A Hard Sell, In More Ways Than One.

Where did the weekend go - apart from travelling to and from Dorset, and fending off the paternal poison merchant? I'm so knackered when I wake up that I feel as if I haven't had any time off at all.

"Christ," says Greg, when I walk into the office. "You look like Night of the Living Dead."

"I know," I say. "Though there's no need to rub it in, just because you look so bright and bushy-tailed. What on earth is wrong with you?"

"I'm in love," he says. "And off the booze. Need all my wits about me when I'm with Jess if I'm to remember not to swear."

Greg's reformation is obviously part-time at best - seeing as he spends the whole morning swearing like a trooper. I can't say I blame him, as the usual suspects are out in force, accompanied by every single member of the difficult question brigade.

The phones just will not stop ringing, and by mid-afternoon both Greg and I are losing the plot - one of us slightly more than the other. Being teetotal might be lowering Greg's blood-alcohol levels, but it's doing the opposite in terms of his tolerance for being put on the spot.

"No, I'm afraid I don't know why the government is intervening in Libya while ignoring events in Yemen and Bahrain," he says, while wrapping the telephone cord several times around his neck, and then sliding dramatically on to the floor. "Nor why we've left Robert Mugabe in charge of Zimbabwe."

I'm facing a similarly tricky set of questions myself, except that Mrs Cookson - the constituent that I'm speaking to - adds a further ingredient to the mix.

"We stood by and allowed a genocide to take place in Rwanda," she says. "Our bloody foreign policy has everything to do with money and oil, and nothing whatsoever to do with what is right. No wonder Britain's reputation is being destroyed."

I have no idea what to say to any of this, given that my own musings on the subject seem to give rise to increasingly cynical answers, so I make an indeterminate noise in reply - which doesn't impress Mrs Cookson at all.

"Do you know how many day centres could be saved for the cost of a Tomahawk missile?" she says. God knows why, seeing as she obviously knows the answer already - unlike me, I'm embarrassed to say.

There's nothing for it but to let her answer her own question - which satisfies constituents more often than you'd expect. Then she rings off, having first been promised that I'll make all her views known to Liam Fox - which I plan to do in mind-numbingly microscopic detail.

It's about time Ministers had a taste of how tiring it is to be asked tricky questions, especially when you're not sure what your responses should be.

"Stop yawning, Molly," says Greg, unwrapping a Twix. "You'll set me off as well, if you're not careful. I'm bloody knackered after all that."

I say nothing, as I've got my hand over my mouth. At least I'm trying to comply.

Greg gives me a suspicious look, and then he continues:

"Honestly, sometimes I wonder if constituents realise that we aren't even in power now. I feel I'm being expected to defend Coalition policies today - don't you?"

"Yes," I say. "Though I suppose there is some pleasure to be had from the fact that we're both making such a bloody awful job of doing so."

"Hmm," he says, taking a large bite of chocolate, and then staring up at the ceiling while chewing thoughtfully. "There is always that."

Sometimes it's easy to forget that there is an upside to being in opposition, in that we're no longer responsible for Government policy. In theory, we could get away with providing no more than a sympathetic ear to complaints. Which seems to be all that Max wants from me, when I finally get home from work.

He's sitting at the dining room table, holding a piece of paper in his hand, and looking almost as tired as I do. This is really saying something.

"What's that?" I say. "Is it a letter from work?"

"Yes, he says. "Confirming in writing that I didn't get the job - my job."

He rubs his eyes, and then pinches the bridge of his nose, while he waits for me to read the HR Director's justification for the decision to choose someone else for the post.

The phrases: "more appropriate experience" and "transferable skills" are repeated several times, and "necessary" is mis-spelled more than once. "Sincerely" seems to have posed the greatest challenge.

"Bloody hell." I say. "Even The Boss can write a more literate letter than that. So do you know the person who actually got your job?"

Max nods, but that's his only response. Honestly, talk about getting blood out of a stone.

"Well, who is it, then?" I say. "And was he or she really a better candidate than you?"

"He's a young guy, called Stuart," says Max. "Though you'll never guess what his supposedly-relevant experience is in."

I shouldn't think I will - given that I could write what I know about high-end furniture, or family-run department stores, on the back of my hand. Probably with some space to spare. Max is the expert, after all. Or was, until he lost his job.

"No idea," I say. "Was he a furniture-maker, like you used to be?"

"No," says Max."He wasn't. He did three months at Leather Village or whatever it used to be called, and then he got sacked. And, before that, he spent five years selling used cars."

"Cars?" I say. "What the hell have cars got to do with furniture?"

"About as much as Leather Village has, I should think." Max's expression almost says it all. "My company's obviously decided to make a quick buck at all costs, and sod the long-term consequences to their reputation. Mary Portas would have a fit."

"She's not the only one," I say. "Constituents have been complaining about much the same thing to me all day, though admittedly they were referring to Britain and oil."

Surrealism In Action....And Not A Moustache In Sight (Except Possibly Mine).

Honestly, has everyone gone mad? Even when you disregard the usual suspects, I still don't seem to have had a conversation with a sane person all day.

"Where do I stand on *AV?" says The Boss, upon his return from the Easemount Day Centre - where he's spent lunchtime terrifying the hell out of old people by warning that the Coalition is bound to cut the services on which they depend to shreds.

"I don't know, Andrew," I say. "You'll have to make your own decision on this one. Though it would help if you could hurry up about it, seeing as I've got lots of letters from constituents who want to know exactly that."

He scowls as me as if I've said something unreasonable, then turns towards Greg, who is trying his best to ignore him by staring out of the window.

"Gregory," he says. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me: AV - for or against?"

"It's a bloody stupid system," says Greg, with an air of finality.

Andrew shakes his head, sighs heavily and then starts walking round and round in circles until he finally veers off into the kitchen and comes to a halt. You can tell he's definitely not himself when he offers to make us all a coffee. Probably because Vicky's still so annoyed that he used her as a human shield that she's rung in sick today.

"We'll have coffee and a sit down in the Oprah Room - and discuss this properly," he says. "We could even have biscuits. Mrs Arthurton gave me some Garibaldis before I left the day centre. She said she thought I still looked a bit hungry after my lunch."

So, ten minutes later, Greg and I are sitting on the sofa, sipping at the worst coffee we've ever tasted, wondering what's happened to the biscuits and wishing we were elsewhere. Meanwhile, Andrew sits in the armchair, brushes the crumbs from his beard, and looks at us both expectantly.

No-one seems to want to start the ball rolling but, as usual, I crack first. No resilience, that's my trouble - I'd make an utterly useless spy.

"I'm most bothered about the fact that AV seems to have been the only deal-breaker for the LibDems," I say. "Unlike tuition fees, or cuts to Housing Benefit, or any of the other things they've rolled over on."

"That's just bloody typical," says Greg. "They've been driven by self-interest all along."

"Yes, well," says Andrew, fidgeting a bit and looking down at the floor. "Talking of which, what do you think the effect of AV would be on me?"

"You? Total buggeration, I should think,"  says Greg. "Seeing as half your constituents are completely mad. Can you imagine the Beales brothers managing to comprehend how the AV system works? They'd end up accidentally voting for everyone except you, even if they've usually voted for you in the past. Which I rather doubt."

Andrew looks aghast for a moment, and then seems to pull himself together. He stands up, and takes the cup out of my hand.

"Right - so I'm against AV, then,"  he says. "Now that's sorted, you two can get back to work. You can't just sit around here all day."

He's right for once, as I've got lots to do if I'm to be able to leave on time this evening. Which is important, as I'm supposed to be doing the cooking for once.

It's probably a measure of how depressed Max is, that's he's even considering eating something that I've prepared, seeing as he normally doesn't trust me in the kitchen at all. But he's got an important meeting after work - or so he claims.

So I'm standing in the kitchen stirring a rather lumpy-looking sauce for Macaroni Cheese when I realise that I haven't spoken to Dad for days. Or to Connie, either.

Never try to do two things at once when one of them involves cooking, that's all I can say. By the time I've spent half an hour listening to Dad moaning about Dinah's "devil child" and what the hell is wrong with the UK when we can't fly British citizens out of Libya like "even the bloody French" have managed to do, the sauce is looking even more dubious than before.

To make matters worse, I can't get seem to get hold of Connie at all, which always makes me fret like mad. She's not answering her phone, or responding to messages or texts.

"What's up, Mum?" says Josh. "You look even more of a stress-head than usual."

When I've explained that his sister seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, and that my concentration is therefore shot, Josh takes one look at the Macaroni Cheese, declares it ruined - "as predicted" - and suggests we go and watch Channel 4 News instead.

"We can have a mother and son bonding session while discussing world events," he says. "By which time Connie'll probably have finished showering or watching Eastenders or whatever she's doing while she's ignoring your calls, and then she'll get in touch with you."

This seems like a good plan but, although I stare dutifully at the screen, I don't really seem to be taking much in - so I haven't got a clue what leads to Josh's Big Idea to reduce the budget deficit.

"Mum," he says. "Are we still an Empire, or something?"

Sometimes I despair of comprehensive education. What sort of question is that for someone who's supposedly got GCSEs and an A-Level?

"Well, not exactly," I say. "Though there is the Commonwealth. And the Crown Territories. And -"

"Never mind about the detail. All I want to know is: do we own any other countries?"

Never mind the detail? Who does Josh think he is - an MP? I make allowances, though, on the basis that Film Studies probably isn't much use in situations such as this.

"Um, yes, I suppose so," I say. "In a manner of speaking. Why?"

"Problem solved, then," he says. "Why don't we sell one of them? We just phone up China and say, "Hey, China - do you want to buy Australia? I bet they'd jump at the chance."'

While I'm trying to think of an answer to that, my mobile beeps and - finally - there's a text from Connie. Not that it's very informative, considering I've heard nothing from her for ages.

"Mum, I'm fine," it says. "But I can't do a pull-up."

There's nothing for it but to go for a very long lie-down, until people start making sense again.



*AV - The Alternative Vote, which I have trouble understanding unless I am concentrating very hard. Which means that it'll be completely beyond the grasp of certain people I could mention...

Getting On With It. Whatever IT Is.

I spend all morning ranting about The Boss, until Max snaps.

"For God's sake, Mol," he says. "You're starting to sound like one of the mad constituents you're always moaning about."

"That's because I am being driven mad," I say. "It must be contagious."

"Well, don't come too close, then. I don't want to catch it. I need all my wits about me."

In response to my raised eyebrow, he continues, rather portentously:

"Because I am going... into the loft."

Honestly, Michael MacIntyre's loft sketch couldn't be any more accurate. Max isn't getting away from me that easily, though. I follow him onto the landing, and stand underneath the ladder, kicking at the bottom rung for emphasis.

"I think I should try and get another job," I say. "Before I become completely certifiable. Or kill an elected official while the balance of my mind is disturbed."

"Geonwfttuten," says Max. Or words to that effect. What the hell is he doing up there?

"What did you say? I do wish you wouldn't mumble."

He sticks his head out of the loft, rolls his eyes at me and says:

"Get. On. With. It. Then. Before you drive me insane as well. And stop kicking the bloody ladder. You're making me nervous."

Get on with it, then - yes, thanks, Max. It's hardly a considered opinion, is it?

But I suppose he might be right - for once - so I get out my laptop, resist the temptation to chat to Connie on Facebook, and open a new document. Then I type: Molly Bennett - Curriculum Vitae at the top and stare blankly at the page for the next hour.

After a further two hours have passed, I've drafted what may qualify as the worst CV that anyone's ever seen and, to make matters worse, I haven't even finished writing about my current job yet. It's much more difficult describing what working for an MP involves than I expected it to be.

"Doing your CV, then, Mol?" says Max. "How's it going?"

He dumps several dust-covered boxes onto the table and completely buggers my concentration in the process. I put my head in my hands and groan in lieu of a reply.

"That bad, eh?" Max pats me on the back, and says, "I know you work for a politician, but you could always try just telling the truth for once."

Somehow I manage to avoid all mention of pots and kettles, and to stick to the point. God knows how. Sometimes I am a paragon of virtue.

 "I don't think saying that I deal with all the shit that happens in the Constituency Office - while pretending to be the MP - would go down too well," I say. "I'll have to ring Jen and ask for her advice. You're no help at all."

Max gives me a two-fingered salute and heads back upstairs in search of more boxes of Connie's junk. (Also known as Connie Bennett's important sentimental possessions - not to be thrown away.) I smoke a cigarette in a vain attempt to marshal my thoughts, and then dial Jen's number.

"Don't ask me," she says, as soon as I've finished explaining why I've called. "I still haven't got another job. Which makes it even harder not to punch people when they say that now they wish they'd voted Labour in the *GE."

"I know what you mean," I say. "That is annoying, isn't it? But you've had loads of interviews - so at least your CV must look good."

"Thanks," says Jen. "So the problem occurs when employers actually see me, you mean?"

Which rather goes to prove that it is definitely time for me to find another job. I have obviously lost the ability to assess the impact of an ill-chosen phrase.

"No," I say. "Sorry. I meant your CV impresses them enough to want to interview you. And you always look good anyway, Jen."

"It's irrelevant what I look like," she says. "They only ask to meet me because they want the inside track on what it's like to work for an MP, and to see what MPs staff are like in the flesh. Then - usually right at the end of the bloody interview when you think it's all gone really well - they mention the expenses scandal, and you can feel that you're buggered. Tainted by association."

Oh, God, I hadn't even thought of that. So not only is it no advantage to have worked for an MP, it's the bloody kiss of death.

I wonder if this is how George Osborne feels when people keep asking, "What's Plan B?"



*GE - General Election 2010. When some of you must have accidentally voted in some Tories and hardly any LibDems.

The Winter Of Discontent Arrives Earlier Than Expected.

The first thing Greg says to me this morning is,

"What on earth's the matter with your face?"

After seeing my expression, it's also the last thing he says to me, until lunchtime when The Boss phones with some news: Marie-Louise has gone off sick.

"So, you'll just have to do my London diary until I can get someone in," he says.

"Why can't Carlotta do the diary?" I ask. "She's in London. That does help, you know."

"She's too busy," says The Boss.

I seriously doubt that. I'm pretty sure Carlotta still takes a siesta every day - something to do with her cultural heritage. But I let it go, as I'm more concerned to find out what's wrong with Marie-Louise. She sounded fine when I spoke to her earlier, but Andrew side-steps the question when I ask him.

"She's probably got personal problems," he says," and anyway, it shouldn't take long to find a replacement. I have a plan."

I really don't like the sound of this. Andrew's plans have a nasty habit of resulting in him shooting himself firmly in both feet. Or in my feet, actually, as one of my unwritten contractual duties is to put myself in the line of fire. Also, he sounds alarmingly smug, so it's obvious he's up to something. But what?

I decide to ring Carlotta and find out what has really happened.

"Ah, the poor girl has just had enough," says Carlotta. "Andrew has been horrible today. Marie was in tears by 10:30am and locked herself in the loo for ages. When she finally came back in to the office, he told her not to be a baby, and then - the very next minute - she said she didn't feel well and was going home."

"Christ," I say. "Sounds as if it must've been bad."

"It could have been even worse," says Carlotta. "When she got home, she sent me an email saying she was going to resign."

"Oh, my God! Why didn't The Boss tell me that?"

My squeak alerts Greg, who decides it's worth risking approaching my desk to find out what's going on, so I share the receiver between us. Hope he thinks the blotches are catching.

"Andrew doesn't know," says Carlotta. "I talked Marie out of it, with stories of what the coalition's going to do to the unemployment figures in the next few months. So now she is just off sick - which still leaves the problem of his diary."

"Bloody hell," says Greg. "I can't understand it. He was miles better on Friday so I thought things were looking up. In fact, he was as happy as Larry all week, especially at conference."

"Pfft," says Carlotta. "Today he is determined to upset everyone. Even though he shouldn't even be here, seeing as it's still Recess. He started to dictate some rubbish to me before I'd managed to take my coat off this morning, then said I was a 'bloody amateur' when I asked him to wait a minute."

"Did he ask you to do the diary, then?" I say.

"Yes," says Carlotta. "I told him: Andrew, if you want me to do that, then you have to write all the articles you promised those people at the fringe meetings yourself. Solo. Then he changed his mind. Sorry, Molly."

Sorry, my arse. Bloody, bloody hell. I wonder if Carlotta's going to get to keep the fees for these articles, like she did with the last one she wrote? I bet she is. The Boss doesn't care about money half as much as he cares about publicity - except when it comes to my salary, of course.

He won't be intending to pay me extra for doing his diary, or approve any overtime. He'll just say I need to "buckle down" and remind me of the clause in my contract that covers "any other reasonable duties." That's all well and good, but I do wish IPSA wouldn't leave it to The Boss to define reasonable. It's not a concept that he's overly familiar with.

So it seems I am doomed to become progressively more undervalued by the minute, given the unpaid hours I'm going to end up putting in until Marie-Louise comes back. I am tempted to write to Derek Simpson and ask him what he's going to do about it. I bet he'll say he's far too busy planning mass strikes, and leaning on Ed Miliband to bother with the likes of me.

I really must cancel my union membership, especially now I know what Derek earns - and about his alleged penchant for Thailand. Maybe I could get Dad to put a word in for me, if he should run into Derek during his next visit? Or maybe Porn-Poon could exercise her charms on my behalf? Though, actually, I'd prefer not to think about her charms and their effects.

Carlotta faxes me through all the urgent diary stuff, and forwards me the diary-related emails. She says she'll send everything else in the post. This does not improve my mood. In fact, I am so cross that I spend five minutes cursing and kicking the filing cabinet. Then I have to spend another fifteen minutes trying to get the bottom drawer to open.

Greg starts laughing, so I try to wither him with a look. It doesn't work, even though my face resembles the Infected more than usual.

"Trying to add repairwoman to your job description too?" he says.

"Shut up, Greg - it's not funny. I haven't got time for this! Not with all the bloody diary stuff to do."

"Cheer up, Mol," says Greg. "Think of all the fun you can have, sending The Boss to the wrong locations."

Huh. I wish I could send the usual suspects to the wrong locations. To far-flung destinations, and with one-way tickets. Maybe Derek could take them with him, next time he goes? Miss Chambers rings just before we close, to complain that the man who owns the local Post Office won't serve her.

"Why not?"

"Because he didn't like me calling him a Paki," she says. Or screams, to be more accurate. "Do something about it. I don't know what this country's coming to."

"Nor do I," I say, though I have a horrible feeling that she is oblivious to sarcasm.

Now I come to think of it, I can't see what Marie-Louise has to complain about. Being a Diary Secretary would be a doddle, compared to casework. Imagine only having to deal with the logistics of room bookings, travel and acceptance letters! And I wouldn't have to deal with Miss Chambers any more. But, of course, I shall do as I'm told, as usual. How I envy that Post Office man his self-respect.

A Depressing Tale of the Shambles that is Housing Benefit.

Today's surgery seems to be all about Housing Benefit. The whole system is a shambles. For every Somali family living in million-pound luxury in the West End, there are God knows how many other people struggling to keep even the most modest roof over their heads.

Today we have two such enquiries. The first is from Mr & Mrs Farrow, a nice couple in their late fifties. Mrs Farrow is chronically sick and can't work, and Mr Farrow recently got made redundant. They have been forced to claim Housing Benefit for their two-bedroomed council bungalow. So what, you might say - their housing costs are being covered, aren't they? Well, yes, except that the Farrow children are grown up and have moved away. So the Council have decided that they are under-occupying their house, and will only pay a proportion of their rent as Housing Benefit.

Mr & Mrs Farrow have no income with which to make up the shortfall and with her health problems and his age and lack of IT skills, I can't see this being resolved by either of them finding employment any time soon. They are terrified that they will fall into arrears with their rent, and end up being evicted. They've been told that they could always seek an exchange to a one-bedroomed house - but they haven't got the money to pay removal expenses, even if they could find someone to swap with.

Not only that, but they've already had to bail out one of their sons by allowing him to move back home on more than one occasion, and this wouldn't even have been posible had they not had the other bedroom. There seems to be no option but for them to try to "find" the additional rent from Mr Farrow's Jobseeeker's Allowance. The Boss agrees to write to the Council and beg them to use their discretion, but I'm not optimistic about the result.

The business about the Farrow's son is thrown into sharp relief later on in surgery, when Gemma McKeown comes in to see The Boss. It's unusual for someone as young as Gemma to even visit their MP - she's only twenty-three, but has been self-supporting for some five years after a breakdown in relations with her family. She's also recently lost her job, and it looks as if she will soon be homeless too.

I am shocked to hear that young people under the age of 25 are only entitled to approximately 50% of the Housing Benefit payable to people over that age. How stupid is that? Their landlords don't charge them less just because they are younger. The amount of Housing Benefit Gemma receives isn't even enough to cover the cost of her room in a shared house in one of Northwick's grottiest areas, and homelessness is a very real threat if something isn't done. She doesn't have parents like Mr & Mrs Farrow who will take her in.

Her chances of employment don't seem much better than the Farrows' either, as the only jobs she's been qualified to apply for so far have all been on contracts which guarantee only between zero and four hours a week. Nothing like enough hours to reassure her that she will be able to earn enough to pay her rent, even if she succeeds in getting one of the jobs. God knows what we can do to help her, but I'm going to try bloody hard to think of something.

My head hurts by the end of surgery, and even Andrew is uncharacteristically quiet. I think it's dawned on him that he can't blame this Housing Benefit fiasco on the coalition, and he was even sensitive enough  - for once - to avoid adding to the constituents' misery by scare-mongering as to what the ConDems' proposed changes to Housing Benefit might do to make matters worse.

All I can think of is that Connie and Josh could find themselves in Gemma's situation, if Max and I were ever to split up, and become unable to provide a roof over their heads in an emergency. I am going to turn Johnny down. Any transient pleasure he might be able to provide would be as nothing compared to how shitty I would feel if I contributed to making my children homeless. I might be capable of low cunning in the face of the long Recess, but I am fundamentally a good person. At least, I hope I am. Who knows - I might even still be a socialist at heart?

Ideology, Embarrassment & Compulsive Lying.

I'm starting to think it may be a good thing that long-serving MPs become so disconnected from their constituents. How else would they retain any certainty about their own political ideology? The more I hear and investigate constituents' real life stories, the more confused I get. It's like trying to work out the guilty party during one of Josh and Connie's arguments. Hopeless.

Mrs Hetherington attends today's surgery. She's at university as a mature student, has teenage children like me (poor woman), and had previously worked full-time for more than twenty years. She's incandescent with fury, having discovered that she won't be entitled to sign on during her college vacation, if she's unable to find a summer job. Her husband's self-employed and his business is collapsing. The Boss nods sympathetically as he tries to think of a way to blame this on the coalition. Then she hits him with it.

"There's a single parent on my course who's allowed to sign on during vacations," she says.

"Ah, well, obviously someone has to care for her children, and she does only have one income," says The Boss, looking relieved.

"Benefits, not income," says Mrs H. "And her daughter is fifteen."

"Um," says The Boss and looks helplessly at me.

I'm in no mood to help out and, anyway, I want to hear his answer.

He says, "Ah."

"And she has never worked a day in her life," says Mrs H. "Whereas I've been paying tax ever since I left school. Explain that!"

The Boss looks relieved. There's a Party line on this one.

"But surely you'd agree that it's in everyone's interests for single parents to be encouraged to train and find employment, wouldn't you?" he says.

"No," says Mrs H. "Be bloody nice if you politicians encouraged people to work and to stay married for a change."

The Boss has no answer to this. Nor do I, though at least there won't be any letters to write on the back of this particular appointment. No idea to whom I'd address Mrs H's enquiry, or how I'd word it. The Boss takes his embarrassment out on me.

"You were no help, no bloody help at all," he says, as Mrs H takes her leave.

"Well, I don't know what I think about it," I say. "Do you?"

"She's a bigot," says The Boss, with no trace of irony.


In the afternoon, I email Johnny the best of the photos I finally managed to take last night by virtue of waiting 'til everyone had gone to bed, and then locking myself in the bathroom. I had to make convincing farting noises while I twisted around like a lunatic to make sure the loo wasn't in shot. Whole thing took ages, and it was after 4:00am when I finally got to bed. How have I come to this? Of course, I change my mind and want to retrieve the email as soon as I've sent it, and then spend the rest of the afternoon panicking, especially when I get an Out of Office reply from Johnny. Bet his bloody PA is showing my arse to everyone at the Global Oil Company water cooler right this minute.

Then there's another call from Josh's school. For Godsake. Josh has apparently "failed to control his skateboard,"which has flown up into the air and smashed the window of the Deputy Head's office. Mr Thumb says that he had intended to confiscate the skateboard for a week, but has now changed his mind.

"Why?" I ask. Josh would be much safer minus that damned thing. His teeth looked perfectly normal until he took up skateboarding, and I'm sure he was more reasonable before all the blows to the head.

"The championship," says Mr Thumb.

"Pardon?" I have no idea what he's talking about.

"Well, Josh was saying that he's in the National Skateboarding Championships this weekend, so I felt it would be only right to delay his punishment until next week."

What? Josh can't stay upright on that damned thing for more than 20 seconds, without a catastrophe. No way is he capable of participating in a National Championship. Unless it's the Unintentional Comedy on a Skateboard Championship - which I don't think exists, though it certainly should.

"Don't you agree?" says Mr Thumb.

I am still barely capable of speech, so I just mumble a pathetic 'Thank you," and hang up. How the hell did Max and I raise a compulsive liar?  And why didn't I expose Josh's dishonesty to teach him a lesson? This abdication of parental responsibility and discipline is probably how serial killers are made, and certainly gang lords.


There's finally some good news when I get home. Connie's got the IT job! She's so excited, particularly at the thought of flexi-time, for some unknown reason. Max feigns enthusiasm pretty well, but later tells me that his boss warned of further branch closures this morning. God knows how we'd manage on just my pathetic income. We'd probably have to separate to survive. I'll have to ask The Boss what he suggests.

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.