Things For Newly-Weds To Take Into Account, And Probably For Judges, Too.

"So, Molly," says Dad, when he phones first thing this morning. "Got the day off to watch the Royal Wedding, have you, then?"

"Yes," I say. "Though I haven't decided whether to watch it or not, actually."

"Oh, for God's sake, I thought you'd grown out of all that left-wing nonsense," says Dad.

Honestly, just because I - very occasionally - agree with a Tory by accident, that doesn't mean that I have become one, does it? And I've never watched any Royal Weddings - or none so far, anyway.

It's not as if I've got anything better to do today, though - unless a gold star might be on the horizon. Max is looking pretty bored this week, after all.

"There goes Will and Kate's sex-life," he says, watching the preparations on BBC One. "Married life starts today."

He makes it sound as if sex is forbidden once you tie the knot, which rather puts paid to the star-earning idea. I may as well go and sit in the garden for the rest of the day and smoke myself to death. Even though I'm pretty sure it's going to rain.

I still haven't got over how fantastic it is to be able to go for a cigarette on my own again - without having to persuade a bunch of militant non-smoking jurors to join me outside, regardless of the weather. (That's when you really begin to understand how it must feel to suffer from leprosy.)

Who knew that jurors aren't allowed to go anywhere without all the other jurors in tow, once they've retired to consider their verdict? I bloody well didn't, and nor did Dan, the only other smoker on one of the juries upon which I sat, during the living hell also known as jury service.

"So," I said, on the first day, when we were huddled together attempting to light our cigarettes in the driving rain, while trying to pretend that ten virtual strangers weren't glaring at us with utter loathing. "D'you think she's guilty, or innocent?"

"Dunno," said Dan. "Whatever the majority think, then that's the decision that I'll go with."

"You can't do that," I said. "You have to weigh the evidence and come to your own decision. There are people's lives at stake, you know."

"There's my sanity at stake, too," he said. "And it won't take much more of this to make me as mad as a hatter. I just want to finish jury service, and get back to my normal life - so I can have a bloody fag whenever I like. Without the chorus of disapproval over there."

He paused, and then stared at me in horror.

"I can't believe I just said that," he said. "Can you?"

"No," I said. "Well, yes, I can, actually. But, seriously, how many trials do you think are decided by this sort of thing? You know, by jurors' nicotine addiction? It's a bit worrying, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Dan. "Especially when you factor in alcoholics, as well. I'm sure that juror called Linda - the one who works in the Silverhill dry-cleaners - has a bottle in her bag."

I wonder how the sex-addicts cope? Not by getting married, that's for sure. Though what time does the Wedding start?

Be Thankful For What You've Got, Even If It Does Make You Late For Work.

Things are going from bad to worse in Japan, and I still can't sleep - thanks to my compulsion to follow every single new development on TV.

I think it might be contagious, actually. I'm watching this morning's Breakfast News, when Josh comes into the room looking like hell. It's his day off, and he's still wearing the clothes he went out in last night,  so I've no idea what he's even doing up so early. Unless he's got such a hangover that he's on a Paracetamol hunt, of course.

"In the bathroom cupboard," I say. "Help yourself. I'm busy watching this."

I wave him away, but he doesn't take any notice. Instead, he sits down next to me, and gives me a peck on the cheek. Then we both stare in silence at the latest pictures from the Fukushima reactor.

"Mol, turn the TV off now, and go and get dressed," says Max. "Otherwise we'll be late for work."

"Does it matter?" I say. "It feels inappropriate to be carrying on as normal when such terrible things are happening in another country."

"You can't let yourself think like that and, anyway, you doing nothing isn't going to help anyone, is it?"

I know Max is right but, even so, it feels almost obscene to be putting on lipstick and brushing my hair. What does it matter what I look like, when Nature can bring everything crashing down overnight?

I walk as slowly as I can to work, trying to note and appreciate all the stuff I normally take for granted. Like roads, and shops with food in them - not to mention the fact that I'm only breathing in exhaust fumes, and (hopefully) nothing worse.

This Buddhist-style process takes so long that it makes me late, and Greg isn't at all impressed when I try to explain what I was doing. He just takes one look at my face and says,

"Still staying up half the night watching News 24? You look like shit. And I think you may be going mad. Have a coffee and get a grip."

I do as I'm told, and it works - though, by lunchtime, I've drunk so much caffeine and smoked so many cigarettes that my hands are shaking, and Greg tells me that I'm talking so fast that I sound like Steve Ellington in a manic phase.

This is a bit unnerving, to say the least - but at least I'm working, and not thinking about Japan. Not until Sue Reynolds phones, anyway.

"Molly," she says. "How are you? I just wanted to check that Mr Sinclair is still planning to attend this year's welcome back party for the children?"

"Oh," I say, as I open Andrew's diary and check the date. "Yes, Sue - it's in the diary, so he'll see you next month. I might attend again, too, if you don't mind?"

"We'd love you to!" says Sue. "Look forward to it."

She seems genuinely pleased, though there's no need at all for her to sound so grateful. Not considering that all The Boss and I ever do is to turn up, talk to incredibly inspiring children and young people, and then have a weep in the car on the way home. Well, I do.

Andrew just heads for the pub to drown his sorrows, so he maintains his dignity for once - but I'm usually at the hiccuping and snorting stage by then, so I go straight home instead. I've never mastered that dignified noiseless weeping thing.

I'm getting a bit emotional now, actually, just from thinking about it. I sniff, and start hunting through my handbag for an unused tissue. Where the hell do the damn things go?

"'Bye, then, Molly," says Sue. "See you at the party. And don't forget it's the 25th Anniversary this year."

"How could I?" I say, but she's already rung off.

"There you are," says Greg. "Told you you'd feel better if you just buckled down and did some work."

I don't answer, in case my voice wobbles, so he walks up to my desk and stares at me until I look up.

"Bloody hell. Are those tears?" he says, passing me a clean handkerchief, presumably courtesy of his mum. "Who was that on the phone, and what the hell did they want if it made you cry?"

"Sue Reynolds," I say. "From Northwick Chernobyl Children's Project."

I don't say any more than that, because I still don't trust my voice, but Greg doesn't seem to need me to spell it out. Maybe male intuition really does exist?

"Ah," he says. "Now I see. Get that mascara off your nose, and then let's go and have a drink. If you like, we'll walk through the town square on the way. The fountain's not a patch on that one in Rome, but it still might be worth a try."

When we throw our coins in to the water, my instincts tell me that Greg and I make exactly the same wish: that a Fukushima Children's Project won't be required.

In Which Catherine De Medici Or De Northwick Appears To Me In A Dream.

God, I'm dying. And Bambi is quite patently a poisoner. I spent all last night sleeping fitfully in between dreams about her putting arsenic into Scotch Eggs, using a mediaeval version of a syringe.

I'm still in a really bad mood when Max wakes up.

"That bloody Bambi girl of yours is trying to kill me," I say. "She was *Catherine de' Medici in a previous life. I know, because I saw it in my dreams. Her Italian's a bit dodgy, though. She needs to work on that."

Max sighs, and pulls the covers back over his head.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Mol?" he mumbles. "Dreams aren't actually real, you know."

"Well, this one seemed pretty convincing to me," I say. "Seeing as I really have been throwing up. That hasn't been in my imagination."

"No," says Max. "More's the pity. You finished with that bucket yet? And Bambi's not my girl. Sod it - Gemma isn't."

He puts the pillow over his head, on top of the quilt, just in case I haven't already got the message.

"Now I am going back to sleep," he says. "In the probably futile hope that you'll be in touch with reality when I next wake up."

There's no need to be rude about it, is there? He's just being defensive, because it was his so-called colleague who poisoned me. I need to pay more attention to that girl. Maybe Ellen's not Max's love-interest after all.

There's no doubting what Dad's is, as becomes only too apparent when I finally stagger downstairs and throw myself on to the sofa to recover from the effort.

I've just turned the TV over to watch BBC News 24 to follow what's happening about the explosion at the nuclear reactor in Fukushima, when Dad comes hurtling in to the room at speed. You'd never think he'd had a heart bypass less than a month ago. I look miles more unhealthy than him.

"Quick," he says, grabbing the remote control. "I'm missing the match."

Before I can object, he changes channel and sits down, hard. On my feet.

"Gah," he says, then stands up again, pushes my legs off the sofa, and settles back down with a sigh of relief.

"You're looking better, Molly," he says, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Would it make any difference if I wasn't?" I say, but Dad just grunts in reply.

Honestly, talk about bad manners. I'm bloody glad they aren't genetic.

"Would it, though, Dad?" I say. "Matter, I mean?"

I stare at the side of his head, willing him to answer this time. God knows if it's working but it brings my headache back, big-time. I don't give up, though. My methods were honed by Penelope Leach, you know.

After what feels like hours, Dad shifts in his seat, as if it's hot. Ha! Now it's working. You can teach an old dog new tricks, and I am the natural heir to *Barbara Woodhouse. Just call me the Northwick Dad Whisperer.

"Yes, Dad?" I say, to encourage him.

"For God's sake, Ref!" he says. "Foul! What the hell are you playing at, man?"

 Some people never learn, do they? Though I'm not sure whether that applies to me or Dad. No wonder I have trouble with reality. I can't say I like it one little bit.



*Catherine de' Medici - accused of poisoning, probably denied it. Remind you of anyone?
*Barbara Woodhouse - see here if you've never heard of her. Or heard her, in fact.