did you manage that?" says Greg, yesterday morning, when I tell him that I've succeeded in persuading The Boss to give me the rest of the day off.

"The usual tactic," I say. "I appealed to his ego."

Greg nods, as if that makes perfect sense: which it does. (An MP's ego might as well be a Trojan horse, given how easy it is to make use of it for your own purposes. Jeremy Paxman should try it sometime.)

Anyway, then Greg unwraps the first of the day's Twixes, and starts munching, while looking very thoughtful.

"But how did you link you going to see your book being printed to Andrew's ego?" he says, after a few minutes of highly-concentrated chewing. "That must have taken some doing – especially as Andrew doesn't even know you've written a book."

"And you will never tell him," I say, "or you are dead. And, anyway, it was easy. I just told him I'd been invited to see a book being printed, by a famous company that employs an awful lot of people, and prints millions of books a year. Including things like MPs' autobiographies."

"That last bit was genius," says Greg, which I'm rather inclined to agree with, though I don't get time to say so, as then Andrew marches into the office and starts yelling about how late his train from London was last night. I decide now would be a very good time to head for the railway station myself.

"Tell them their bloody trains are crap when you get there," shouts The Boss, as I grab my coat and make for the door.

I don't, of course, as there's no point insulting people when you don't need to, especially not when my train ends up running on time. Andrew's right about how bad the tea from the buffet car is, though, but I get another, much nicer cup once I arrive at Clays of Bungay, which is somewhere in Suffolk, I think..or is it Norfolk? It's very flat around there, anyway, and the skies are huge.

Clays prints J.K. Rowling's books, as well as other well-known writers', so I don't know why they're being so nice to someone as unimportant as me. I feel a bit of a fraud being there at all, so I stand outside for ages trying to get up the nerve to go inside, as you can see from how tense I look in the photo I persuaded a passing stranger to take by pretending to be a book-loving tourist.

Greg says I have to include it here, even though my smile is "obviously fake".

"Photos are far more interesting to readers than you wittering on interminably about politics, panic attacks and the usual suspects, Molly," he adds, though I'm not convinced he means pictures of me, especially not since I got my new glasses.

(Max chose those, because he said they were "practical", but now I've seen how bad they look, I realise I should have ignored him. Like Paxman, he will overlook the importance of ego.)

Anyway, once I do finally walk into the building, everyone's very kind, and I get to spend hours wandering around, being shown all the stages a book goes through during its printing process – which is fascinating.

So fascinating, in fact, that it deserves a blog post of its own, so I shall write one as soon as Greg stops looking over my shoulder – but, in the meantime, suffice it to say that I had no idea how complex the construction of a book could be. Now I know, I think we should all be buying lots more of them than we currently do.

Except for MP's autobiographies, of course. There are already far more than enough of those, especially now that Andrew's thinking of writing one.

One achievement, after all...a book-shaped one. Cue TOTAL PANIC, and an unusually-bad bout of hiccups.

Is that actually how you spell hiccups, or should it be "hiccoughs"? God knows. (I don't.)

Honestly, my mind's going, what with all this stressful festive stuff and then trying to review my achievements for 2013, which resulted in the depressing conclusion that I hadn't achieved anything at all.

Anyway, I've just realised that I was wrong, for once – because I have actually achieved something this year: the book you've all been nagging me to write. (Never say I don't have a compulsion to give people what they want: it's pathetic.)

I've used a pseudonym – obviously. I'm not that stupid, no matter what the usual suspects think, but  Greg says I'm mad to risk it, even so. 

"Don't worry so much," I say, practising my belated New Year's resolution not to worry so much myself. "I have the perfect get-myself-out-of-book-related-trouble plan."

"What the hell is that?" says Greg, looking totally unconvinced.

"To deny the connection with Polly James until I'm blue in the face, if anyone ever mentions it to The Boss," I say. 

Then I march off to the kitchen to make myself a congratulatory cup of coffee. 

It's only while I'm waiting for the kettle to boil, that I think more deeply about what I've just said: that I'm going to deny the connection with Polly James until I'm blue in the face, if anyone ever mentions it to The Boss...

Or to Max?

Or to Johnny?

Or to...

OH, DEAR GOD! What have I done?

.....

.....

Okay, I've got a grip now, thanks mainly to the dregs of Igor's Christmas vodka. A book's supposed to be a reason to celebrate, isn't it, not an excuse for throwing yourself off the nearest tall building in a state of panic? And I'm probably supposed to want people to buy and read it, not pray they won't  – so here goes with the grand reveal:

If, for some unknown reason, you'd like to buy a copy, here's one of the places you can...

And here's more information, via Goodreads. Please be kind if and when you write a review. Working for The Boss is quite traumatic enough. Bad reviews might finish me off.

Review of this year's achievements. (This won't take long, so I'm doing it at work.)

Molly Bennett's Achievements in 2013

Um.

Okay, just give me a minute...

Um...

Ah...

Oh, bloody hell. I'm going to have to seek advice. 

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...