It's Just Not Cricket - An Object Lesson In The Hazards of Unsportsmanlike Behaviour.

I seem to be surrounded by compulsive liars. All male, apart from Miss Chambers. What are the odds that Johnny isn't another of them? The new website is almost finished, and the web designer asks for a copy of The Boss' CV for inclusion. Greg finally finds a dog-eared old copy under a pile of photos of Andrew, all dreadful, despite the fact that he had all his hair in some of the earlier ones. Greg decides to read it aloud, as neither he nor I can ever remember actually seeing it before. I think the CV was put together when The Boss was the PPC* for East Northwick, so it was probably typed by Joan or someone else in the Labour Party.

Buried at the bottom of page two is the fact that The Boss used to play cricket semi-professionally. For a fairly well-known team based in his home town. I don't pay much attention at first, as I am otherwise occupied in re-reading Johnny's email from last night. Anyway, The Boss is a sports fanatic and most of his jollies - sorry, fact finding trips abroad - take place at exactly the same time as major sporting fixtures. But Greg is suspicious by nature. Before I know it, I hear him say,

"Just wondered if you could confirm the dates that Andrew Sinclair played for the team?"

Now what the hell is he doing? I leave my office and stand in the doorway to Greg's, raising my eyebrows in enquiry. Greg waves me away, and swivels his chair so that his back is facing me.

"Are you sure?" he says. There is a pause, then he continues, "You're positive there's no mistake?"

He gestures furiously at me to approach his desk. I wish he'd make his bloody mind up, and am about to say so, when he slams the phone down and punches the air. He looks even more like Patrick Bateman when triumphant.

"He's such a tosser sometimes," he says.

"Who?"

"Our lord and master, the great Andrew Sinclair, keeper of the Socialist flame and all-round good egg. That was the Secretary of the Cricket Club," Greg says, as if that makes everything crystal clear.

"And?"

"And they have never - ever - heard of Andrew Sinclair!"

"What?" And I thought all my illusions had already been shattered. "You mean -"

"That's exactly what I mean, Molly. His CV is bullshit. He never played for the team. Probably never did half the stuff on here." Greg screws up the CV and lobs it into the bin.

I don't know what to say. I return to my desk, and delete the email I had started to draft in reply to Johnny's. Suddenly I don't feel like flirting with him, when all I know about him is what he's told me himself.

"A drinkyboo at lunchtime?" says Greg. I nod. Vigorously.


After lunch - one G&T for me, three for Greg - Greg insists we pop into W H Smith. He buys a large, red box file and some new labels, and pays cash. When I point out that we already have folders and labels at the office, he says that his purchase is for "personal use."


When we get back to the office, Greg retrieves the balled-up CV from the bin, smooths it out as best he can, then shoves it into the new folder. He winks as he does so. The rest of the afternoon passes rather uneventfully, allowing Greg and I to clear all the post and emails from the weekend - I even get time to delete some of the vast amount of spam that has arrived in my inbox since Friday. Miss Chambers rings, but only once - to complain about a letter she has received from the local council telling her that their staff have been instructed not to take her phone calls any longer, and to insist that she writes in with her complaints instead. Council staff's hearing is obviously more important than mine.


When I leave my office to go home, I spot Greg, who is precariously balanced in the depths of the archive cupboard, his feet straddling two high shelves. There is a certain amount of wobbling going on, which reminds me of Josh and makes me laugh for the first time today.

"Give me a hand, Molly," he says. "Pass me that new box file, will you?"

I pick it up from his desk. It now bears the label, "Staff Insurance Policy."

What on earth are we becoming?

*PPC Prospective Parliamentary Candidate - as The Boss was, aeons ago before he became complacent.

Fruit Teas, Dodgy Photos and Naive Interns

Today sees the arrival of the first contender in The Boss' long list of summer interns, who usually fall into one of three distinct categories: purely decorative additions to the scenery; sixth-form leavers with their sights set on PPE at Oxford and then government, and/or those representing favours to Andrew's mates who want us to babysit their recalcitrant teenagers. Today's is one of the PPE batch, James. He's expected to get five A*s at A-level, and appears to be quite without a sense of humour. This may be because he expected the constituency office to be a little more impressive than it is. I think he expected better than a view of the YMCA, not to mention his encounter with the Bus Driver from South Park, also known as Joan who works in the Labour Party office.

I always get saddled with inducting interns. I'm not sure why. Greg's far closer to them in age, if not earnestness. I obtain the usual Confidentiality Agreement signature, then begin explaining the security measures. This wouldn't take long, if I only mentioned those that The Boss has actually put in place, but I don't. I am far more responsible than that. I explain that you never exit the security door without first checking that there isn't anyone lurking to either side of it, then move on to Special Branch's advice that we always look under our cars before getting into them, and check for people following us either to or from our homes. James starts looking a little concerned. Then I begin to explain the various personalised arrangements for handling the usual suspects, but  am interrupted by the phone ringing. It's Miss Chambers, so James is exposed to the risk to hearing issue rather more quickly than I'd intended. Eventually, he mirrors Greg, who has both hands pressed against his ears. I'm impressed. This kid learns fast.

I'm not sure what to do with him for the rest of the day, as we don't have a spare computer and he seems oddly reluctant to answer the phones. The Boss never thinks about this sort of thing when he accepts applications. I decide James looks to be an intelligent person, and entrust him with some filing. He can't believe the number of live files we have, and the sight of the archive cupboard makes him blanch. Still, he gets on with it without complaint, though he does seem to go to the loo an awful lot, which may be due to that weird healthy tea he brought with him in a Tupperware box. Can't help feeling he'd be better off at the Council. The staff there all drink fruit tea which, along with the wearing of Ecco sandals and long swishy skirts, is an accurate predictor of woolly-headed liberalness and Council employment, at least in the case of women.

In the afternoon, Johnny emails me to say he's back in Russia and to suggest we meet next time he's in the UK. To "keep him going 'til then" he asks whether I have any more photos I can send him, preferably ones with my eyes open? Keep him going where? My arse would take a much better photo than my face, but this is hardly helpful. Someone once told me that, after 40, you can either have a great face or a great arse, and I fall into the latter category, which does make sending anyone a flattering photo rather challenging. Like a fool, I mention this in my reply. Johnny's response arrives with indecent haste - he would be "very happy to receive a photo taken from whatever I deem the most flattering angle, and of any body part I think he'd appreciate." Now what have I done?

Things still weird with Max in the evening. One minute his explanations for his hotel name amnesia ring true, the next I think I must be insane to believe them. Am distracted from contemplating the state of my marriage by yet another phone call from Dinah.

"He's fucking incredible," she says without preamble. She can only mean Dad - so no need to respond. "He was on a date! Visiting Cousin Mike, my arse."

"Not the Thai bride?" I say.

"No," she says. "My friend Annie's mother! He spent the entire weekend shagging her, the bloody hypocrite! He said she was too old when I first gave him her number."

"So what happened?" Do I really want to know the answer to this? As usual, it's too late.

"This morning he told her he didn't think it was meant to be, got in his car and left without arranging another date. I'm so embarrassed."

"So what does he say about it?" I ask.

"He still says he was at Cousin Mike's, for fucksake. Denies everything."

"Why change the habit of a lifetime?" I say, and look hard at Max as I hang up. He remembers he needs to clear out the loft urgently and disappears. Is it any wonder youthful idealism is so hard to cling on to?