An All-Too-Brief Absence Of Lunacy, And Josh Discovers That Not Everything Is As Funny As He Thinks It Is.

Talk about tempting fate. I've finally caught up with the backlog - at last - and have just congratulated myself that I won't have to deal with any more nutters until next Tuesday, when Josh decides to send me a text:

"Mum, I'm at the Rajah Curry House. Can you come and pick me up? Now? I think I might be about to die."

"Why?" I text back. "What's wrong with you?"

They say a picture is worth a thousand words but, as for the the one that Josh sends me in reply, well - oh, my God. I have never seen a face as red as that in my life. And I'm positive that no-one's eyeballs should stick out that far.

I dial his number, while grabbing my coat, and hunting for the car keys in my bag.

"Umpf," says Josh, when he finally answers. He pauses for what feels like an hour, and then adds: "Inaloo."

The latter turns out to be a dual-purpose comment, designed for economy of effort, though I don't discover this until I arrive at the Rajah, having probably earned a million penalty points for speeding past every single camera along the way.

Once there, I find Robbie and two of Josh's other mates, all sitting comfortably at a table, laughing like fools, and incapable of explaining anything, except that Josh is "in the loo" due to the consumption of a "Vindaloo."

They think the whole thing is much funnier than I do, that's all I can say. And much, much funnier than does Josh, who still looks distinctly unamused when I finally get him out of the Rajah, and into the car.

"What the hell possessed you to order one of those?" I ask him, once I've managed to manoeuvre out of my parking space, without hitting the inconsiderate BMW that has boxed me in.

Josh doesn't answer - probably because his head is stuck so far out of the window that he can't hear a thing I'm saying over the sound of the air that's rushing past. He's gasping at it, like a panting dog, albeit one with unusually bright red ears.

"Josh!" I say again, much louder. "Why a Vindaloo - of all the bloody stupid things to have?"

Josh turns his face towards me. Despite the cool night air, it still has a very definite glow.

"I thought it was a joke curry. Kind of like a Korma," he says.

So much for an absence of nutters until I return to work. Though I suppose I should be grateful that Josh picked the Rajah, and not the Star of India instead. I'd never have been allowed back in there, teenage Vindaloo emergency or not.

A Barbecued Microcosm of The Labour Party, and a Mis-Interpretation of the Omens.

It's Joan's famous Bank Holiday Labour Party Barbecue this afternoon. Max and I are going, though I am a bit nervous about what's going to happen when The Boss discovers that I have ignored his ban on socialising with Party staff - because someone's bound to tell him. He usually appoints a spy in circumstances like these.

Now I'm starting to sound as mad as he is, but that's what happens when you work for someone like Andrew. Neuroses are contagious - as if I didn't have quite enough of my own, mainly around a lack of sex and what seems to be an increasing over-abundance of facial hair.

Even if The Boss doesn't find out, I can't say I'm looking forward to seeing all the local councillors again, after Friday's events, but I can't wriggle out of going now. Joan's Party barbecue is a tradition, and anyway, I like her, and most of the Party staff, so I'm not going to let them down. They're always the ones who rescue me when a constituent goes berserk, too - so risking Andrew's further disapproval seems a small price to pay for ongoing protection.

It's stopped raining by the time Max and I eventually arrive at Joan's, so I take that as a good omen.  It's my fault we're late, as I kept changing my mind about what to wear. Labour Party events are a sartorial challenge, as there is no accepted dress code whatsoever. That's mainly because Northwick Labour Party has a class divide wider than my mother-in-law's arse.

On the sunny side of Joan's garden sit most of the town and county councillors, together with those middle-class activists who names crop up on every committee from the Northwick Preservation Society to the Mental Health Trust, and who are all school governors. These are the members of the various local Party dynasties, their fingers - or rather relatives - in every pie. Jimmy Barton is there too, with his wife, Peggy. He winks at me as I walk past.

On the other side, in the shade, sit those Party members who live on Northwick's council estates, or who are union reps - and who are therefore deemed to have their finger on the pulse of the core vote. Far fewer members of this group have managed to become councillors, and although those that have interact slightly more comfortably with the elite squad than do the rest, you can still sense the mutual distrust. And probably dislike.

Over the last few years, a third group has been on the rise. The young, university-educated Party activists, who stand by the drinks table, as their legs don't tire as easily as those of the rest of us. They are largely devotees of David Miliband, and have an understanding of political theory, demographics and voting intentions that puts the rest of us to shame. I'm a bit doubtful about how much real-life experience they bring to their policy analysis, but there's no doubt that their voices are becoming more and more influential - at least partly because their overt personal ambition scares the hell out of The Boss and the other old-timers.

Despite the fact that we know everyone, Greg and I usually spend these events on the periphery of any group we try to join  - probably because we are equally distrusted by all of them. I'm sure that working for the MP means that we are seen as snobs by some, and as halfwits who know nothing about politics by others. Poor old Max is treated as even more irrelevant than we are.

"Molly! Max! Over here!" It's Greg, who is sitting in no-man's land in the middle of the garden, with some of the regional Party staff that I particularly like. Thank God. Max and I are just about to join them and start the serious business of drinking, when there is another late arrival. The Boss. Bloody hell - that's the one thing I wasn't expecting.

I am so pleased that he must have come to his senses, that I smile at him, but he ignores me and makes a rather wobbly beeline for the county councillors and the rest of the elite squad. Kissy, kissy, kissy. It's horrible to watch. Andrew still hasn't mastered the art of planting his lips on women's cheeks, rather than aiming for their lips, though no-one seems to object today.

Why do women like The Boss so much? They all start giggling, and pay him rapt attention while he holds forth about the merits of Neil Young. I notice Jimmy Barton seems less than pleased to see Andrew, though, which is rather gratifying.

"Where's the bloody beer, then?" Andrew shouts, at no-one in particular.

"Didn't you bring your own?" says Jimmy. "Thought you'd have brought a case of the stuff, with the portcullis on it. Though I suppose times are hard for MPs now, thanks to IPSA."

The Boss doesn't find this amusing in the slightest, but he deserves it. He always ignores instructions to "bring a bottle," except when he donates bottles of House of Commons whisky to constituency fetes and raffles. It's as if social norms don't apply to him at all. Mind you, it doesn't look as if he needs any more alcohol today, as he's staggering pretty well already. I can't bear to watch him any longer, so I change places with Max. Now my back is to Andrew, which is a great improvement.

After we've eaten what probably represents Iceland's entire stock of frozen beef-burgers - consumed with varying degrees of enthusiasm - it's time for a game of cricket. Not poncy cricket, but Labour Party cricket, which normally turns into rounders quite quickly.

"Come on, Andrew - let's see the old semi-pro in action!" says Greg, but The Boss declines. He obviously doesn't want to spoil his mythological sporting status. Given what happens next, he'd probably have done better to make a fool of himself during the match. There is a squeal, then Jimmy's wife Peggy stands up and glares at The Boss.

"That's enough," she says. "Come on, Jimmy - we're going." Jimmy looks puzzled but does as he's told.   The Boss shouts after them:

"Some women have no bloody sense of humour."

I go to run after Jimmy and Peggy, but Greg stops me.

"Leave it alone, Mol," he says. "Best not to draw any more attention to it than necessary."

"What happened?" I say.

"I'm not sure, but when I went to the loo a bit earlier, Peggy was in there."

"What, and you walked in on her?"

"No, but when she came out, she said, 'Your boss really is a shit.' I asked her why, and she said that he was coming on to her, and driving her mad."

"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "So is that why she's gone home?"

"I should think so," says Greg. "Though it'd have been better if he'd gone instead. Any suggestions as to what we do now? He's not going to get any better behaved if he carries on drinking."

"I don't know," I say. "Unless we go home ourselves, before anything else happens. We could always leave him to take responsibility for his own actions for once."

"What a novel concept," says Greg. "But not really an option. Next suggestion?"

I don't answer as, at that moment, we are saved by the bell. Or rather, by the return of the rain. Thank God. It's so heavy, that everyone decides it's time to go - even The Boss. It seems I may have misjudged what constitutes a good omen - sometimes rainfall is exactly what is needed. Gene Kelly knew what he was talking about.

Shopping for Others, Wedding Nights and Internet Stalkers

In the evening, I decide I want to be a teenager again. They have so much more fun, despite the superficial angst. It's not just the constant sex and the taut bodies, but the things they think of to do - and have the nerve to actually carry out.

Josh and his mates tag along with Max and I when we go food shopping. I do wonder at this sudden and uncharacteristic interest in participating in such a mundane task, but soon all becomes clear. It turns out that the boys are intent upon "Shopping for Others."

Max and I watch in disbelief as they spend an hour or so happily putting things into the shopping trolleys of complete strangers when the latter aren't looking. We don't know what to do with ourselves when an elderly spinster heads for the checkouts with twenty packets of condoms and some Durex Play gel in hers, and a butch body-builder type looks puzzled at finding lipstick, eye shadow and tampons amidst his other purchases.

The most stressful moment comes when I notice a large leg of pork being covertly added to the contents of a trolley belonging to a hijab-clad middle-aged woman, at which point Max decides enough is enough and calls a halt. I think he secretly enjoys the whole experience as much as me, though...

Much later, I get another email from Johnny International Director of a Global Oil Company Hunter. He's been away, globetrotting across Eastern Europe again.

Johnny says he hates hotel rooms, and wonders whether I do too. I've only ever stayed in a posh hotel once and that was on my wedding night - when my Dad accompanied Max and I upstairs to our room after the reception, and waltzed inside when we carelessly opened the door a little too wide.

Then he proceeded to order blithely from room service while asking our advice on how to "manage Dinah and her tantrums". Max and I finally got rid of him at 3:00am, so we weren't even earning gold stars on our wedding night. I probably should have seen that as a portent.

The next morning was no better. At 9:00am, Max's brother Richard turned up, uninvited, to announce that we needed to hurry up and go down to the bar, as the whole Bennett family were on their way to the hotel to have a drink with us. Then Richard ate my pre-ordered breakfast-in-bed while I struggled to get dressed in the relative privacy of the bathroom.

It's not as if I even get to stay in decent hotels because of work. At *conference, we're lucky to get booked into a broom cupboard so I have no experience of the high-life at all, which does rather lessen any sympathy I might feel for Johnny.

To make matters worse, he also wants to know what I look like now, and whether I still have "that amazing hair and those incredible legs." I doubt it, but am more worried by the fact that I still can't even remember who he is, while he seems to recall me in microscopic detail.

I hope he's not some crazed internet stalker or - worse - a constituent playing mind games. That'd be just my luck. Where the hell have I put my old diaries?

*conference - the Labour Party Conference/Bunfight/Scene of Some of The Boss's worst social faux-pas.