Rainchecks, Botox and Pumpkins. And An Impending Sense Of Doom.

I'm off the hook for this Thursday. Johnny's trip to the UK has been rescheduled, so at least that gives me some more time to work out if Max is having an affair with Annoying Ellen the Botox Queen. Though God knows how, seeing as Greg's half-arsed investigations still aren't achieving anything so far.

As Max is smoking again, and is less irritable as a result, maybe I should try and talk to him about what's going on, though I'm not at all convinced that that's a good idea.

After all, lots of married women seem to opt not to voice their suspicions however sure they are that their husbands are up to something. I think it's to avoid being forced into a situation where they have no choice but to act on whatever they find out.

I do know that, if Max is guilty, then I'd definitely be entitled to have a fling - as long as said fling was metaphorical and didn't involve Johnny falling over any more stationary objects - but what then? What would happen to Connie and Josh if Max and I split up? Or to me, for that matter? It's not as if I'm sure I'd want to spend the rest of my life with Johnny - even if that was an option.

I'd never get through the oil company's wives' training course, for a start. I can barely boil an egg, let alone prepare canapes for five thousand people, and I can't even eat one of those without getting crumbs all down my front. Now I'm definitely having a hot flush.

"It's another panic attack, you muppet," says Greg. "You're losing your mind. Told you you'd been doing this job too long."

"Thanks so much," I say. "Where's your empathy gone?"

"Caseworker burnout. Well-known problem. You need some Valium."

I suppose Greg could be right, so I decide to make an appointment to see the doctor about my hormones while I'm at the surgery with Josh after work. I'm sure he's broken his hand.

He says that he didn't expect the Hallowe'en lantern to be so hard, and now regrets punching it while yelling "You know the band, the Smashing Pumpkins? Well, this is their greatest hit!"

"Do you never learn?" I say.

"Just playing it for laughs, Mum. Just for laughs. You should try it sometime," says Josh. "Unless that's what you were doing when you chose that outfit."

Honestly, what happened to respecting your elders and betters? Now Josh can tell the doctor how he got this latest injury all by himself. That'll teach him and, anyway, there's only so much embarrassment a parent can take.

So I'm sitting in the waiting room and enduring the seemingly-endless jingles that comprise ninety per cent of Radio Northwick's output, when I spot something lying amidst the old copies of People's Friend and Heat on the table. It's the surgery's newsletter, printed on bright pink paper, and giving details of flu jabs and diabetes clinics.

Good God. And Botox injections - at £150 a throw. What the bloody hell is going on? Isn't Ellen's shiny forehead depressing enough? Now even my doctor seems to be saying that I need my face paralysed in order to be healthy, or at least, to ensure that the sight of it doesn't make anyone else ill. And this is an NHS practice!

I bet Botox is compulsory for oil barons' wives, now I come to think of it. I am doomed. If Josh hadn't already smashed the pumpkin, I'd be very inclined to put it over my head.

Why It Is Inadvisable To Look In A Mirror When Recovering From Flu. Or Out Of The Window.

Well, I seem to be able to smoke again, so I suppose I must be on the mend, even though I still feel as if I've been hit by a bus.

Actually, I look as if I've been hit by a bus, too. Unlike Annoying Ellen. When I opened the bedroom curtains a minute ago, there she was in her garden, hanging her washing out. She must buy that underwear just for show.

I'm surprised she didn't spot me watching her, as my nose is still completely luminous.  Constant sex must protect against flu, if not other forms of infection - as I've never seen Ellen with a red nose. Not once. Maybe she has hers Botoxed, along with everything else. (I have seen her with a distinctly white one, but that's another story.)

God, I feel worse now I'm up. I think I may have to go back to bed. My delirium-induced sex-life with Martin Shaw at least had the virtue of feeling restorative, unlike the cold light of day.

An SOS From Skye, And Some Biscuits Whose Provenance I'd Prefer Not To Consider.

Sam's not having a very good time on his sex trip to Skye. Just after breakfast, Max gets a text from him. It says,

"Help! Incompatible in bed and nothing to talk about. Supposed to be here another two days :-S"

So much for sexy underwear, I want to say - but then I remember my new pants and decide against it. Max looks vaguely disappointed. I think he quite fancied Shona too.

"What should he do?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "He's your friend, and anyway, he always ignores my advice. I told him to start reading the women's bloody profiles instead of just looking at their pictures on the websites."

"And to ignore the shared interests," says Max. "Bearing in mind the Park Warden and the Tall Enigma."

"Anyway, I'm leaving him to you," I say. "I've got to go for coffee at Ellen's. Are you okay?"

Max looks awfully pale. "Ellen's?" he says. "I thought you hated her after the bin incident and, well, you know - "

"When you snogged her at the party?" I say. Amazing how much of your sense of humour you can get back when you have been sent hundreds of red roses. 'Oh well, I've taken your word for it that there's nothing going on. Is there?"

Now I've said this, I feel guilty about the roses, so I don't make Max answer and instead take pity on him. Or on Sam, anyway.

"Send him a text saying his cousin's in hospital and he needs to come home immediately in case he needs to give blood," I say. "Then she'll think he's a good guy with a rare blood group, and she won't feel rejected either."

"God, you're cunning," says Max. "Sometimes I forget you work for a politician."

I tap my nose and wink at him, then head to Ellen's. I have no idea why she's invited me round, unless it's to apologise for the exhibitionism with the bins the other night. I'm in a forgiving mood, so I shall wait and see what she says.

Ellen's fully-clothed, I'm pleased to report and, although she still looks like a blonde James Blunt who's been shot full of Botox, she makes me welcome and doesn't do any of that one-upmanship thing that she usually does. Or at least, she doesn't do it for at least ten minutes.

She makes the tea, then sits down and says, "How's Max?"

"Um, oh, he's okay, thanks."

"Oh, good,"  says Ellen. Her tone's a bit funny, so I raise my eyebrows and say, "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," she says, and then, "Well, it's just -"

"Just what?" I say.

"He's always so friendly whenever I see him. So friendly. Know what I mean?" She giggles. (God, I hate gigglers.)

"Not really," I say. "Not to Mormons, anyway. These biscuits are great, by the way. What are they?"

"Lebkuchen," says Ellen. "I got them on my trip to Germany a couple of months ago."

Ouf. I can't say I recommend them, after all - they suddenly taste like sawdust in my mouth. Or maybe that's just all the questions I'm biting down on, like: "When were you in Germany? Who were you with? Was it my husband and is that why he claimed he didn't know the name of his hotel?"

I am bloody well not going to make a fool of myself. I am not, or not yet, anyway. Not 'til I find out exactly what is going on. But I am wondering if it's time to wake up and smell the roses. Low cunning may not be the sole preserve of those of us who work for politicians, after all.

The Return of the Testosterone Imbalance, and Connie's Incompetence at Packing.

Connie and the other interns have found a house, and are moving in this weekend - so it's back to testosterone hell for me as, once she's gone, I shall again be the only woman in the house. No doubt this will cause a dramatic increase in facial hair, and I shall soon be fairground material. I bet good old Kate doesn't have a single stray hair. She's probably been waxed from head to foot, and has a shiny beacon of a botoxed forehead.

Of course, Max and I have been nominated to "help" Connie with the move. Josh has escaped being drafted in, though - as he has gone off to the coast with the boys, to stay at Robbie's parents' beach house. I am trying not to think about the fact that, if David and Susie hadn't been using their holiday cottage, Max and I could have been chilling out there this weekend. Instead, here we are trying to fit what seems like enough stuff to equip three houses into the car.

To add insult to injury, Connie must be the world's most useless packer. She made Max pick up loads of boxes from the supermarket, but God knows why he bothered - she only seems to have used about ten of them, into which she has packed the most random selection of stuff I have ever seen. There is half a ton of make-up loosely scattered inside saucepans and bowls, and her pot plants have been nestled inside her jumpers. There's soil everywhere.

If Connie had taken her time, she might have made a better job of it, but she seemed incapable of any activity while Big Brother was on, and didn't even start packing until about 11:00pm last night. The result is that the bulk of her belongings are in bags. Not bin bags - which would have been embarrassing enough - but bloody carrier bags. Hundreds of them. And Connie is even worse at unloading than she is at packing. When we get to the new house, she stands next to the car, "directing" us - until Max notices and suggests she might like to join in when she's ready.

I start counting how many trips Max and I make to and from the house, but give up fairly quickly. Why is it always impossible to park anywhere near a student house on moving-in day? (Well, actually, I know the answer to this - it's because no student can ever get it together to obtain a parking permit in time for their poor parents to use it during the process of acting like beasts of burden.)

Connie carries only two carrier bags on each of the very few trips she makes. I have seen more dynamic slugs. Then she takes a bag of food into the kitchen, and that is the last we see of her - though we're so busy that we don't miss her for about an hour, at which point we find her sitting at the kichen table with the other interns, all having a really good chat. It's almost 8:00pm now - and the car is still full of stuff.

When I mention this, Connie says that she and the others think it would be nice to go for a drink to get to know each other. She asks Max to lock up when we've finished unloading and to post her keys through the door. A brief hug and a kiss, and off she goes - before I have even started weeping. I cry whenever we take Connie back - but she always stays dry-eyed. You'd think she'd at least pretend to be a bit sad, but she never does. She's just ecstatic to escape from life with Josh. I suppose I can't really blame her.

At least she'll only be about an hour away from us during the coming year - instead of at the opposite side of the country, as has been the case for the previous two years - but it still seems like a very long way to me. The sofa in the shared living room looks comfortable, though. If I ever need to escape, I shall be able to come and visit!

In fact, I'm rather tempted to tell Max to leave me here - but I suppose that's not really an option. I shall be needed at home, to prevent Josh from turning Connie's bedroom into a gym-cum-games room. (I'm pretty sure that Max has sneakily approved this proposal already, though he denies it.) If Max gets made redundant, or I snap and give in my notice, we'll need that room to rent out to a lodger. The latter of these two options currently seems the most likely.

Oops. The Dangers of Frustration.

Today is a nightmare. As part of his mission to collect every disaffected non-constituent in a 300-mile radius, and to add them to our workload, The Boss has brought Igor back into the fold. Igor is a madman, who looks exactly like Alexei Sayle in The Young Ones. He is convinced that he is being persecuted by the Russian mafia, despite the fact that he claims to have been no more than a postman when he lived in his home country. I don't think that postman has ever been code for spy, even in Igor's case, and he would make a terrible spy anyway - he's far too big and flamboyant.

This development is too depressing for words, as Igor is at least as demanding as Mr Beales, and a whole lot more unstable. The Boss can't resist him, as Igor is the most shameless flatterer I have ever met. Today, Igor breezes in to the office, and promptly falls to his knees in front of The Boss - who he clasps around the thighs, while muttering various overblown expressions of gratitude. Then he sings us a Russian song about brotherly love and comradeship. Or that's what he says it's about. He could be singing a shopping list for all any of us know. The Boss sits there, feet up on my desk, lapping up the adoration. The sight is so nauseating that Greg has to take an early lunch, just to avoid being overcome by the urge to beat both Andrew and Igor to death.

The day doesn't improve when Mrs Cowan rings again to ask whether I've managed to get anywhere with her case yet. I feel terrible for having to stonewall her. She can't possibly know what her husband might be up to, or she wouldn't have brought their case to our attention. Would she? And how on earth is she going to feel if it turns out that it's her beloved husband who has brought them to the brink of financial ruin, and not some unknown fraudster?

I'm so stressed by the whole thing, that I decide to email Johnny before I go home. I need someone to make me feel good. However, things don't look promising when I upset him by the content of my first email, in which I ask his opinion of whether the Russian Mafia are really all that Igor is claiming they are. Johnny's reply snaps back:

"Those of us who live and work in Russia do not discuss the M-Word, here or anywhere."

Ouf. That's put me firmly in my place, an experience that is not quite as enjoyable as when Johnny is just being mildly assertive. As payback, I am rather tempted to mention Monty Python and the Spanish Inquisition. Then I decide that I can't afford to fall out with Johnny, as the whole situation with Max is quite bad enough. So I swallow my pride, and make nice - as the Ya Yas would say. (Being a Southern Belle is one of my oldest fantasies, which I blame on having seen Gone With The Wind three times.) My acquiescence has an unexpected effect, and I think I may just have had virtual sex. Accidentally. It was quite pleasant, actually. At least I didn't feel that I needed to put a bag over my head, despite the absence of Botox.

As I walk home, I wonder where in the scale of marital infidelities my misdemeanour would rank? Higher or lower than kissing a real - albeit cosmetically-enhanced - person in front of your wife and daughter? More or less forgiveable? God knows. I shall have to give this some thought, once I've stopped thinking about the event itself, of course.

Annoying Ellen's Birthday Party. May She Rot In Hell.

Gah. It's Annoying Ellen's birthday party tonight. I don't know why I don't just find the courage to tell her that I can't stand her, and then refuse to go. I guess I'm probably afraid of falling out with her because I seem to spend half of my working life trying to stop the suffering caused by neighbour disputes. I don't want to find her kicking the side of our car in, or throwing dog poo over the garden wall.

So, as usual, I keep the peace, and now I'm in a state of total panic as to what to wear to compete with Ellen. Unless I wear a balaclava, this is an entirely unrealistic aim, as Ellen's blindingly high-shine forehead is a testament to what can only be achieved via repeated injections of Botox. I decide that I will just have to rely on finding something flattering to wear.

I feel as if I have hit the jackpot when Max spots me posing in front of the mirror in a dress that could be described as body-con - had it not been from the early 80s, before that phrase was even thought of.

"You still have a great body for a woman of your age," he says.

Wow. Wow! Did my husband really just say that? I am lost in transports of joy for all of five minutes, until I realise that he was being rather specific. Why didn't he just say, "You look great for a woman of your age?" Or even, "You look great?" I'll tell you why. Because my body might look good, but my face doesn't. Aargh. I need Botox, right now. Maybe if I put a bag over my head and blunder around the house wearing that, Max might actually fancy me enough to consider having sex with me more than twice a year.

So I am already feeling very low-spirited by the time we walk round to Ellen's, with Connie in tow. I have decided to take her with us, in the hope that she can poach one of Ellen's toyboys to fill the less than yawning gap left by Russ's departure. It doesn't really help. Connie thinks all the toyboys present look dead from the neck up, and insists on staying close to me instead. I almost mention that Russ was hardly a rocket scientist, but am distracted by trying to see what Max is up to.

Connie sticking to me like an Elastoplast has freed him to wander off unsupervised, which is never a good thing. He still hasn't accepted that he cannot keep up with Ellen and her friends' drinking habits. It doesn't matter how many times I tell him not to even bother trying - he always ignores that the reason that they can each drink a whole case of beer is because of the vast quantities of coke they are shoving up their noses. I'm sure Max has already had about six beers and a whole bottle of wine, and he's found a second bottle that he's carrying around with him. This is not going to end well.

I seem to be the only married woman Ellen knows. All the others here are divorced. They are highly-vocal about their sex-starved status - huh! - and are all wearing very shiny tops to match their shiny foreheads. What is it with women of our age? They seem to have a uniform for parties, which basically involves wearing jeans, paired with strappy tops which reveal too much low-slung cleavage. I bet all that bloody beaded decoration was stitched on by starving children in sweatshops. I feel like a visitor from another planet in my little black dress, and my alienation is not helped by the fact that, every time I spot Max, one or other of the shiny women is staring into his eyes, and giving a very good impression of hanging onto his every word.

Connie and I end up sitting in the garden for most of the evening - where I smoke fit to bust, and Connie nags me about my filthy habit. That's when she's not going on about her amazement at the behaviour of some of Ellen's friends - who turn out to be teachers at Josh's school. No wonder Josh is like he is. Then one of the toyboys suggests a game of poker and, after checking that we're not talking about strip poker, I persuade Connie that we should both join in. I am bored enough to play snap by then, so poker seems a much better option. I suddenly realise that Max is seated at the other end of the long table, next to Ellen. She has obviously just been upstairs for another snort, and is displaying an irritating amount of energy. I do hope she doesn't supply coke to her students. Or Josh, for that matter.

Unfortunately, Max is not displaying anything other than the fact that he is totally obliterated by now. I decide make him a coffee, but get a mouthful of abuse when I take it over to him, so I retire back to my place at the other end of the table, where I then have the dubious pleasure of watching my husband gradually slipping sideways on his chair. I'm just considering whether to ride to his rescue, when I realise that he is slipping towards Ellen, whilst wearing a beatific smile. As if in slow-motion, he moves in towards her neck, upon which he plants a long, slow kiss. Suddenly, the room falls quiet, and I feel as if I have been paralysed.

"What the hell are you doing, Dad?" Connie breaks the spell, thank God.

She stands and goes to pull Max off his chair, pushing past Ellen, who just sits there giggling. I am so angry and humiliated that I can't move, until Connie gestures at me to help her. Even with our combined efforts, we still can't get Max to his feet, so we have to draft in help - in the shape of two of the toyboys, who hoist Max up, and then half-carry, half-drag him back to our house. Connie walks behind, carrying Max's jacket, while I storm ahead wielding my keys as if they were a weapon.

In the hallway, Max shakes off the toyboys and lurches into the living room, laughing like a lunatic. Connie throws a blanket over him and then looks at me in disbelief. I have no words, which is most unlike me. As soon as Connie's gone to bed, I am going to email Johnny and say that I've changed my mind. Marriott County Hall, here I come. As soon as bloody possible.

First Love, Last Rites - With Apologies to Ian McEwan*.

Josh's mad ideas are getting beyond a joke. Max and I decide to do a big clean-up of the house today, instead of simply lying around doing nothing. I am not exactly enthusiastic about the idea, but am hoping that his drive to carry out a late spring-clean may eventually be extended to encompass our relationship. He volunteers to dust all the high surfaces, while I am tasked with the hoovering. All okay so far, until I go to the cupboard to get the hoover, only to find it missing. Max has no idea where it is, and neither has Connie, though she starts giggling when I mention it.

"Con?" I use my best interrogation voice, coupled with an almost Botox-worthy raised eyebrow.

"What?" She's still laughing.

"Where is the bloody hoover?"

"Josh took it." Connie collapses in hysterics.

"Took it where?" For God's sake, now what?

"I don't know. He just said to tell you he was just popping round to Silver Hill with the lads."

I look at Max and he looks back at me. Then we move swiftly to the door, in that wordless synchronisation that comes of years of parenting a complete lunatic. We jog to the end of our road, turn the corner onto Silver Hill, and look down the slope. Half way down, there are Josh and Robbie, accompanied by various other members of their motley crew. Josh is standing on our hoover and Robbie is pushing him. Silver Hill is not some idyllic rural slope, as its name would imply, but one of the busiest roads in Northwick.

"What the f*ck do you think you're doing?" Max breaks into a run, as Josh starts rolling away from him, thankfully not at any significant speed.

"Extreme hoovering*," Robbie says, as Max catches them up.

"Extreme what?" Max is almost incoherent with rage. "Give me that - now!"

He yanks the hoover away from Josh, who never knows when to keep quiet.

"It's rubbish anyway," he says. "Wheels are crap."

Max gets him by the ear, pushes past me, and heads back up the hill, the hoover in one hand and Josh in the other. Robbie and the others shuffle about looking embarrassed - as they damn well should. I glare at them, then run to catch up with Max. Josh is really going to get it this time.


When we arrive back at the house, Connie is in a crumpled heap on the sofa, still shaking with what I initially assume is laughter, but which is quickly revealed to be tears.

"What on earth's the matter, Con?" I sit down next to her and try to cuddle her, but she shakes me off.

"Russ........just........dumped..........me," she says, hiccuping between each word. "Because I made him look a prat in front of those boys."

"Huh," says Josh. "Made himself look a prat if you ask me."

"You're in no bloody position to comment," says Max. "Con, I'm going to cook you a lovely dinner to cheer you up."

Max's usual solution doesn't work. Connie is too heartbroken to eat. I can't bear to see it, especially as Russ was a bit of an arsehole anyway - but she seems to have forgotten that, and just cries all the more when I mention it. She doesn't even laugh when Josh offers to go round to Russ' house in the middle of the night, take his boy racer car to bits, and lay all the pieces out neatly on his front lawn, though I think it's a stroke of genius.

For the rest of the evening, Connie only wants to talk to Max, as she says that he "understands first love." She sits next to him on the couch, and they just sit there cuddled up in front of the TV. Oddly, this does seem to calm her, and I am jealous that I'm not the one who has been able to help. Max doesn't even look triumphant about it, which I probably would have done in his place. Seeing this does remind me that he used to be able to calm me down too, just by being there. Now he's more likely to be the one causing me to cry.

I can't even remember my first love - though I'm sure it wasn't Johnny, whatever he may now claim.

*First Love, Last Rites - Ian McEwan's first collection of short stories. Almost as odd as my life appears to be becoming.
*Extreme hoovering turns out to be an actual "sport" - see here. Madness.

The Morning After the Night Before

Thank God I took today off as a holiday day, even though The Boss said he thought that that was self-indulgent and that the constituents needed me.

I said that, as the Con-Dem coalition was now running the country, I thought I could afford a day off, to which The Boss replied that all hands were needed on deck - at all times - for The Fightback. I'm just surprised he hasn't been approached by the new administration, given that he's voted with them so often in the past.

Anyway, at least I can lie around today doing a passable imitation of Max's mother, The Lounge Lizard. I am never drinking gin again.

Last night was as horrendous as predicted, and now Max is sulking because I didn't look surprised enough when I came home from work to find my birthday party in full swing. I refrain from pointing out that he had already told me about it, thus somewhat diminishing the element of surprise - but do mention that an astonished expression would be a lot easier to fake if I'd had Botox like annoying Ellen from next door.

Why the hell did Max have to invite her? Before I'd even downed my first gin, she'd already started swanning around announcing to all and sundry how much she loves sex, and how all she wants for her birthday is a man with a big you-know-what.

 Every man in the room immediately began to salivate at this bloody nonsense, presumably imagining his particular appendage as Ellen's saviour, while their wives became ever-more invisible and murderous. I have gone right off Ellen, and gin. Not to mention surprises.

When I realise that I've already forgotten my post-birthday no-smoking resolution, due to planning Ellen's murder (and possibly The Boss' too), I decide to pull myself together - so Connie and I go into town, where I take back all my birthday presents, as usual.

Maybe one year Max will buy me something I actually want, rather than whatever comes to hand in M&S on the day. I do keep Connie's present, though - Bridget Jones' Diary. It's bloody funny, but I really can't see what Bridget thinks married people have to be smug about.

On our way home, we go to the Topshop sale. I buy some clothes and feel quite cool and trendy - but then I get home and try everything on, only for Josh to look up from stalking everyone he knows on Facebook, and say,

"Mum - you do realise you didn't get any years back for your birthday?"

I smoke four cigarettes in a row, and turn all the mirrors to the wall. Max asks whether there's been a death in the house. I say, "Yes. My self-esteem," but he's already turned the TV on and isn't listening.