The Dangers Of Russian Vodka, And A Slightly-Drunken Canary With Access To Email

Everyone's in such a good mood today! Well, everyone apart from the constituents. It's very unnerving.

In the morning, Max gives me a cuddle and apologises for his PMT comment.

"I was just being immature," he says, as he gives me an exaggerated kiss on the cheek.

"Humph," I say. (I am not being an elephant, just playing hard to get.)

"Well, I am your toy-boy, after all."

Oh, honestly. A six-month age gap and you never hear the last of it. Which reminds me, I suppose I really must start planning Max's surprise birthday party. Which is bound to be better than mine was, if only because I don't intend to tell him about it in advance.

Unlike my husband, I understand the concept of surprise - which will include not inviting Annoying Ellen if I can get away with it, though I'm not quite sure how I'm going to make that look like an oversight. She'll be round at the first sniff of alcohol, anyway.

Talking of alcohol, I arrive at work to find that Igor has dropped off a bottle of vodka to warm us all up. Greg has already tested it for purity, or so he says.

"Can't be too careful, Mol. You are lucky I am prepared to risk my life as the office canary."

"I don't think canaries were expected to drink vodka," I say.

"You're so anal," says Greg, as he pours another shot "just to be on the safe side."

When he tells me that Vicky has gone to London to meet up with The Boss, I decide to join him in a celebratory drink. A whole day free from eye-rolling, hair-flicking and supercilious comments about how unkindly life is treating my face! It feels as if it's my birthday.

The vodka even helps to dull the volume of Miss Chambers's voice, when she phones to say that the Police have stolen the teapot that she inherited from her mother, during their last visit to investigate her latest allegation: that her neighbours have started running a brothel.

She doesn't explain why any police officer would want a teapot in the guise of a Cornish cottage, or whether the neighbours were exonerated from operating Northwick's answer to a chicken ranch; and I don't ask. Unnecessary questions are inadvisable when your hearing's at risk.

Greg offers me a refill as soon as he hears Miss Chambers' distinctive shriek echoing around the office, but I refuse, just in case the vodka affects my judgement - or my reaction time. (It's vital to be able to end the call the moment that the volume begins to cause dizziness.)

This turns out to have been a very wise decision, as I need all my wits about me when Johnny emails me just after I have turned off the phones at the end of the day. He says that he's sorry for his PMT comment, but that he's "losing patience" with me.

When I ask why, he says that I am teasing him. Me? A tease? I wouldn't have the faintest idea where to start - as per the Ann Summers debacle - but he insists that this is exactly what I'm doing, by refusing to commit to another meeting.

"Well, I'm not sure," I say. Time to bite the bullet. "I can't help thinking that maybe we should both make a bit more effort to salvage our marriages first. Don't you?"

But it seems Johnny disagrees:

"It's not a job, being married," he says. "Is it really bloody worth it when you have to work at it?"

Of course it's a job. And I bet his kids would think it was worth it, even if he doesn't. Is he on another planet, keeping Max's Mormon friends company, or something?

I don't mention them in my next email, though it quickly becomes obvious that I still haven't explained myself properly when Johnny replies, and sends me on a frantic search for the vodka bottle:

"It's not as if you can help who you fall in love with."

Now I've got raging hiccups, no idea how to answer him, and I'm expecting to keel over like a canary any minute - admittedly through hyperventilation rather than gas. It's much less confusing when people aren't being nice to you.

A Radical Removal Of Hair. Painless And Effective, If A Little Uncontrollable.

I have decided to do something about all this facial hair. As I can't afford to go to a beauty salon, and can't see well enough to wield tweezers with any degree of accuracy, I have opted for a different solution. A springy wand thing, called a Tweeze-ease or something like that.

It's hideous, like a small, super-thin Slinky with two lurid plastic end pieces - think Ann Summers - and I have no idea how it's supposed to work. This doesn't faze me, though: don't forget I have research skills at least as good as Carlotta's.

I can't do anything about it while there are other people in the house, though. You have to make an effort to retain some mystery, after all - so I wait for Sam and Max to leave for the pub at lunchtime, then find an instruction video on YouTube and start watching it. Luckily, Josh has already left for work, so he can't suddenly walk in and start taking the p*ss either. Or filming me for another episode of "24......Minutes."

I discover that the wand is based on the principle of threading. Which I also have no idea how to do. But there's no substitute for learning on the job, so I get on with it, regardless. An hour later, my face is as bald as a baby's bottom. Somewhat surprisingly, this proves not to be an entirely good thing.

In retrospect, I don't think your face is supposed to be completely hairless. It feels very odd indeed and I definitely shouldn't have tried to use the wand between my eyebrows. Now I look astonished, probably at the fact that one eyebrow is only half as long as the other. And I seem to be developing blotches all over the place.

It'd be just my luck to be allergic to nickel - would serve me right for being too mean to pay for the genuine Epicare wand, which I think is made of stainless steel, and costs about £12.00. Instead - and in the spirit of economy - I opted for a half-priced imitation from eBay, which was no doubt made in a Chinese sweatshop from a metal composite with a higher than average lead content. I'll probably get blood poisoning to go with the blotches.

There's another downside too, in that my wrinkles seem a lot deeper now that they have lost their camouflage of hair, but hopefully Max will fail to notice this. At least when he next strokes my face, I won't have to bat his hand away like I usually do - in case he goes against the direction of hair growth, recoils in horror and says, "What on earth is that?"

So much for optimism. When Max and Sam stagger back in from the pub, they drop like drunken stones onto the sofa, which is already close to collapse. I wish I could get someone to fix that! Maybe I should ask Mrs Bloom to persuade Max that this too is an emergency. When I unwisely mention this brilliant idea, Max glares at me. Then his (bloodshot) eyes widen.

"What the hell's the matter with your face?" he says."You got measles or something?"

I give up. I really do. Men have no idea how lucky they are that they are supposed to have facial hair. Not only are they spared all this faffing about, but it also hides a multitude of sins. I'm sure Max's jowls would look much worse than mine, if only his designer stubble didn't disguise them.

Even the names for male characteristics sound better than women's. Designer stubble versus excess facial hair. Which would you opt for? At the risk of sounding like Connie, life is very unfair sometimes.

A New Leader And I Am Out Of My Depth In A Sea Of Vibrating Plastic.

I have never felt such an idiot in my life. And I am never going to Ann Summers again, either. What on earth is all that stuff for?

Everything's made of that nasty luminous plastic, like those horrible toys that the kids always insisted on putting on their Christmas lists. I used to ignore their pleas and get something wooden and tasteful from the Early Learning Centre instead, but I'm not sure what the Brio equivalent of the sex world is.

After Greg's texted me the leadership result, I am filled with the spirit of change. I realise that I need to take a new direction too, so I decide to surprise Max with something to liven up our sex life. Huh, talk about best-laid plans and all that.

I lurk around outside the shop for a while, and then make a dash for it when I think no-one is looking. As soon as I walk in, I am confronted by revolting-looking stuff - tons of it. I get quite dizzy. No wonder the psychologists say we're becoming stressed by having too much choice. Not to mention a shortage of clear instructions.

I do know what some of it is for - I'm not totally stupid - but there's a whole load of things that I have no idea what you're supposed to do with. This is very unnerving: I used to have my finger on the pulse! Now I feel like someone who is drowning, not waving.

To add insult to injury, who do I see at the counter when I approach the assistant for advice? Only Mr and Mrs Bloody Beales. Oh yuck.

How depressing is it that even Mr Beales has a better sex-life than me, judging by how much his carrier bag is bulging? I can't bear to think about it, especially as he actually winks at me as he walks out. My bowels are still clenching now.

The whole day is about sex in one way or another. And not in a good way, either. Dinah phones as I am trying to watch the X-Factor.

"It gets worse," she says.

"What does?" I have no idea what she's on about. Or what Louis Walsh means either, for that matter. He's so annoying. And that contestant is obviously a usual suspect. I can always tell the nutters before they even start to sing.

"P-ns nm," says Dinah. Or something like that. The Twilight Zone theme is a bit distracting.

"What did you say, Di?"

"Listen, for God's sake. Porn's name. Or names. Plural."

I forget to answer. Well, I don't - but with Dinah, you never know if a pause indicates your turn to speak, or whether she's just stopping to breathe in or light a cigarette.

"Wake up, Molly! Didn't you hear what I said?'

"Erm, yes. Double-barrelled. Porn," I say. This creates a thoroughly unpleasant image of Mr and Mrs Beales in the act, not for the first time today.

"Yes - guess what her other name is?" says Dinah. "I've just got off the phone to Dad. He's back."

"I don't know, Dinah. Why do I always have to guess? Can't you just tell me? It's been a bad day."

I might as well give up watching the X-Factor. I missed it last week too, due to the stupid TV aerial at David and Susie's cottage.

"Well, you've spoiled it now," says Dinah. "But I might as well tell you anyway. It's Poon!"

"Now you're really making it up," I say. "Don't be ridiculous. Poon? As in Poon-Tang?"

Josh looks up and makes a shocked face. Sometimes I'm sure he thinks I know nothing and that he is the product of an immaculate conception. Mind you, after the depths of my ignorance have been revealed by the Ann Summers experience, he may have a point.

"Yes, as in Poon-Tang," says Dinah. "Porn-Poon. That's our father's girlfriend's name. And I am not telling you anything else, as you are obviously not listening. Phone me when you can be bothered to give this the attention it deserves."

Seems to me that I've given this whole porn thing far too much attention today already. With very little reward, as far as I can see. I do hope the Party's attempt to change is going to be a lot more successful than mine. Maybe I should ask Ed what he suggests I buy.

Epidemic Alert, And Why Ann Summers Is Probably Not For Me.

God, there must be trends in diagnoses. Today almost every other caller seems to have a child with ADHD. In between, there are two people who have been newly-diagnosed with bi-polar illness. What the hell is going on? Ten years ago, I rarely heard either of these conditions mentioned by constituents, but now both seem to have become all the rage. Either that, or we are in the midst of two epidemics, and the Government should probably be paying attention. Or maybe it's the Government's fault. It's a bit bi-polar itself, at the moment.

Greg doesn't believe in ADHD. He calls it "bad parenting syndrome." I'm inclined to think he may have a point if today is anything to go by. Mrs Engleby wants more done to sort out her son, who's already on Ritalin, and she also wants more money to do it with.

She swears compulsively and with perfect enunciation, but the rest of her conversation is virtually unintelligible, partly due to being interrupted every few seconds by shouted threats presumably directed at her son. At least, I hope they were directed at him. She could just as easily have meant me, now I come to think about it. I'd be running around screaming and kicking things, too, if I was little Kevin and had to live with that woman.

I blame it on all the junk food. Blue Smarties used to send Josh completely mad when he was little. I'm starting to wonder if Greg's been eating them today, as he's certainly having trouble concentrating on anything, other than where the hell his conference pass has got to. I keep trying to reassure him that the organisers often leave it 'til the last minute to send them out, but he's getting really paranoid about it. I think he'd do better to be worrying about how on earth he's going to manage The Boss while they're there.

Johnny's not concentrating either, judging by the number of emails he sends me today. He's trying to persuade me to meet him again next month, and says he's willing to come all the way to Northwick again too, as long as I take charge of his hotel booking - so that he doesn't end up with a crummy single room this time. I am not his bloody PA! Maybe he'd like me to remember his wedding anniversary and arrange to send flowers to his wife while I'm at it. Anyway, I'm not at all sure that I want to carry on with this affair. If an affair is what it is - it probably doesn't count unless there's at least some sex involved.

I can't help feeling that maybe I should take a trip to Ann Summers instead, and buy something that Max will find impossible to resist. Maybe that would save our marriage, and then I'd know what to do about Johnny.

The trouble is that I'd feel such an idiot wearing "sexy clothing" that I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face, even if Max didn't fall over laughing. Wouldn't putting on a nurse's outfit, or something with peepholes all over the place be tantamount to wearing a sign begging for sex, as well? I don't think it would do much for my self-respect, either, though maybe I'm just losing my sense of humour.

I realise that I don't know what the hell I want from one minute to the next, so I decide that I am going to spend the evening thinking seriously about my life in an effort to sort myself out. I'd hoped to do this during last week's holiday, but what with being wobbled every five minutes, I didn't get very far. I don't make any progress tonight either, as Pat calls just after I get home - to tell me she has just been told that she may be bi-polar. Good God, another one. It must be catching.

She sounds elated, as if someone has awarded her a badge of honour - but there's nothing wrong with Pat other than what used to be called being a "moody bugger." Her behaviour is totally unlike that of the constituents I know who were diagnosed as manic depressive years ago, and whose illnesses can be both florid and highly frightening. Also, she doesn't seem worried about it at all.

When I question her reaction, it turns out that Pat really is pleased - as she says that being bi-polar finally explains why her love-life is always such a car-crash. It bloody doesn't. Illness has nothing to do with it. She is just fatally attracted to complete tossers, and acts like a doormat around them. She always has. But she's so chuffed with her putative diagnosis that it seems curmudgeonly to argue, though I have no idea what am I supposed to say in response - congratulations?

Being reminded - at length - of Pat's catastrophic relationship history makes me even less keen to buy a peephole bra and crotchless panties. I bet she owns Anne Summers' entire back catalogue, and a fat lot of good it's done her so far.

Imagine if, as soon as I've finished the washing up, I was to go and get changed into a latex dress or a French maid's outfit, and pounce on Max. He'd think I'd become bi-polar and insist on taking me to the Walk-In Centre immediately. That's if his attention could be persuaded to wander from the TV in the first place. Maybe I should try feeding him blue Smarties.