A Very Minor Detail Gets Overlooked.

I knew I was right to be worried about The Boss's plan to deal with Marie-Louise's absence. When I arrive at work this morning, a couple of minutes late after checking that all the neighbours' cars are still where they're supposed to be, Greg is looking very stressed.

"What's up?" I say. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He puts a finger to his lips and mouths, "Sssh!"

"Huh?"

"In your office," Greg says, or rather, whispers. Then he pulls an extraordinary face that is no help at all. He'd be bloody useless at Charades.

Even with Greg's half-arsed warning, I am really not expecting this. Someone is sitting in my chair, and looking through my day book. It's like finding bloody Goldilocks in your bed.

"Can I help you?" I say, in my best frosty voice, and the woman turns to face me.

"Ah, Molly," she says. "I see nothing changes here - except you!"

"How have I changed?" I say, before I can stop myself.

"Oh, nothing. Just age, you know - it'll happen to us all. Eventually."

"Nice to see you, too, Vicky," I say, through gritted teeth. "And what are you doing here?"

"I'm your replacement diary secretary," she says. "Didn't Andy tell you?"

There it is, the bloody hair flick. Vicky's right - some things never change. Unfortunately. And what's with the Andy business? I doubt The Boss has ever been called Andy before, not even when he was a baby. He just hasn't got the face for nicknames.

"Oh, Andrew probably overlooked it," says Greg, coming up behind me, and jabbing me in the ribs. "Minor details were never his thing."

"Oh, I hardly think he sees me as a minor detail," says Vicky. "Now where shall I sit? Here?"

"No," I say.

"Yes," says Greg. "We've got to go downstairs and meet with that constituent, Molly - so it doesn't matter where Vicky sits at the moment - does it?"

He hustles me out of the office so fast that I don't even have time to ask, "What constituent?"

We spend the next hour locked in the surgery room, trying to find out what the hell is going on. Greg tries to phone The Boss, but he's probably still on the train back to London, and isn't answering his mobile.

Bugger. There's nothing for it but to phone Carlotta, and see what she knows about the situation. The answer to that is nothing, or nada. She is as stunned as we are, but Spanish, don't forget.

"Wha-at?" she says. "A replacement? For Marie-Louise?"

"Apparently," I say. "Though I can't see why. I was managing the diary perfectly well, and we haven't got any money in the staffing budget to cover a temp at this stage, either. Get Andrew to call me when he arrives, will you?"

"Oh, yes. I will," says Carlotta, who sounds uncharacteristically determined. She obviously remembers Vicky only too well.

The whole thing is so annoying. Now we have no choice but to wait for Andrew to make contact. I reclaim my desk, but only at a price: Vicky settles herself in the Oprah room instead, where she kicks off her shoes - God knows how she can afford them: don't red soles denote Louboutins? Then she reclines on the sofa, opens her briefcase, and starts making notes - though she doesn't say what about. Probably how many wrinkles I've gained since she last saw me.

It's late afternoon by the time The Boss finally bothers to phone.

"You wanted to speak to me?" he says. "I'm in a rush, so make it snappy."

"Um, yes. Andrew, about Vicky -"

"Great to have her back, isn't it? She's a breath of fresh air, and tough with it, not like some moaning minnies."

"Back?" I say. "But Marie-Louise is only off sick. She'll be back at work soon."

"Oh well, we'll see about that," says Andrew. "You just look after Vic, and get her anything she needs."

"Well, there is the small problem of a computer," I say. "We have only got two: Greg's and mine."

"Not a problem. I'm letting her use my laptop. Now can you put her on? I want to welcome her back into the fold."

I put the call through to the Oprah room, then Greg and I both put our heads against the door. All we can hear is giggling, and the occasional, "Oh, Andy!" It's all we can do not to retch.

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.