Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot. And Then Not, Not, Not.

Bloody hell, I've got to do something about Max's snoring. He woke me up God knows how many times last night. By 5:00am I was plotting to kill him, and I wasn't intending it to be quick and painless, either.

Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.

"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."

"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."

I look at him in disbelief.

"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."

"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."

Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.

Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.

Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?

"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."

"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."

Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got  the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.

"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"

"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."

"Oh," says Greg. "Her."

It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.

Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.

"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."

"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."

I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.

By-Election Fever Grips The Office, For A Few Minutes At Least.

The private line's ringing when Greg and I arrive at work this morning, which is never a good start.

"I can't talk to Andrew until I've had a coffee," I say. "I haven't got the energy. You answer it, Greg. Youth is on your side."

Greg pulls a face but does as he's told. For once. Though, in retrospect, I'm not sure that this wasn't a mistake. He listens to The Boss for all of thirty seconds, then says,

"For God's sake, Andrew - you're not campaigning now. It's me you're talking to. And we all know you can never trust the polls."

"What was that about?" I say, as Greg hangs up and rolls his eyes in despair.

"Idiot must have thought he was talking to the Press, or something," says Greg. "Boasting about the latest ComRes poll and saying we were going to win at Oldham, for f*cksake. Has he forgotten you should never write a LibDem off at a by-election?"

That's true, but Greg's just in a mood because he couldn't go and help in the campaign.  He thinks that he's indispensable in an election, especially since The Boss retained his seat against all the odds.

"We need all hands on deck there," he says. "It's a bugger I don't have enough annual leave left to go."

Given that that's because we both had to take most of it to help out in the General Election campaign, I can't say I'm too upset about it. Unlike Greg, who obviously is.

"Why does The Boss have to be so bloody scrupulous about it, all of a sudden?" he says.

"Because he's got to be squeaky clean," I say. "Considering that he's made so many complaints about the LibDems' election expenses over the years. And, anyway, I'd like to save some holiday for something more pleasant than campaigning."

Like a trip to Russia, for example. I don't mention that, though, as Vicky's just arrived. Late, as usual.

"Why don't MPs and Ministers have to take leave in order to campaign?" she says. "Seeing as Constituency Staff have to. It doesn't seem fair."

This may well be the first sensible question that she has ever asked, and it's just a shame that Greg and I don't know the answer. We look blankly at each other, and then shrug - simultaneously.

To anyone with any sensitivity at all, it would be apparent that, as far as we're concerned, the subject's now closed, but Vicky has never been one to take a hint.

"How do they get away with it when they're being paid by the taxpayer?" she says. "There are hordes of MPs descending on Oldham every day."

"Well, except for Tory MPs," says Greg. "Though they will keep denying that they've made a pact with the LibDems not to try too hard to win the seat. Talking of which - did you catch up with The Politics Show last night, Molly?"

"Yes," I say. "I'm sure Chris Grayling didn't even know the name of the Tory candidate. That embarrassed smirk reminded me of Josh when he's in the wrong."

Actually, though, I haven't seen Josh looking guilty for a while. Maybe he's finally growing up, now he's left school and has to face the reality of working life. This ought to be a good thing but, after this evening's events, I think he may be taking it too far. He's gone from irresponsible teenager to Victor Meldrew in the blink of an eye.

When I get home from work, very late after a lengthy lecture from Edmund Beales about how we should all start carrying guns in the UK, Max still isn't back from work. Josh is, but he's ranting like a maniac. Or like Mr Beales, anyway, which is probably pretty much the same thing.

"Smell this," he says, shoving a microwaved meal under my nose.

"Yuck," I say. "What the hell is that? It smells like a chemical spill."

I push the container out of the way, while hoping I haven't got any of whatever it contains on the end of my nose. It really stinks.

"It's Taste The Difference* Chilli Con Carne," says Josh. "I can taste the f*cking difference all right. It's disgusting."

"Well, maybe it's out of date."

Josh looks at me as if I am an idiot, then says,

"I only bought it ten minutes ago. Seeing as neither you nor Dad were here to cook tea, and I haven't eaten all day."

"The service is lousy in this hotel, isn't it?" I say. (You can't always come up with an original response, after all.) "Let me see the packet."

As Josh passes it to me, I notice that there is a vein throbbing in his temple. I've seen that before, but never in a member of my own family, so I really hope my son's not turning into a mad constituent now. That would be all I need.

"Well, the date's okay," I say. "But it says it's new and improved. Maybe that's why it tastes and smells so weird?"

"Humph," says Josh. "I told you I don't like change. Especially when it's always for the worse."

Let's just hope the voters of *Oldham and Saddleworth feel the same way. As long as they don't object to Ed* on those grounds, too.



*For those of you not in the UK; or those of you who are, but who have unaccountably lost all interest in politics: explanation re the Oldham & Saddleworth by-election here.

* Taste The Difference Chilli Con Carne - I can't say Josh recommends it, because he really, really doesn't.

*Ed - Ed Miliband, new(ish) leader of The Labour Party. Opponents would probably claim that a Labour defeat at Oldham was a signal that the electorate are rejecting him. Possibly on the grounds of his perceived resemblance to Wallace. This may, or may not, be true of some within the Party, too.