On Suspecting That The World May Be More Three-Dimensional Than Was Previously Thought.

"So," I say, when Max finally wakes up this morning. "Lots and lots of love, eh? Or, rather, L - U - V."

"What?" he says. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"This," I say, as I put his leaving card into his hand. "Hardly what you'd expect someone who's just a colleague to write, is it?"

Max doesn't even pause for thought, even though he still looks half-asleep. He's already decided how to play this one.

"Honestly, Molly," he says. "Bambi - I mean, Gemma - is just being friendly, that's all."

"Yes," I say. "And black is white, and the earth is flat."

Max glares at me, and then stays silent for the rest of the day, though I try not to admit that I've noticed. He's only trying to make me feel that I've over-reacted, and if I don't watch out, I'll start feeling guilty, or seeing shades of grey all over the place.

Displacement activity's urgently required, so I phone Greg for a chat. It's the best I can do at such short notice.

"How was the march, then?" I say. "Did you behave yourself?"

"Yes, I did - and it was really good," he says. "Apart from those bloody so-called anarchists and the negative coverage on the TV. Oh, and Ed, of course."

"Ah," I say. "I did wonder what you'd make of his speech."

Greg sighs heavily before he replies, which doesn't bode well at all.

"Ed is awful," he says. "We all left at 3:00pm when he started to speak. I'm glad we did, since I found out the rest of what he said."

Honestly, what hope has Ed got if Greg can't handle listening to a word he says? It just doesn't bear thinking about. We've got a General Election to win - sometime in the next four years.

"Didn't you say Max is always moaning about how the Party only cares about the public sector?" says Greg.

"Yes," I say. "The Party and the unions. Max says we're all completely out of touch with anyone who doesn't work for the state, or isn't on benefits."

"Hmm," says Greg, "Sometimes I think he could be right."

The drawn-out pause that follows this remark only serves to remind me how many constituents seem to share Max's views - and who claim that people only engage in vocal opposition to cuts that affect them directly, and don't give a damn about anyone else. Whatever happened to ideology, and taking a wider view of what's best for society?

Now I'm starting to sound like Dad, which is very unnerving, to say the least. He's always saying that democracy is government by the most vocal minority  - which is depressing enough in itself, but isn't half as bad as what Greg asks next:

"You read that article about the People's Policy Forum in The Economist, Mol?"

"No," I say. "Since when do you read that?"

Honestly, what is happening to everyone I know? You just can't tell who is harbouring right wing views these days. Apart from Nick Clegg, of course.

"I don't," says Greg. "Usually - but Carlotta's just emailed me the link. Hang on, I'll send it on to you."

"No need," I say, opening my in-box and scrolling through the spam. "It looks like she's already copied me in."

"Read it, then - and concentrate. It says we need to face up to unpleasant facts. I'll call you in five minutes, to give you time to take it all in."

Greg's so bossy sometimes - whereas I am far too compliant for my own good. Or for my comfortable view of the world.

I read as fast as I can, shudder a bit, and then grab my mobile and go outside for a cigarette. I may even decide to smoke two in a row.

"Hello again, Mol," says Greg, when he rings back. "Still believe the earth is flat?"

"No," I say. "Nor am I convinced that black is white, or even grey. Unfortunately for Max and a certain semi-literate faun."

PMT, Predictability And Some Unwanted Colour Theory.

I've got a funny feeling I may have PMT today, though I'd rather die than admit that to Max and Josh. Either that, or I'm suffering from quiet-day-at-the-office-itis.

I spend all day bursting into tears at inopportune moments, not that there ever is an opportune time to wail like a baby. Unless you're an X-Factor winner.

Greg thinks I've gone off my rocker, and starts The Campaign to Cheer Molly Up. He even donates one of his Twixes to the cause. It doesn't work, and just makes me weepier instead. Unexpected kindness always does that.

"What on earth's the matter?" he says, when I hand him the bar back. "It must be awful if even a Twix won't fix it."

"Nothing," I say. "I'm fine."

Big fat tears roll down my face at the same time, though luckily the crying isn't of the noisy hiccuping and choking kind. That would be even more embarrassing.

"Well, unless you've got some bizarre eye infection, I think there is. You look a mess. And move that invitation from the Mayor out of the way - it's getting soaked."

Greg passes me a tissue from one of those little travel packs his mum gives him. I'm sure she thinks he's still a Boy Scout.

"It's probably just because no-one's told me about anything terrible today," I say, trying to wipe off all the supposedly-waterproof mascara that seems to be everywhere except on my eyelashes.

"And that would be logical because?"

"Well, when there aren't any calls from constituents whose problems are worse than mine, having a wallow doesn't seem as self-indulgent as it usually would."

"Hmm,"  says Greg.

He doesn't sound convinced, though I'm sure I'm right. This always happens at this time of year. The phones get progressively less busy, and the volume of letters tails off to a comparative trickle.

You'd think the opposite would be the case, seeing as it's commonly thought that rates of depression and suicide rise in December, but we don't usually see much sign of that in our office. It's as if everyone - even the usual suspects - is too busy to be depressed until they've at least finished eating Christmas dinner.

If you were new to casework, you'd probably breathe a sigh of relief and enjoy the relative peace and quiet, but old hands like me know better. To us, this unusual calm speaks volumes - because we know it just presages the furious storm that always hits in January.

"Maybe I'm miserable because I know what's coming?" I say.

"Probably," says Greg. "You do keep going on about your life being predictable."

This wasn't what I meant, but I suppose he might have a point. I decide to consider what changes I could make to my life while I'm on my lunch-break - whilst simultaneously buying all the Christmas presents I was supposed to have bought during yesterday's shopping trip.

I wander around the mall, trying to ignore the bloody music. I can't believe that they still insist on playing Merry Christmas Everybody. I bet even Noddy Holder's sick of the sound of it, though thinking about glam rock does give me an idea.

Perhaps I should buy something new to wear? In a bright colour, for once. Max is always moaning about my penchant for black, and it is a bit draining on the complexion. At my age, as he'd no doubt feel compelled to add.

By the time I get back to work, I'm feeling much more cheerful, even if I have spent more than I can afford.

"That's better," says Greg. "First smile you've cracked all day."

"I bought a gorgeous new knitted dress," I say. "To wear to the Party Christmas meal. What do you think?"

I pull it out of the bag and hold it up against myself. I even do a couple of twirls. It's a real Anthea Redfern moment.

Greg opens his mouth to speak, but Vicky beats him to it:

"You do know purple is the colour of sexual frustration?" she says.

The phone rings before I can think of a cutting reply, so I answer that instead of her.

"Hello, dear,"  says Mum. "How are you? How's your Christmas shopping going?"

"Well, I got a bit distracted," I say. "And bought myself a purple dress. But I'm not at all sure about it now."

I glare at Vicky while I say this, but she's got her back to me, so the effort is wasted.

"Oh, I love purple," says Mum. "It always reminds me of that wonderful poem by Jenny Joseph. What's it called - Warning?"

Christ, I'd forgotten about that. As if wearing something that screams, "No sex life" wouldn't be quite bad enough, now it seems I'd also be signalling that I'm on the way to becoming an eccentric old woman. I might as well have gone the whole hog and bought a bloody red hat as well.

I'm going to get a refund on my way home. There's no point in advertising that you're desperate, is there?   

A Strategy To Produce Better MPs, By Molly Bennett, Aka The Mother Teresa Of Northwick

While I've been pole-axed by swirling rooms and trying to think philosophical thoughts, I've been mulling over the state of our politicians. Especially the one who ate my bloody sandwich this lunchtime.

It's occurred to me that MPs should be made to take sabbaticals, particularly as more and more of them seem to be becoming professional politicians before they've had any work or even life experience outside politics. Six to eight weeks a year ought to do it.

I know MPs already get months off when Parliament's in recess, but that's not what I mean. I'd make them take the same (i.e. much shorter) holidays as the rest of us (except for teachers like Ellen), then spend the rest of each Recess working at the sharp end. Under assumed identities, so they don't just get to see the bits that have been pre-gilded to impress them.

If The Boss had to spend a week or two in a hospital ward as an orderly, and then another few as a debt adviser, for example, he'd have a much better idea of the real situations his constituents face. And of the obstacles and possible solutions to their problems. Any attempt he made to influence policy formation as a result would at least have the virtue of being genuinely informed.

Andrew used to get some real-life input from constituents during surgeries, of course, but that was in the days when he was really listening. I don't know what's happened to him lately - whether he's burned-out, chronically tired, or just distracted by whatever is going on with Vicky - but he doesn't really seem to absorb what he's being told any more.

The only exception to this was the Leylandii business the other day, which is what got me started thinking about this, actually. I know his solution was completely impractical - as well as probably illegal - but at least he saw Mr and Mrs Parker's situation and really understood it, for once. And he brought it up afterwards, too. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

Maybe The Boss doesn't usually worry about the outcomes of constituents' cases because he's started to believe that his almighty power as an MP will override everything, whether it be social security regulations, or waiting lists, or even the housing shortage. Even so, it's depressing that, the longer he's been an MP, the less interest he seems to take in what happens to the people he promises we'll try to help.

I mean, it's nice that Greg and I are trusted to do a good job without any oversight, but I can't understand how Andrew can just forget about most of the constituents once they leave surgery. You'd think curiosity would kick in sometimes, if nothing else. Unless he just has a short attention span, like Dad. (And look where that's got him, not to mention me and Dinah.)

Greg and I have completely different attitudes. Even when we take annual leave, the first thing we do upon returning to work is to check what's been happening with our cases while we've been absent. That's if we haven't already phoned in during our holiday, especially if a significant deadline's been scheduled to occur while we're away.

We don't do it because it's our job - but because these people are real to us. (Too real in the case of the usual suspects, but that's a different issue.) At the risk of sounding like Mother Teresa, I wish that Andrew still seemed to care as much as we do. He was a much better MP when he did.

Anyway, I'm going off on a bit of a tangent, so I need to re-focus on the main argument - I really hope Mum's rambling Kevin Turvey thing isn't hereditary - and explain why my sabbaticals suggestion would be good for MPs in other ways, too.

When Michael Portillo spent a week living with that single mother on benefits, it didn't do him any harm, did it? Even though he didn't go undercover, it did bring him good publicity. I've had a sneaking affection for him ever since, and I bet I'm not the only one.

It also helped that, although Portillo did look completely out of his depth, he did at least seem aware that he was in deep water. I'm starting to wonder if Andrew thinks he can bloody walk on it. And as far as his political philosophy goes, well - there's more to that than smoking a pipe and wandering around trying to look like Jean-Paul Sartre, isn't there?

So, to sum up - quick, before Channel 4 News starts - if MPs really want to help anyone, and to make policies with a chance of achieving their aims, then a regular reality check would be A Bloody Good Thing.

There endeth the sermon as delivered by Molly Bennett in uncharacteristically dictatorial mode. This may be due to vertigo, but hopefully normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

Cousins Reincarnated, Duty Calls and Paranoia.

I'm quite glad there isn't a supermarket surgery again this week, as it allows me a lie-in, and postpones the moment when I have to talk to Max. When I do finally get up, he's weirdly attentive and jumps around making cups of tea and a cooked breakfast. He doesn't even mention Germany. I hate how he does that - makes me have to broach any subject that he knows is going to lead to an argument. Makes me look so confrontational.


I decide to get the parental phone calls over and done with instead. Mum and Ted aren't in - probably on the first of their twice-daily trips to Waitrose. Dad is at home, but says he hasn't got time to talk to me because he's about to leave on a trip  - he's going away for a few days to Cousin Mike's. I thought Cousin Mike was dead, but Dad assures me he's alive and well, and living near Heathrow with his second wife. Dad says he's at an age now when family becomes more important, and so he wants to spend time with his siblings and cousins while he can. I ask him for Mike's phone number and he gives it to me, though he says he thinks they'll be out and about most of the weekend.


The duty calls have taken a fraction of the time they usually take, and now the rest of the day is stretching ahead unappealingly. I ring Dinah.

"Dad's gone to visit Cousin Mike," I say.

"Thought he was dead," says Dinah. "We went to his funeral. Remember?"

"That's what I thought too, but Dad says that was Cousin Fred."

"Christ," says Dinah. "We have far too many bloody relatives, living or dead. Where's Mike live then?"

"Near Heathrow."

"Heathrow? Airport? You serious? Give me the phone number." Dinah is so bossy.

"Why?" I am completely confused.

"Well, how d'you get from Thailand to the UK?" says Dinah. "God, you're dim, given what you do for a living. No wonder the country's in such a mess."

I give her Mike's number. I don't want to know what's going to happen next.


I spend the rest of the day thinking about men and why women are automatically suspicious of them. Is it because we're genetically paranoid, or is it because of what they get up to? Max makes his inability to recall the name of his hotel for the 24 hours he was staying in it sound perfectly understandable when I finally crack and ask him about his trip. It was booked for him; the company guide had all the details; they were driven there from the airport by coach, and it was dark when they arrived. Then he couldn't read the name from the hotel signage or stationery because it was in a completely over-the-top Gothic script. When I still look a little dubious, he gets cross and falls back on the old chestnut:

"If you don't trust me after all these years, then what's the bloody point?"

 The after all these years bit is the point, but I'm now so confused that I drop the subject. I almost wish there had been a surgery today. I know exactly what to do to help constituents with their problems.

Irrational Thoughts, Loss of Purpose and Unlikely Claims - Leading to Wrinkle Formation.

God, it must be so much easier to be an animal, incapable of rational thought. Greg goes into a long rant this morning, which culminates in him asking me if I've ever considered that, for every constituent we push up a housing or hospital waiting list, there is another, less-vocal one who drops down a place. I haven't. Until now. All sense of purpose is obliterated. Greg says he copes with this disturbing knowledge by "contemplating his payslips regularly." Now I know he must be being paid more than me.

The Boss phones to check that Greg and I are obeying his edict not to speak to the "spies" in the Party offices. We aren't, mainly because we rely on them to rescue us from constituents whenever we are assaulted, but I don't tell him that. I just mumble something about us all being on the same side, to which he replies that he didn't have me down as being so naive, and that we are to communicate with Party staff as little as possible from now on. He has written his GC Report already and is going to email it to me - when he can find Carlotta and get her to scan it in. Scan it in? Why the hell can't he just type it like anyone else would, when he's actually written it while still in the office? It's more understandable when he writes it on the train - but if he's just planning on emailing me his notes, they'll be hieroglyphics as usual.

Johnny says he's still in London after having been called there to stand in for an "embattled colleague" and would I like to meet? He also says that it is a shame that Max and I can't be together for our anniversary and asks whether I don't think I am being taken a little for granted. I forget to ask him what he and his wife did for their wedding anniversary in my non-committal reply.

Talking of weddings, Dinah says she found two possible candidates for dates for Dad amongst her friends' mothers, but Dad ruled them both out without even seeing photos as "too old." She says that they were both more than fifteen years younger than him. Seems as if his recent passion for Thai food is destined to last a bit longer, though at least he's finally interested in good food. His last wife was the worst cook in the universe, bless her - known throughout the family as The Dorset Poisoner. But at least she was a respectable age. Dad will be getting metal framed glasses with a double bar across the nose before you know it.

I spend our wedding anniversary on my own, or effectively alone, as both kids are still in self-imposed exile upstairs. What a sad git I am. I don't seem to have any friends to go out with, or none who won't insist on making me feel like a poor relation, and even Annoying Ellen isn't in, when I pop round to check she doesn't need to borrow the corkscrew again. Max doesn't phone me until after midnight, and forgets to say Happy Anniversary anyway. He sounds as pissed as a fart, and is still claiming that he doesn't know the phone number or even the name of the hotel he's staying in. When I say that I need it, in case of emergencies, he says there's nothing I can't handle, given my job - and that he'll see me tomorrow night. Then he rings off.

What kind of halfwit doesn't know the name of his hotel - when he's been staying in it for the last 24 hours? If anyone told me that their husband had told them that, I know exactly what I'd think was going on. But I don't want to think that about mine. A weekend in London looks very attractive, all of a sudden.

Honesty is the Worst Policy, and How to Fail Both Your Children Equally.

Greg is out of the office in the morning, "raising awareness." He texts me at 11:30am and says that he has found a solution to all our problems with difficult constituents. "Nuke 'em," is his measured response. He comes back shortly afterwards and says that he is too traumatised by his run-in with Miss Harpenden to describe his experiences. My morning hasn't been any better than his, so we decide to treat ourselves by nominating lunchtime as Writing Honest Letters Hour. This is a luxury we occasionally indulge in. A typical example would be my reply to Mr Ellis' repeated threats to kill himself if we don't get him what he wants:

Dear Mr Ellis

Thank you for your letter threatening to throw yourself off the multi-storey car park if we do not stop your next door neighbour from turning off her light switch so noisily. I regret that I will not be able to be present tomorrow at 4:00pm as you requested, as I have to be in the House of Commons from Mondays to Thursdays. However, if you could possibly arrange to re-schedule the event for 4:30pm on Friday, I shall be more than happy to attend.

Yours sincerely

Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

Mrs Underwood has written in to ask whether there are plans to increase spending on public benches on the short route between her house and the betting shop. Greg replies:

Dear Mrs Underwood

Further to your recent letter, I regret that there are currently no plans to increase spending for accessible seating in your area, as any additional funds are earmarked for tax cuts for me.

Yours etc

Andrew Sinclair, MP for the hardworking people of Northwick East.


This cheers us both up no end, though we do spend all afternoon regretting that we're not allowed to tell the truth the whole time. It's almost heartbreaking to have to shred our literary masterpieces before we leave work, but it's been a welcome distraction. I even forget that Max won't be home tonight as he's jet-setting off to Germany for his business trip - until I get home and remember that I have to deal with Josh and Connie by myself.

Do kids ever grow out of sibling rivalry? I hear yelling and incredibly-loud banging as I let myself in the front door, only to find Connie calmly listening to her iPod while Josh is kicking the hell out of the back door. It turns out that he has been stuck outside in the back garden for the last two and a half hours, and has missed the entire England-Slovenia match. May have served him right though - as he apparently called Connie a freak who didn't have any friends, before she locked him out. God knows what the neighbours must've thought. The air was blue. He couldn't get out since we eschewed Neighbourhood Watch in favour of adding barbed wire to the six foot walls around the garden, and padlocked the gate. Max keeps the key on his keyring. (I'm sure it was Steve Ellington who burgled us both times, but can't prove it.)

Connie says she is depressed as, not only does she have the most vile brother on the planet, but she didn't get the H&M job, as predicted - though the manager did write and thank her for a "most entertaining interview." She and Josh spend all evening in their respective rooms, each furiously complaining about the other to their friends on Facebook. The only thing they are agreed on is that I am guilty of outrageous favouritism, though they disagree on which of them I apparently prefer.

Now I'm dreading tomorrow night - Max and I have always spent wedding anniversaries together until now. He's left me a note saying,

"Darling, we're out of milk. Can't find details of hotel but will phone you tomorrow and let you know then. All love, Mx"


Can't find details of hotel? What sort of stupid statement is that?