Julie Christie, And Why A Certain MP Should Avoid The Subject Of Winter.

Talk about over-compensating for my boring life. My dreams are getting more and more exciting by the minute.

I spent last night playing Lara to Johnny's Doctor Zhivago. Admittedly, Johnny did look rather more like Omar Sharif than he does in real life, and was a lot more romantic, but I did enjoy being Julie Christie. She really knows how to wear a fur coat without turning into an Ewok.

The dream is so convincing that, when I wake up, I still think I'm Julie until I look in the mirror. Then I'm distraught to find that it's not her face that looks back at me, but my usual one, incipient beard and all. Now I wish I hadn't mentioned Ewoks.

If I do manage to grow fur all over my body, though, at least I'll be better-adapted for cold weather. I'm so angry with bloody British Gas about their price rises. Seven per cent! It's a national scandal. I'd write to my MP about it, if I wouldn't have to answer my own letter.

Since the announcement of the increase, Max has become obsessed with the cost of fuel and, even though I try to adjust the thermostat when he isn't looking, he always notices and turns it down again. Then I have to blame the whole thing on Josh and the irresponsibility of youth.

God knows how the poorest are going to cope if we have a hard winter. The hospitals and mortuaries will be full of people who were too scared to turn their heating on at all. Or who have injuries caused by falling downstairs or setting themselves on fire while wearing a Slanket.

Mind you, I'm still considering buying one, despite the risks. It's too much being cold at home as well as at work. The office is freezing at the best of times, but when I arrive today, I discover that the boiler has broken down.

Greg and I are freezing our arses off, and have to keep our coats on all morning - but Vicky says that she  will "work" from home. Apparently, she can't risk low temperatures, due to her chilblains.

"Think she's confusing them with bunions," says Greg. "Caused by those stupid bloody shoes."

"She says they're a political statement," I say. "Due to the red soles."

Talking of political statements, it turns out that Andrew has been at it again - holding forth to the local press without speaking to me first. He's told them that he's going to do everything he can to ensure that Northwick County Council have enough grit this year.

You'd think he have the sense to stay schtum on the subject of winter after last year's fiasco, but he seems to have forgotten all about that. George - the boiler repair man - remembers it well enough, though.

"See your boss is going on about snow again," he says, when he arrives after lunch. "It's in the paper. I'd ha' thought he'd ha' learned his lesson, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed," I say.

There's absolutely no point denying that Andrew made some rather ill-informed comments during last winter's white-out.

"Bloody funny, that were. Talking about what a nightmare Northwick's drivers were having when it turned out he weren't even in the country at the time."

"Hmm," I say.

I do wish the bloody phone would ring. Or there'd be a fire alarm. Or something. But nothing happens to interrupt George's flow:

"It wouldn't ha' mattered, would it - not if he hadn't pretended it took him two hours to drive home from the office that night? What a twonk he must be."

Hearing Greg snort with laughter, I decide it's time to take evasive action.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" I say. "Seeing as it looks as if mending the boiler's going to be a long job."

By the time I've made it, I'm hoping that the subject of Andrew will have been dropped, but no such luck. George carries on where he left off when I return from the kitchen and pass him a mug.

"Cheers," he says. "So, tell me something, ducks. Your boss - have an opinion on everything, does he?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that. Though he does like to take an interest in anything that affects his constituents." I turn my back and pick up a pen. "Now, I really must get on with some work."

"I'll tell you what I think," he says, slurping his tea. "That man will do anything to get his name in the paper."

"Couldn't agree more," says Greg, under his breath. Which is still visible, due to the bloody cold.

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.