A Belated Summary of Josh's Very Bad Day.

It's A-level results day. Josh has been up all night worrying, and he looks very twitchy when I see him before I go to work. I think it's just occurred to him that Robbie and the others may have been being economical with the truth when they told him that they weren't doing any work for their exams, as apparently they weren't half as stressed as he was when he spoke to them late last night. I kept telling him that they were talking bullshit and that of course they were studying at least some of the time, but Josh never listens to me. Idiot.

I make him promise to phone me at work as soon as he gets his results. He nods, but doesn't say anything. I'm not used to Josh not having a witty response at the ready, so it's very unnerving. I really wish it wasn't seen to be so uncool to work hard and to succeed at state schools, especially for boys.

Mind you, Connie had a really hard time at school, too. After her first year, we had to formally request that she not be given any more "Awards for Achievement" in class, just so she wouldn't get bullied every time it happened. It's mad, isn't it? Although I do remember thinking that she might not have got so many certificates, if her spelling hadn't been so vastly superior to that of many of her teachers.

Anyway, I'm so busy fretting about Josh when I get to work that my concentration is shot, so I have to reverse my usual prioritising system and deal with the usual suspects' non-issues first, instead of last as is my usual practice. I figure that, if I screw up before I hear from Josh, at least it won't actually matter much, seeing as US* cases are either imaginary or totally ludicrous anyway.

Greg really isn't helping, though. He keeps winding me up, saying that I am a failure as a parent, and that    Josh is going to end up as a Neet*, who'll still be living off me when he's thirty. Considering that Greg is almost thirty himself, and still lives with his mummy, I'm not amused. Wearing Armani ties does not signify independence in my opinion.

Every time the phone rings, I think it's Josh - when of course it's always Miss Bloody Chambers. She almost breaks the sound barrier today.

"British Gas, " she screams. "I sent you a copy of the bill - what have you done about that overcharge?"

"If you stop shouting at me, I'll be able to tell you," I say.

"I'm not shouting," she says. Not now she isn't, thank God.

"Right, then - look at your copy of the bill," I say. "That £13.48 that you said was an overcharge?"

"It is an overcharge. How many times do I bloody well have to tell you people?" Her volume's increasing again. Godsake. I take a deep breath, then say,

"It is not an overcharge. It is a credit."

"What do you mean?" Up another few decibels. Where are the HSE* when you need them?

"They've given you some money back," I say. "That's why it says 'credit' on the bill. Okay?"

"Well, why the hell didn't they say so?" she shrieks, and slams the phone down.

If I had the time, I'd learn voodoo and spend every evening sticking pins into effigies of that bloody woman. But it seems she hasn't even finished yet - the phone rings again.

"Yes?" I say, cautiously.

"Hurrm."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Is Miss Chambers playing sound games now? Full volume, then whispering?

"Mum." It's Josh. A very quiet Josh. Oh God.

"How did you do, darling?" My voice is so bright and brittle, it even manages to annoy me.

"Crap."

"What do you mean, crap? It can't all be bad, can it?"

"Well, I got a D in Film Studies," says Josh, as if that is meaningless. Which it could be - what exactly is Film Studies?

"Oh, well - that's not a terribly important subject, is it?" I say. "How did you do in the other two?"

"Two U's," says Josh. "Bye, Mum. And sorry."

Oh my God. I try phoning Josh back, but he doesn't answer, so I text Robbie:

"Hi Robbie - is Josh with you? And how did you do in your A-levels?"

Robbie's reply comes straight back:

"Hello, Mrs B. Josh went home - had a headache. I got two A's and a C :-)"

I have absolutely no idea what I am going to say to Josh when I get home. It's not that I think university is a guarantee of success - I'm living proof that that's not the case, after all -  but there are no bloody jobs for under-25s, and no-one's going to be offering apprenticeships in this economic climate. I suppose he could always become a stand-up, but I don't think he's going to appreciate that suggestion at the moment.

I walk very, very slowly all the way home, and when I finally get there, am very tempted to turn around and head off to Sainsburys or something - anything rather than to have to go inside. But Connie's obviously been on look-out, and spots me. She opens the front door before I can make my escape. She is beaming.

"Mum, Josh failed almost everything. What a muppet!"

Honestly, if there were exams in sibling rivalry, both my kids would have doctorates. Now I have to find a way to convince Josh that there is more to life than academic success - without making Connie feel that  I don't value her achievements in that field. Bloody hell - sometimes parenting is much closer to the practice of politics than is generally appreciated.

*US - usual suspect(s) - shorthand for barking mad and a pain in the arse, as usual.
*Neet - Not in Education, Employment or Training, i.e. a write-off.
*HSE - responsible for safety in the workplace, allegedly.

Men. Which should be said out loud in tones of deep disgust.

I feel like shit and seem to have lost my sense of humour entirely. When Max finally wakes up, he staggers into the kitchen and cooks an enormous fry-up, which seems to remove any trace of a hangover. There is no justice. I can't even face eating anything.

Then the phone rings. It is Ellen's toyboy-in-chief, who says he wants his jacket back. Apparently, Connie picked up his jacket by mistake, during our hasty flight from the party last night. He sounds less than happy to have discovered that he is now the not-so-proud possessor of Max's Primark jacket, while we have an Armani version hanging in our hallway. Actually, they don't look any different to me, but I daren't say that.

After Connie's gone out to return the jacket, Max looks at me and says,

"What's up? Why are you being so snotty?"

What's up? What's up? Where do I start?

"I should've thought you'd know what is bloody well up," I say.

"Haven't got a clue." Max looks genuinely perplexed. "What've I done?"

"Well, let me see - how can I sum it up for you?" I am so angry that I can barely speak. "Oh, yes - that's right. You moved in on Ellen in front of everyone, including me. And your daughter."

"I did what?" Max looks like he thinks I'm joking.

"And then you kissed her. On the neck."

'I didn't!" Max starts laughing. Bad move.

"Er, yes - you did, Dad." Connie is back. She looks almost as cross as I am.

"Good God," says Max, as I stalk off and go back to bed.

I stay in our bedroom for the rest of the day, trying to work out whether I am entitled to be as angry with Max as I am, given that he was so drunk and can't even remember what he did. I only get up again in the evening to check my email, but there's nothing from Johnny. I forgot - he's gallivanting somewhere in Eastern Europe again this weekend, and had warned me he might be unavailable for much of the time. My in-box isn't completely empty, though. Dad is back from Thailand, and has sent me an email, snappily entitled "Thai adventure."

I open it. There is no text at all, just six photos attached. I open the first one, expecting beaches, or mountains. There's scenery, all right - but it isn't of the landscape variety. It's of a young Thai girl in a bar. The next picture is of the same girl, next to a swimming pool. There's no sign of Dad until the third picture, where he appears - showing far too much man boob than should be allowed anywhere in the world.

In picture number four, the Thai girl is draped around Dad's neck, like a fresh-faced boa constrictor. By picture six, she is sitting on a bed in a hotel room, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. For God's sake! I have to tell someone, and I am still not speaking to Max, so I call up to Connie who has also been lurking in her bedroom all day, out of the way of parental strife.

"Con, you won't believe what Grandad has just sent me!"

"I bloody well will. Didn't you notice he copied me in on the email?" She makes a vomiting noise. "I'm mortified."

"What?" Now Josh has appeared. I show him the photos and he starts to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" I say. "There's nothing bloody funny about sending your daughter this."

"He's trying to wind you up, Mum," Josh says. "You know what he's like."

"Yeah, like all bloody men. A prize shit - apart from you, Josh."

I turn back to the computer, and start typing. In retrospect, this may not have been a wise move. Before I know it, I have pressed send. Now an email saying only Come back, Gary Glitter - all is forgiven is winging its way to my father's inbox.

I am going to have a very early night. I think it's best.

Conspiracy Theory, Injustice and the Siege of Rothbury in all its Ghastliness.

Oh, for goodness' sake. I thought conspiracy theorists were supposed to be based outside Parliament, not be members of it. Now The Boss thinks the phones are bugged.

Not satisfied with banning Greg and I from talking to Party staff, and making us attend Friday briefings separately and on alternate weeks, now he's obsessed with listening devices.

Why does he think anyone would care what he says or does? He's still only a bloody backbencher, with no hope of ever getting promotion, especially given the recently-added extra handicap of being in opposition.

Whenever one of the phones rings while he's in the office today, he makes a dive to answer it himself, then takes the caller's number, and insists on phoning them back on his mobile. From the archive cupboard. God knows what his phone bill will be - don't think the office budget is going to cope, if he keeps this up. I shall be economising furiously at work as well as at home.

Greg doesn't seem to be having the same budgeting problems. He's wearing an Armani tie today - what the hell is that about? I thought we were supposed to look accessible, and not overdress for work? No choice on my budget. Compared to Greg's sartorial splendour, I feel like a hobo - to borrow one of Josh's many offensive expressions.

I have a horrible premonition that this feeling is going to be exacerbated a hundred times over when, or if, I ever meet up with Johnny. Probably better if I never meet him, and leave his memories of my exhibitionist younger self unspoiled by a present-day reality check.

Surgery is relatively uneventful, though depressing. Several very-disabled people worrying about what's going to happen about their benefits. The Boss provides no real reassurance as he can't resist the temptation to cast the coalition in the most terrifying light possible. They aren't any happier afterwards, when I escort them down in the lift.

I daren't leave them to find their own way out since I lost that wheelchair-bound arsonist. I hate lifts. They make me feel trapped and really panicky - a bit like I sometimes feel when Max and I seem to have so little to talk about.

There are also quite a few public sector workers fretting about possible redundancies, and someone from one of the unions, who talks tough and meets with The Boss' whole-hearted approval. The word "strike" crops up any number of times.

I hope my union will be this aggressive in my defence if I lose my job to ensure the survival of Carlotta's. I am really pissed off with her today, since The Boss told me that he'd asked her to write an article - in his name - for some publication or other, and that she could keep the £500 fee!

English isn't even her first language, and I spend my whole life writing creatively and affixing Andrew's signature to the fruits of my labours. But I am doomed to be forever in the shadows, my light firmly embedded in a bag-carrying bushel. (I can do metaphors as well as the next Spanish person, too.)

When I get home, it is to find Max brandishing an airline ticket and travel itinerary. It looks like any old itinerary - i.e. any reasonably competent person could have knocked it up on a home computer.

I make a non-committal grunt, learned from The Boss. Then Max makes a great show of writing the name of his hotel in the diary. I'm not sure what reaction this is designed to provoke, but it irritates the hell out of me. Then I feel like a conspiracy theorist.

Impending argument is prevented by Max turning on the TV, which is showing the siege of Rothbury. Live.

We both watch BBC News in horror, both at the events, and at the inanity and inappropriateness of some of John Sopel's comments. But then the man's just doing his job, which I suppose is what I'd also claim if I had to justify some of the things The Boss has had me do.

Can't help worrying that such blanket coverage may give some of our usual suspects ideas, though. Mr Beales will be polishing his shotgun right this minute, envisaging the effect notoriety will have on his business. Lucky the BBC's cameramen are better than Mr B at getting people's heads in shot, I guess - if that isn't the tackiest unintentional pun ever.

Sam arrives shortly after we have had enough of voyeurism, and have turned the TV off. I'm bloody sure Max invited him just to avoid any arguments this weekend, as I didn't know anything about his visit until last night.

It works, annoyingly, and the rest of the evening is spent cooking and eating, and generally acting like people with a social life. Josh and Connie even join in for a while, and I go to bed with an uncharacteristically warm glow. Unless I've become menopausal overnight. Anything's possible.