Playing Dead In A World Gone Madder Than Usual.

Never, ever send Greg a supposedly-amusing video, that's all I can say. The end result just isn't worth it.

"Great clip you emailed me of that dog pretending to die, Mol," he says, when he arrives this morning. "Watch this!"

Then his bones appear to turn to jelly, and he collapses on the spot. Admittedly he doesn't nail the landing, but it's a pretty impressive display, even so.

"Very good," I say. "Have you spent much time practising?"

"Hours," he says. "My blind date stood me up last night, so learning how to play dead seemed a good way to fill the time. Offers endless possibilities in the workplace, too - once I've stopped losing my spatial awareness as I go down, that is."

"Possibilities like what?" I say, before I work it out for myself: excruciatingly boring constituent - emergency collapse of caseworker. Fan-bloody-tastic.

"I'll teach you how to do it," says Greg. "For a fee. Payable in gin and general slavery."

I don't have time to learn the technique, though, as the phones are so busy - presumably because callers have realised that Recess has now finished, and that The Boss won't be answering the phone himself any more. Which would usually mean that they could realistically expect a sensible reply to their queries, but I'm not doing much better than Andrew today. There are some very tricky questions indeed.

First off, Richard Levinson wants to know why the United Nations' interpretation of urgent isn't the same as ordinary people's; and then Pete Carew calls to ask whether Andrew's going to try to make political capital from the freezing of Colonel Gaddafi's assets.

"He bloody well should," he says. "Seeing as we'd have a hard time freezing the Coalition's assets in a revolution, wouldn't we? Half the ministers have their money stashed off-shore."

"Good point," I say. "Though I don't see much sign of the UK revolting at the moment, even though some of its inhabitants undoubtedly are. Revolting, that is."

"Mol-ly," says Pete, in a warning voice that makes me feel about five years old. "Those are Andrew's constituents you're talking about."

Honestly, I have no idea what is wrong with Pete. The concept of black humour entirely escapes him - which suggests that he doesn't meet as many of the people he represents as he should.

No wonder The Boss is always complaining that local councillors pass their most difficult cases straight to us instead of first trying to deal with them themselves. If they had to manage the usual suspects, they'd soon realise it's essential to extract every shred of humour you can get from the experience - if you're to avoid going stark, staring mad yourself.

I don't say any of this to Pete, though, as he hasn't yet forgiven me for suggesting that not every single council worker is indispensable, and still refers to me as a fascist whenever he gets the chance. Or so Greg tells me, anyway - Pete doesn't say it to my face. He's a man after Peter Mandelson's heart.

Bearing this in mind, I decide I'd better adopt the precautionary principle, so I bite my lip and act professional - unlike a certain repeatedly-collapsing colleague that I can see out of the corner of my eye. I should never have sent Greg that bloody clip.

"Anything else I can help you with, Pete?" I say. "If not, I'll ring off, if you don't mind. We're rather busy today, seeing as we couldn't get much done during Recess."

"Andrew there all last week, was he?" says Pete. "You should have told him to go home and do some decorating."

"Trish has just had their whole house done up," I say. "And it looks quite nice to me. What do you think's wrong with it?"

"Well, they should have thought twice before using Osborne and Little wallpaper," he says. "Shouldn't they? Though I bet you bloody Osborne's pleased. Laughing all the way to the bank, he'll be."

Honestly, there's no end to the things that an MP needs to consider, is there? It's a mad world when your choice of wallpaper becomes a political act. (Unless you're Derry Irvine, of course - but the less said about that debacle the better. Even the word "Pugin" causes a collective Labour Party shudder.)

But it's not just wallpaper that's making it feel like a mad world today. What's really insane is that Miss Chambers actually seems to have a genuine complaint - for once.

"It's about the Council," she says, slightly more quietly than usual - though Greg can still hear her from where he's standing in the doorway between our offices. He pulls a face, scribbles something on the back of a Council Planning Committee report, and then throws it at me.

"Read it," he mouths, so I do - while also trying to listen to Miss C, who's becoming more agitated by the second.

Greg's scrawl says,

"Emergency signal. When you can't take it any more, roll your eyes, and I'll collapse. Very noisily, so you can excuse yourself and hang up."

This seems like a very good plan, so I nod at him, while Miss Chambers continues to explain that she's had enough of the Housing Department's Repairs Service.

"What exactly is the problem, then?" I say. "Are they actually refusing to do the repair?"

"No," she says. "But they won't make a bloody appointment to do it. They just turn up and, if you're not in, then they leave a card and bugger off. Then you have to report the repair all over again and wait weeks for their next visit. And they don't make an appointment for that one, either."

This doesn't seem to make any sense at all, so I double-check. This is Miss Chambers I'm talking to, after all.

"So, let me get this straight - you're saying they don't actually make any appointments; that they just turn up and expect tenants to be in, as if by magic?"

"No," says Miss C. "I mean, yes. They say that that's their system."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," I say. "That's not a system, that's a -"

I'm interrupted by a loud crash, which suggests that I am not as conscious of my involuntary facial expressions as I might have expected. Though I'm a lot more conscious than Greg is, after he hit his head on the door-frame.

Let's just say that explaining the concept of playing dead is not as much fun as it sounds. Not in A&E on a busy Monday afternoon. And definitely not when they ask for details of your injured colleague's occupation.

A Highly-Incompetent Ninja Pays The Price.

Oh, great. Max and I go into town, more for a wander than to shop, as we are broke until payday. We leave Connie and Josh at home, arguing desultorily about whether university is a waste of time.

Max says that maybe we should try and arrange something for next weekend, and suggests we ask David and Susie if we can borrow their holiday cottage. Just the two of us. I have no idea what brought this on, but I'm thrilled - especially as it is entirely Max's own idea, and not the result of furious hinting.

If anything is likely to result in sex, this is it. Being twenty miles away from the kids would mean there'd be no possibility of being interrupted by one of them wanting us to rule on a stupid argument.

"Phone David now," I say. "Quick, before you change your mind!"

"Why would I change my mind?" says Max.

"Oh, I don't know. But something always crops up and then we end up doing nothing," I say. Max gives me a hug and picks up his phone.

David and Susie must be out on the razzle somewhere, as David's phone goes straight to answerphone. Max is about to hang up, but after a lot of nudging from me, he leaves a message asking if we can borrow the house. Yaay! I am so happy I am almost skipping as we start to make our way home. When we come out on the other side of the underpass, Max's phone rings. God, can that be David, already?

"You what?" says Max. There is a barely discernable note of panic in his voice. "He's done what?"

I stick my head up close to his, and can just make out Connie's voice - which is pitched rather higher than usual.

"Well, don't move him," says Max. "We're almost home." He breaks into a run. I follow suit - but he's too fast for me. When I get inside the house, Josh is lying on the floor, half inside the living room and half in the hall. He looks distinctly green, and is uncharacteristically quiet. Max is examining him.

"So what happened, Con?" he says.

"He was getting really stroppy about students, so I told him to piss off and leave me alone," says Connie.

"And?" Max is not looking amused.

"Well, he wouldn't." Connie's chin is sticking out - as it always does when she feels under attack.

"You thumped me," says Josh. (Thank God for that - at least he's capable of speech.)

"Not hard! And anyway, it was your bloody fault what happened." Connie is furious.

"Look," says Max, in a very uncharacteristically assertive way, "Josh's arm is blue - so we need to get him to A&E. I'll get the car."

As he heads for the door, I say, "What d'you think he's done?"

"I think he could have broken his arm and the bone might be cutting into his blood supply."

"Oh Christ," I say, and sit down on the stairs.

"Get his coat and a blanket, and I'll bring the car round," says Max. "And you can stay here while I take him to the hospital. You'll just wind him up if you come, 'cause you look so damned worried."

Gah. I deal with stressful situations every day of the week - why does my husband think I am useless in an emergency?

"I'm coming," I say. "Connie, you can cook dinner while we're gone. I'll phone you when we know what's wrong."

I'm not sure, but I could swear Connie says, "Serves him right," as Max and I manhandle Josh to the car.

We wait for hours in A&E. Josh perks up a bit while he's waiting, but he won't tell us any more about what happened. He sits there muttering,

"Connie's just so f*cking annoying."

He finally gets to see a doctor, who orders an X-Ray, but not before he has asked Josh to explain how the accident happened. Max and I look at him expectantly. Josh says nothing, and just hangs his head.

"Go on, tell him," says Max. "We're all waiting to hear this."

"Well, it's my sister, you see," Josh says to the doctor. "She's just really, really annoying."

"And?" says the doctor.

"She wanted me to go away, so she thumped me."

"What - hard enough to break your arm?" says the doctor. "What is she, some sort of prize-fighter?"

"No-o," says Josh. "I tried to kick her back -"

"Ah," says Max. "What sort of kick, exactly?"

"Well, a roundhouse kick, of course," says Josh, the family ninja.

"So why are you here in A&E with a possibly broken arm, when you were the one who kicked your sister?" says the doctor.

"I missed," says Josh. Very quietly. I'll give the doctor his due, he didn't laugh out loud. Though I'm pretty sure he sniggered.


We finally get home really late. Josh's arm is in a sling to support it. It's not broken, but very badly bruised. The doctor says he has probably temporarily damaged some of the nerves and the blood vessels have been affected, hence the attractive blue colour. Connie gives him a big hug, which makes him wince, and then she says,

"How did you tell them you did it, bro?"

"Told 'em I bloody well kicked you," says Josh.

"And that you missed and fell over - onto your own arm?" says Connie. She's enjoying this far too much - but then so am I.

"I suppose so," says Josh. "Now can you get me a drink? You're going to have to wait on me until my arm's better. I'd better phone you on my mobile whenever I need something."

That wipes the smile off Connie's face pretty effectively. And mine, once it occurs to me that we can't possibly leave these two alone while we have a dirty weekend. They'd probably murder each other, through incompetence, if nothing else. Bang goes my chance of rejuvenating my sex-life. I do wish I'd seen Josh's flying kick, though. Funniest thing that's happened all week.