Sleeping Beauty: Minus The Beauty Part; And A Sobering Assessment Of The Value Of My Work.

Aargh. So much for a five-minute nap. I've only just woken up. That sofa's much more comfortable than it looks. No wonder The Boss always sleeps so well on it, after he's had a liquid lunch.

"What the hell are you doing, Molly?" says Max, when I answer the phone. "Are you coming home at all tonight?"

"Urghm, what?" I say, trying to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. It seems to have turned into cardboard, which is a very unpleasant feeling indeed. I must have been sleeping with my mouth wide open, probably dribbling like a lunatic while I was at it. I'd better check the cushions in a minute, for traces of drool.

"You sound really peculiar," says Max. "Were you asleep?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, which isn't - strictly speaking - a lie. It's just a political answer. I can do this stuff in my sleep. Or straight after waking up, anyway.

"It's late," says Max. "I'll come and pick you up in the car. Meet me outside in ten minutes."

I look at the piles of folders that are still on my desk, most of which bear the names of the usual suspects. Will another day's delay make any difference to Miss Chambers' latest complaint about the "rude Paki" who runs the Post Office? Or to Reg Beales, and his campaign to allow HGV drivers to accumulate double the usual number of penalty points before losing their licences? Or even to Miss Emms' psychotic guinea pigs?

I can't say I much like the answer to any of the above questions.

"Okay, then," I say. "Thanks. I haven't got anything really urgent left to do, I suppose."

"Well, that's good news, isn't it?" says Max. "There's no need to sound quite so fed up about it."

Easy for him to say. Seeing as it isn't his working life that has suddenly become meaningless.

Jargon, Hot Babes And Awfully Short-Lived Optimism.

I'm in a really good mood this morning, mainly due to the success of my first undercover mission.

Not only have I established that Max's company isn't hiding its profits from the Inland Revenue - mainly because it isn't actually making any - but there's another gold star in the diary. And I can confirm that the size of the company one works for doesn't necessarily relate to other things either.

In fact, I'm so full of endorphins that I don't even get upset when I receive my first list of local vacancies from Trovit Jobs, athough I can't understand what any of the job titles mean. What the hell is an Riser Analyst? Or a PHP Developer?

I don't let my ignorance phase me, though. Why should I? It's not as if not having a clue ever bothers The Boss, after all. And look how much more than me he earns - despite his moaning.

I devise a clever plan of action, which involves jotting down all the unfamiliar jargon in readiness for the next time I have to phone one of the officers at Northwick Council on behalf of a constituent. One of them will definitely be able to translate - seeing as they're the undisputed experts in incomprehensible ways to explain perfectly simple concepts.

Not that I get a chance to put my plan into action today, as all the usual suspects must have died, or something equally pleasing. They're all conspicuous by their absence, so Greg and I get loads of proper casework done for a change and, by the time we close for the day, we're both feeling quite flushed with success (as opposed to hormones or panic).

It's not even raining when I make my way home from work, so I can concentrate on sucking in my stomach while I walk, to make up for not having done any exercises since the exercise ball catastrophe. I shall be super-fit by the time Max and I earn our next gold star - which will hopefully be fairly soon, given that we've remembered that marital sex is not a complete chore.

Recalling last night's events has put a big smile on my face by the time I turn into our street and nearly get run over by a total idiot in a little red convertible, of the type that Max always calls a "hairdresser's car."

I shout something vaguely abusive and have just held up two fingers when the car pulls in and parks just beyond our house. Oops.

And double oops - as the driver's door swings open and Ellen gets out, showing far more thigh than necessary. As per bloody usual.

I peer towards her in an attempt to spot cellulite, and have just been rewarded by the sight of a dark blobby patch, when the passenger door opens and Max almost falls out onto the pavement.

"Holy shit," I say, as Ellen spots me and shouts,

"Molly! Hi! Look what I picked up on my way home." She does one of those infuriating giggles, then says, "Your husband! So I thought I'd give him a cheap thrill and take him for a spin in my hot new car. What d'you think? Isn't she a babe?"

Gah. Ga-a-ah. And why do supposedly adult women feel the need to use the words, "hot" and "babe"?

"I wouldn't know," I say, immediately sounding like a repressed introvert who never has sex. And who definitely has no sense of humour. "I don't know many hot babes with whom to make a comparison."

"Oh, you are funny, Molly," says Ellen. "You always make me laugh."

I don't ask whether she normally laughs with me, or at me. I'm too busy glaring at Max, who looks awfully red in the face, and is very windswept. He really needs to wear his glasses more often, as he obviously hasn't spotted my expression.

"God, that was fun," he says. "Great, isn't she, Mol?"

She? She? Who or what are we talking about - Ellen, or the bloody car? I'm still trying to decide when Max says goodbye to Ellen and walks towards me.

"That's the way to live, isn't it?" he says. "I'd love to get one like that."

I can't help myself. Before I know it, my good mood has evaporated and I lose control of my tongue.

"Yeah," I say. "And you could grow a pony-tail to go with it, too. Then your mid-life crisis would be complete."

Someone seriously needs to invent a gag which activates automatically when one's blood pressure hits a certain level. It might be the saving of my marriage. If that same someone could also invent a way to make nymphomaniac neighbours with more money than sense disappear via telekinesis, taking their bloody sports cars with them.

Now I feel like the Volvo of women all over again. A hot babe I am not. Apart from this bloody hot flush, which I think may be rage.

Spontaneity, Prime Numbers And Filibustering. Not In That Order.

Honestly, sometimes Lords of the Realm get a bit above themselves. Talk about trying to make MPs' staff feel completely worthless!

Apparently we're all supposed to be invisible now, as well as underpaid and unappreciated. Not to mention being expected to donate our lunches to any passing MP, at least one of whom is quite patently suffering from a bad case of worms.

Greg's no more amused by the whole thing than I am.

"Did Carlotta text you about what Lord Howard said in the Lords?" he says, as soon as he arrives at work this morning. "She woke me up in the middle of the night."

"Yes, me too," I say. "I couldn't believe it. What a stupid man he is - unless he was talking in his sleep, of course."

"What on earth are you two talking about?" says Vicky. "Asleep? In the House of Lords? That's what peers normally do, isn't it?"

"Yes, but not in beds with duvets," I say. "Last night they were basically filibustering the Voting System Bill. They even resorted to discussing prime numbers at one point, or so Carlotta said."

For someone who claims to be interested in politics, rather than in just flirting with susceptible backbench MPs, Vicky's awfully badly-informed sometimes.

"What's filibustering?" she says. For God's sake, where does The Boss find these people?

Anyway, once I've explained, Vicky still looks none the wiser but, to her credit, returns to the really important point:

"So what did Lord Howard say about MPs' staff that annoyed you two so much?"

"He said - and I quote - that constituents will be upset if they think that MPs' staff are dealing with their concerns," I say.

"Seems the concept of voters wanting to be told the truth hasn't quite filtered through to everyone yet," says Greg. "Unless MPs are just worried about being had up under the Trades Descriptions Act. Maybe we should re-think using Andrew's auto-signature on 'his' letters, even though it'd be obvious to anyone but a muppet that it's only printed."

I'm not sure about that, actually. Constituents aren't half as aware of how MPs' offices work as we sometimes think they are. Even perfectly sensible ones seem to think that it really is their MP who handles their cases and that we caseworkers just take notes and then pass the information along. To the intellectual giants for whom we work.

It's probably part of the same syndrome as constituents' equally unshakeable belief - which they somehow sustain even while their television screens are showing live coverage of their MP sitting in the Commons Chamber during PMQs - that he or she is in their constituency seven days a bloody week.

"Too right," says Greg, when I mention it to him. "How many of the local tuition fees protests have been held on Thursdays when the House is sitting, for God's sake? You'd think university students could work out that it's only the poor old downtrodden staff that are stuck in the constituency offices mid-week."

Exactly. Poor old us - manning the barricades and not even recognised for our contribution. I can almost hear the violins. Unless Igor's outside with his balalaika.

"We have to know our place," says Greg, and goes out to buy extra chocolate, while I decide to cheer myself up by emailing Johnny. This doesn't make me feel any less downtrodden as, as soon as I tell him all about Max's mysterious fuel purchase, he's not impressed by my intelligence either.

"You're an idiot, Molly," he says. Admittedly affectionately, as far as I can tell, but even so...

"I am not," I say. "Max did have what could have been an innocent explanation."

"Your husband is clearly having an affair with that nymphomaniac, and you know it. Which makes your reluctance to take things further with me a bit ridiculous, don't you think? "

I don't think hitting a woman when she's down is very gentlemanly, but I don't say so. And I can't deny that Johnny has got a point.

I should face facts, accept that Max is definitely cheating, and get my own back, instead of always believing daft excuses about visits to Mrs Bloom - who just happens to live near Stalborough. Or so Max claimed when I confronted him late last night.

"I'm flying in to the UK next Wednesday," says Johnny. "So let's meet up again. We've been messing about for months, and I'm losing patience. Not to mention my sanity. You can't expect a man to live on emails and out-of-focus photographs for ever, however crazy about you I am."

God, I'm such a sucker for a compliment these days. Probably due to never getting any credit for anything I do - for which thanks, Lord Howard. I blame him for what happens next, which is that I decide that my life is sadly lacking in spontaneity, as well as acts of revenge.

"Okay, then," I say. "Let's do it."

As soon as I've pressed send, my stomach starts churning, and I want to get the email back. Why can't someone hurry up and invent a computer programme for that? It would save no end of people's bacon, not least that of MPs and inexperienced staff. Not that there's much chance of it happening any time soon - not now that Steve Jobs is on medical leave again.

So, after confirming that the offending email really is showing in my sent mail, and hasn't unaccountably but fortuitously hidden itself in my drafts folder instead, I sit and re-read it. My stomach feels a bit funny, and I really don't think I should clench my teeth like that.

"Argh, argh, argh," I say, as I re-read it for a second time. The noise may have been rather louder than I intended.

"What's up?" says Greg, appearing in the doorway. "And why the hell are you pulling that agonised face?"

I can't answer as by now I'm in literal as well as psychological pain. Can you crack a back tooth just by grimacing at your own stupidity?

"What's wrong with her?" says Vicky. As if I'm not even present. She'd make a good assistant to Lord Howard, now I come to think of it.

"Mol's doing the constituency office version of filbustering," says Greg. "Stress-related filling-busting."

Ha, ha, bloody ha. I'd hit back with a crushing rejoinder if I could bear to move my jaw.

OUT OF OFFICE REPLY - Molly Bennett, Office of Andrew Sinclair MP.

Thank you for your email addressed to Mr Sinclair.

The Constituency Office is now closed for the Christmas period, and will re-open at 09:00am on Tuesday 4 January 2011.

I will, of course, reply to your enquiry as soon as possible upon my return to work.

Molly Bennett, Senior Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

PS
What I don't tell you is that Greg and I will be taking it in turns to come in to the office during the week between Christmas and New Year, to check emails, post and answer-phone messages. This is a precaution, just in case any of you have genuine - as opposed to entirely imaginary - emergencies. (Not that there will be very much that we can do for you even if that is the case, given that the staff of every other agency we might need to deal with on your behalf are unlikely to return to work before they absolutely have to...)

PPS
Note that I also don't wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, in case I offend your religious principles. (Though I do hope you have both those things. Even if you don't call them that.)

PPPS I also don't mention that Connie and Josh have banned me from using my laptop over Christmas on the basis that we need to concentrate on bonding as a family. Connie says that she and Josh think it likely that, if we don't make more effort, Max and I will end up splitting up, in what she calls a classic "children leaving the nest" scenario.