Well, I'm finally back, though for God's sake don't talk to me about oil barons – or MPs.
I'm probably not worth talking to at all, now I come to think of it, seeing as I haven't got anything of interest to add to a conversation. Life seems to have gone completely back to normal, except that it's almost time for Christmas, and nothing about Christmas could ever be described as that.
Before you know it, the whole thing will be over, though – which would be great, if Christmas wasn't immediately followed by New Year's Eve, when you're supposed to review your successes and failures over the past twelve months, and then work out how to have rather more of the former than the latter in the coming year.
That shouldn't be too difficult, given my total lack of anything even approaching an achievement during 2013. Or 2012. Or...I'm bored with this now, so I'm not going to think about New Year's Eve any more, or Christmas, either, if I can help it – which I can't, as forgetting about Christmas seems to be prohibited.
When did the shops start banging on about the so-called festive season this year? I'm sure it was even earlier than usual, which is totally counter-productive, if the effect on me is anything to go by. I haven't bought a single card or present yet, and I still haven't developed a sense of urgency either – precisely because I'm so aware that the fuss about Christmas starts too early. It makes me feel I've got forever to prepare for it.
I didn't even react when Mum mentioned the C-word when she phoned last night, to say that she's already fed up with it – until she added that this lack of enthusiasm meant that she and Ted wanted to come to our house for Christmas Day, instead of us going to theirs, as we usually do. I nearly had a heart attack at that point, and so did Max. He's still worrying about it when we get up this morning.
"What the hell are we supposed to cook for their Christmas dinner?" he says, as I'm struggling to pull my thermal leggings over fleece-lined tights. "There can't be anything left that your mother's still willing to eat, what with all the health-scare stuff she reads."
"She said they'll bring things with them, to go with whatever we're all having," I say. "She suggested what she called a healthy combination of quiche, pizza, avocados and cottage cheese. I'm not quite sure how the first two made the cut."
"Well, they'll go brilliantly with turkey and all the trimmings," says Max, rolling his eyes. "Though at least I won't have to make vegetarian gravy, I suppose. I doubt even your Mum eats that with quiche."
I consider not responding to this, in an effort to avoid annoying Max further, but then decide I probably should. Respond, I mean, not make him more annoyed. (I'm working on the principle that honesty's the best policy from now on – the "from now on" part being the crucial factor, as that means that I don't have to mention Johnny.)
"Um, I think you will, Max," I say, wincing. "Ted's given up dairy, so he doesn't want the same as Mum. He wants vegetarian sausages...with gravy. He hasn't read that article she keeps quoting about soya and its effect on thyroid function yet."
"Well, obviously neither he nor your mum give a toss about the effect cooking their Christmas dinner will have on my health," says Max, demonstrating even less festive cheer than that with which Mum is currently endowed. "I can feel my blood pressure rising, at the thought of it."
His spirits look as if they're plunging in the opposite direction as he stalks off downstairs, turning the thermostat down as he passes it, and then flicking off all the light switches that Josh has left turned on – so I'd better think of something to cheer him up.
It's a bit of a challenge, in the middle of a recession, and with energy companies doing their best to bankrupt everyone bar themselves. Especially everyone blessed with a teenager whose only contribution to the cost of energy bills is to add to them – not that I can blame Josh for the latest rise in the price of gas and electricity. I'm pretty sure we've got Ed Miliband to thank for that.
If he'd had the sense to keep quiet about his plan to freeze the cost of energy, and waited to surprise the companies with it if he gets elected – I mean when he gets elected (must try much harder to sound as if I think that's likely) – then it wouldn't have occurred to them to raise their prices in anticipation, would it?
You'd think Ed and his "special" advisors would have thought of that, seeing as I have – and I'm only a lowly MPs' caseworker. (I put the apostrophe in MPs' after the P to start with, which resulted in "a lowly MP's caseworker", which was probably equally accurate.)
Anyway, I can't sit here tinkering with apostrophes when I'm supposed to be coming up with ways to cheer Max up...and there's no point me trying to do Ed Miliband's thinking for him, either. According to Mr Beales, the unions are already in charge of that.
I join Max in the kitchen, where he's staring hopelessly at a vegetarian cookbook I bought some time in the early 1980s, when all non-meat dishes were apparently brown and mushy-looking, according to the photographs. Max doesn't seem to find those at all inspiring.
"It could be worse," I say, rather too brightly, as Max looks distinctly optimistic for all of a second. "At least Dad's in Thailand this year, so you won't have to fight him for the remote control on Christmas Day."
Max doesn't even bother to pretend to be impressed.
"Is that really the best you could do, Mol?" he says. "I thought you were supposed to have political skills."
That's number one on my New Year's resolutions list, then, isn't it? Improve my political skills. Let's hope it's on Ed Miliband's, too. Oh, and The Boss's.
Showing posts with label Ed Miliband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ed Miliband. Show all posts
Sunday, 1 December 2013
Saturday, 7 May 2011
An Extended, If Muddled, Metaphor About Chickens, And Their Tendency To Steal Their Parents' Drugs.
I'm dying, and there is no paracetamol in the house.
Josh must have used it all up to treat his multiple hangovers, though he's kindly put the empty packets neatly back into the box. I'd kill him, if the room didn't keep spinning around whenever I get out of bed to go and find him.
It's all The Boss' fault for making me drink so much last night. Does he have to be so argumentative?
First he fell out with those young people who'd voted yes to AV - the ones who described most of the UK population as "clueless apes" - and then it was Pete Carew's turn.
He came into the pub halfway through the evening, presumably intending to celebrate having held on to the leadership of Northwick Council. (He can't have been intending to celebrate the referendum result, seeing as he too had voted yes.)
"Evening, Andrew," he said, nodding to me, Greg and Vicky, as if there was an economy drive on words.
"Sixty-nine percent said, 'no'," said Andrew, by way of reply. "Didn't see the way the wind was blowing on that one, did you, Pete?"
"Neither did you, until Molly and I warned you what would happen," said Greg, but Andrew wasn't listening to him, and nor was Pete.
They stood squaring up to each other like a pair of fighting cocks - rather bedraggled ones, so bantams might be a better comparison, except for the fact that they are female.
That's probably why they look so shitty compared to the males: they don't have time to spend on their appearance as they're far too busy laying eggs. (Which turn into chicks, who hang around far too long in the nest, and then use up all their parents' paracetamol without so much as a by your leave.)
I know just how they feel, but now I've lost my thread. How many brain cells did I kill last night? Oh, yes - Andrew and Pete, and the argument.
"Well, at least I gave our leader my support," said Pete, jutting his chin out and loosening his tie.
"More fool you," said Andrew, who wasn't wearing one, and whose chin isn't visible due to his beard. "You might as well have voted no like sensible people did. I know we put AV into our manifesto, but only as a bargaining chip to bribe the LibDems into a coalition with us."
If there was ever a time to kidnap one or more politicians, this would have been it, but Vicky was nowhere to be seen, and both Greg and I were too tired to make a pre-emptive strike.
Instead, we just sat back in our seats, sipped our drinks, and watched in horror while Andrew and Pete had a stand-up row about AV; the meaning of party loyalty; the relative importance of local versus national politicians, and whose fault it was that we're now in opposition.
All in front of a rapt audience of constituents, who were obviously listening to every single word. (They weren't even pretending to talk to each other, like well-mannered people would.)
Eventually, the whole thing just became too much, not to mention that we'd finished our drinks.
"Someone should stop them," I said to Greg. "It looks terrible, them arguing in public like that."
"I know," he said. "Come on. Grab your bag and follow me."
I thought we were just going to the bar but, once we got there, Greg dumped our used glasses on the counter, and then made a sharp turn to the right, pulling me along behind him.
"Keep your head down," he said, as we negotiated our way past various groups of drinkers, all of whom spilled at least part of their drinks onto my head.
"Why?" I said. "Where are we going?"
"Tesco Express," said Greg. "For a bottle of gin, some tonic and lemons. Then we are going to your house, to drink it all. I trust that you do have ice."
Which may be what I need for my head, in the absence of any pain relief.
Josh must have used it all up to treat his multiple hangovers, though he's kindly put the empty packets neatly back into the box. I'd kill him, if the room didn't keep spinning around whenever I get out of bed to go and find him.
It's all The Boss' fault for making me drink so much last night. Does he have to be so argumentative?
First he fell out with those young people who'd voted yes to AV - the ones who described most of the UK population as "clueless apes" - and then it was Pete Carew's turn.
He came into the pub halfway through the evening, presumably intending to celebrate having held on to the leadership of Northwick Council. (He can't have been intending to celebrate the referendum result, seeing as he too had voted yes.)
"Evening, Andrew," he said, nodding to me, Greg and Vicky, as if there was an economy drive on words.
"Sixty-nine percent said, 'no'," said Andrew, by way of reply. "Didn't see the way the wind was blowing on that one, did you, Pete?"
"Neither did you, until Molly and I warned you what would happen," said Greg, but Andrew wasn't listening to him, and nor was Pete.
They stood squaring up to each other like a pair of fighting cocks - rather bedraggled ones, so bantams might be a better comparison, except for the fact that they are female.
That's probably why they look so shitty compared to the males: they don't have time to spend on their appearance as they're far too busy laying eggs. (Which turn into chicks, who hang around far too long in the nest, and then use up all their parents' paracetamol without so much as a by your leave.)
I know just how they feel, but now I've lost my thread. How many brain cells did I kill last night? Oh, yes - Andrew and Pete, and the argument.
"Well, at least I gave our leader my support," said Pete, jutting his chin out and loosening his tie.
"More fool you," said Andrew, who wasn't wearing one, and whose chin isn't visible due to his beard. "You might as well have voted no like sensible people did. I know we put AV into our manifesto, but only as a bargaining chip to bribe the LibDems into a coalition with us."
If there was ever a time to kidnap one or more politicians, this would have been it, but Vicky was nowhere to be seen, and both Greg and I were too tired to make a pre-emptive strike.
Instead, we just sat back in our seats, sipped our drinks, and watched in horror while Andrew and Pete had a stand-up row about AV; the meaning of party loyalty; the relative importance of local versus national politicians, and whose fault it was that we're now in opposition.
All in front of a rapt audience of constituents, who were obviously listening to every single word. (They weren't even pretending to talk to each other, like well-mannered people would.)
Eventually, the whole thing just became too much, not to mention that we'd finished our drinks.
"Someone should stop them," I said to Greg. "It looks terrible, them arguing in public like that."
"I know," he said. "Come on. Grab your bag and follow me."
I thought we were just going to the bar but, once we got there, Greg dumped our used glasses on the counter, and then made a sharp turn to the right, pulling me along behind him.
"Keep your head down," he said, as we negotiated our way past various groups of drinkers, all of whom spilled at least part of their drinks onto my head.
"Why?" I said. "Where are we going?"
"Tesco Express," said Greg. "For a bottle of gin, some tonic and lemons. Then we are going to your house, to drink it all. I trust that you do have ice."
Which may be what I need for my head, in the absence of any pain relief.
Sunday, 27 March 2011
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."
"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."
Saturday, 26 March 2011
How To Distinguish A Kindly Gesture From A Bribe, And Will Ed Remember To Mention Max?
Honestly, who'd have thought a bunch of flowers could cause so much trouble? I wish The Boss had never sent the damn things now.
Greg's still sulking when he texts me this morning, though I've got a horrible feeling he may have a point.
"Seeing as I am at least as valuable an employee as you are, Molly, and I didn't get a bloody bouquet" he says, "I can only conclude that The Boss must know about your job interview. Which you stupidly decided not to attend because it only takes a few manky flowers to make you feel guilty."
Not half as guilty as Max thinks I am, though. He wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the arse.
"So who the hell sent those?" he says, when he walks into our bedroom this morning, and notices the vase of flowers on the dressing table. (He might have spotted it last night if he hadn't opted to sleep on the sofa to avoid me moaning about his alcohol-related snoring again, but wine obviously has far more sex appeal than me.)
"The Boss did," I say. "As a token of his gratitude for all the hard work that I do."
"For God's sake," says Max. "I have met him, you know. Can't you do better than that?"
"If you don't believe me, I'll show you the card," I say - which I will, when I can find it.
In the meantime, changing the subject seems the best option by far. I do retain some political awareness, after all.
"I feel bad we're not going on today's march against the cuts," I say. "Don't you?"
"No," says Max. "We can't afford day trips - because I'm already being cut, remember? Today's my last day at work, but I bet Ed Miliband and the unions are only going to bang on about job cuts in the public sector, as per bloody usual."
I suppose I could try and argue that it's the public sector that keeps the private one going, but with the demise of the Audit Commission, I've got a funny feeling that this no longer applies to the furniture retail trade. Or not to its luxury end, anyway. I'm pretty sure that's why Max has lost his job.
Which I'd have done well to remember, before turning down my interview, on the strength of nothing more than a floral display and a pat on the back. What the hell is wrong with me?
My bullshit detector's on the blink - which isn't going to help with next week's jury service. I wouldn't trust me to decide what I want for lunch at the moment, let alone whether someone is guilty or innocent. Apart from Max, of course.
When he finally gets home from the pub tonight, he's bearing a bunch of flowers of his own - and an over-sized card in very bad taste.
"So did Ed mention me?" he says. "In his speech about the cuts, I mean?"
"I don't think so," I say. "Though he did refer to Martin Luther King. Anyway, never mind that - let's see your card."
Max passes it over, which just goes to show how drunk he is. There are the usual bad jokes, and messages saying how sorry his colleagues are to see him go, followed by "Best Wishes" and their names.
Trust bloody Bambi to buck the trend. She sends "lots and lots of luv." Along with an excess of kisses and hugs.
Greg's still sulking when he texts me this morning, though I've got a horrible feeling he may have a point.
"Seeing as I am at least as valuable an employee as you are, Molly, and I didn't get a bloody bouquet" he says, "I can only conclude that The Boss must know about your job interview. Which you stupidly decided not to attend because it only takes a few manky flowers to make you feel guilty."
Not half as guilty as Max thinks I am, though. He wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the arse.
"So who the hell sent those?" he says, when he walks into our bedroom this morning, and notices the vase of flowers on the dressing table. (He might have spotted it last night if he hadn't opted to sleep on the sofa to avoid me moaning about his alcohol-related snoring again, but wine obviously has far more sex appeal than me.)
"The Boss did," I say. "As a token of his gratitude for all the hard work that I do."
"For God's sake," says Max. "I have met him, you know. Can't you do better than that?"
"If you don't believe me, I'll show you the card," I say - which I will, when I can find it.
In the meantime, changing the subject seems the best option by far. I do retain some political awareness, after all.
"I feel bad we're not going on today's march against the cuts," I say. "Don't you?"
"No," says Max. "We can't afford day trips - because I'm already being cut, remember? Today's my last day at work, but I bet Ed Miliband and the unions are only going to bang on about job cuts in the public sector, as per bloody usual."
I suppose I could try and argue that it's the public sector that keeps the private one going, but with the demise of the Audit Commission, I've got a funny feeling that this no longer applies to the furniture retail trade. Or not to its luxury end, anyway. I'm pretty sure that's why Max has lost his job.
Which I'd have done well to remember, before turning down my interview, on the strength of nothing more than a floral display and a pat on the back. What the hell is wrong with me?
My bullshit detector's on the blink - which isn't going to help with next week's jury service. I wouldn't trust me to decide what I want for lunch at the moment, let alone whether someone is guilty or innocent. Apart from Max, of course.
When he finally gets home from the pub tonight, he's bearing a bunch of flowers of his own - and an over-sized card in very bad taste.
"So did Ed mention me?" he says. "In his speech about the cuts, I mean?"
"I don't think so," I say. "Though he did refer to Martin Luther King. Anyway, never mind that - let's see your card."
Max passes it over, which just goes to show how drunk he is. There are the usual bad jokes, and messages saying how sorry his colleagues are to see him go, followed by "Best Wishes" and their names.
Trust bloody Bambi to buck the trend. She sends "lots and lots of luv." Along with an excess of kisses and hugs.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Squeezed Until The Pips Hurt, As Well As The Teeth.
"Christ's sake," says Max this morning, while we're watching the breakfast news. "I'm getting a bit sick of this 'Squeezed Middle' thing. Have you seen what the people at the top of the band are earning? We should bloody well be so lucky."
"Funnily enough, you're not the first person to say that to me," I say. Which is a subtle hint that Max doesn't seem to pick up.
"And it'll be even worse when I lose my job," he says. "Our pips'll be squeaking all over the place."
"If you lose your job, not when," I say. "Think positive."
"At least you two are of working age," says Dad. "Whereas we poor pensioners are on a fixed income, you know."
God knows how Max and I refrain from squeezing a certain part of Dad's anatomy at that point - or from making sarcastic remarks about the terrible poverty he must be suffering if he can only afford half a dozen trips to Thailand a year, but we manage it somehow. Mainly by opting to leave for work earlier than usual - which proves to be a mistake, if by doing so I was hoping to escape discussion of people being metaphorically squeezed.
"That bloody phrase is already starting to become as annoying as 'hard-working people'," says Greg. "And far more meaningless, if the complaints we're getting are anything to go by. Listen to this."
I've got a horrible feeling that Greg may be considering a new career as a poet, if all the reading aloud he's been doing lately is anything to go by, but I keep quiet so as not to tempt fate.
Instead, I sit and fidget while he reads a very long letter from Philip Jervis, who's almost incandescent with rage at politicians' and the media's insistence on including people earning up to £44,000 in the category of those who are suffering the squeezing effect.
"I'm on £17,000 a year, and I'd happily swap any of those people," he writes. "Especially as I live in a rented house, and both my twins have had to come back home after university. Neither of them have managed to get jobs yet, and their food alone costs almost as much as they get in Jobseeker's Allowance, yet I can't claim anything for them now that they're adults - not even a share of the rent, which is going up in April. And the household bills have gone through the roof as well - what with the kids both stuck at home all day. Ed Miliband needs to think of a new phrase that separates me from people earning almost three times as much."
Now I'm really anxious about how Max and I will cope once - I mean, if - our income drops, especially while Josh is still working so few hours at the cinema. And what if Connie can't get a job after she graduates? It doesn't bear thinking about.
"What are you going to reply to that, then?" I say to Greg, while counting myself lucky that I wasn't the one who opened the letter.
"God knows," he says. "Though I'll probably refer Mr Jervis to the CAB and ask them to do a Better Off Calculation. And check if there really aren't any benefits he's entitled to."
That's a good idea, but I'm already pretty sure that Mr J is going to turn out to be earning just over the threshold for benefit, like loads of other constituents who are equally upset about this. And like Max and I will be, too - when he loses his job. If, I mean. Bloody hell, I need to get a grip.
"What are you looking so stressy about, Mol?" says Greg. "At least you're not in that situation."
"Not yet I'm not," I say. "But Max is probably going to lose his job before the end of the month. Or might, anyway."
I'm hoping Greg will tell me not to worry, and take over on the positive thinking front, seeing as I'm not doing too well at it - but he doesn't.
He just stares at me in horror, and then says, "How the hell will you manage then, Mol?" - which doesn't make me feel any better at all.
Nor does his decision to remind me that, if you're just over the benefit threshold, you're also excluded from "hidden extras" like free dental treatment and free prescriptions.
"Have you had your tooth fixed yet?" he says. "Since you broke it when you freaked out about that email you'd sent to Johnny?"
"No," I say. "Oh, God. Do you think I could claim it was an industrial injury? It was partly caused by the stress of the job, after all - and I bet you tooth-grinding's an occupational hazard amongst MPs' staff."
He nods in agreement, and is about to say something when the phone starts ringing, and I automatically pick up the receiver. Pavlov's Dogs had nothing on me.
Greg rolls his eyes in exasperation, and decides to make his point by resorting to mime instead - which seems to involve baring his teeth as much as he can, while pointing at them at the same time. He obviously thinks he's very funny, but he's not the only Marcel Marceau in this office. I make an effective gesture using two fingers and some extravagant wrist movements before I begin to speak into the receiver.
"Good afternoon, Andrew Sinclair's Office," I say. "Can I help you?"
See - a perfectly trained animal. Whose teeth are already beginning to clench with anticipation.
"Edmund Beales here," says Mr Beales Number One. "What about those stupid Special Forces people, then? Talk about a total shambles. And what were they wearing when they landed in Libya, anyway? High-visibility jackets, or something?"
I know exactly where this is going, even before he adds:
"That's probably why there were none left over for that Policeman I ran over to wear."
I bite down on yet another reply, and immediately wish I hadn't. Ow, ow, ow.
Honestly, my family might not be better off if I gave up work, but my teeth definitely would. I shall be a toothless old crone if this keeps up.
"Funnily enough, you're not the first person to say that to me," I say. Which is a subtle hint that Max doesn't seem to pick up.
"And it'll be even worse when I lose my job," he says. "Our pips'll be squeaking all over the place."
"If you lose your job, not when," I say. "Think positive."
"At least you two are of working age," says Dad. "Whereas we poor pensioners are on a fixed income, you know."
God knows how Max and I refrain from squeezing a certain part of Dad's anatomy at that point - or from making sarcastic remarks about the terrible poverty he must be suffering if he can only afford half a dozen trips to Thailand a year, but we manage it somehow. Mainly by opting to leave for work earlier than usual - which proves to be a mistake, if by doing so I was hoping to escape discussion of people being metaphorically squeezed.
"That bloody phrase is already starting to become as annoying as 'hard-working people'," says Greg. "And far more meaningless, if the complaints we're getting are anything to go by. Listen to this."
I've got a horrible feeling that Greg may be considering a new career as a poet, if all the reading aloud he's been doing lately is anything to go by, but I keep quiet so as not to tempt fate.
Instead, I sit and fidget while he reads a very long letter from Philip Jervis, who's almost incandescent with rage at politicians' and the media's insistence on including people earning up to £44,000 in the category of those who are suffering the squeezing effect.
"I'm on £17,000 a year, and I'd happily swap any of those people," he writes. "Especially as I live in a rented house, and both my twins have had to come back home after university. Neither of them have managed to get jobs yet, and their food alone costs almost as much as they get in Jobseeker's Allowance, yet I can't claim anything for them now that they're adults - not even a share of the rent, which is going up in April. And the household bills have gone through the roof as well - what with the kids both stuck at home all day. Ed Miliband needs to think of a new phrase that separates me from people earning almost three times as much."
Now I'm really anxious about how Max and I will cope once - I mean, if - our income drops, especially while Josh is still working so few hours at the cinema. And what if Connie can't get a job after she graduates? It doesn't bear thinking about.
"What are you going to reply to that, then?" I say to Greg, while counting myself lucky that I wasn't the one who opened the letter.
"God knows," he says. "Though I'll probably refer Mr Jervis to the CAB and ask them to do a Better Off Calculation. And check if there really aren't any benefits he's entitled to."
That's a good idea, but I'm already pretty sure that Mr J is going to turn out to be earning just over the threshold for benefit, like loads of other constituents who are equally upset about this. And like Max and I will be, too - when he loses his job. If, I mean. Bloody hell, I need to get a grip.
"What are you looking so stressy about, Mol?" says Greg. "At least you're not in that situation."
"Not yet I'm not," I say. "But Max is probably going to lose his job before the end of the month. Or might, anyway."
I'm hoping Greg will tell me not to worry, and take over on the positive thinking front, seeing as I'm not doing too well at it - but he doesn't.
He just stares at me in horror, and then says, "How the hell will you manage then, Mol?" - which doesn't make me feel any better at all.
Nor does his decision to remind me that, if you're just over the benefit threshold, you're also excluded from "hidden extras" like free dental treatment and free prescriptions.
"Have you had your tooth fixed yet?" he says. "Since you broke it when you freaked out about that email you'd sent to Johnny?"
"No," I say. "Oh, God. Do you think I could claim it was an industrial injury? It was partly caused by the stress of the job, after all - and I bet you tooth-grinding's an occupational hazard amongst MPs' staff."
He nods in agreement, and is about to say something when the phone starts ringing, and I automatically pick up the receiver. Pavlov's Dogs had nothing on me.
Greg rolls his eyes in exasperation, and decides to make his point by resorting to mime instead - which seems to involve baring his teeth as much as he can, while pointing at them at the same time. He obviously thinks he's very funny, but he's not the only Marcel Marceau in this office. I make an effective gesture using two fingers and some extravagant wrist movements before I begin to speak into the receiver.
"Good afternoon, Andrew Sinclair's Office," I say. "Can I help you?"
See - a perfectly trained animal. Whose teeth are already beginning to clench with anticipation.
"Edmund Beales here," says Mr Beales Number One. "What about those stupid Special Forces people, then? Talk about a total shambles. And what were they wearing when they landed in Libya, anyway? High-visibility jackets, or something?"
I know exactly where this is going, even before he adds:
"That's probably why there were none left over for that Policeman I ran over to wear."
I bite down on yet another reply, and immediately wish I hadn't. Ow, ow, ow.
Honestly, my family might not be better off if I gave up work, but my teeth definitely would. I shall be a toothless old crone if this keeps up.
Monday, 24 January 2011
A Matter of Eggs And Death, And A Joke Turns Very Sour Indeed.
"Am I always right, or am I always right?" says Greg, as he walks into the office this morning.
"About what?" I say, though I'm not really paying attention.
I'm too busy trying to gauge whether the latest parcel sent by a local animal rights activist contains a bomb. (You wouldn't believe how many of them put their correct addresses on the packaging, though this is by no means a guarantee that the contents will prove to be innocuous.)
"Metal-framed glasses," says Greg. "Only ever worn by serial killers and paedophiles."
"Not always," I say, thinking of Johnny's eyewear and hoping Greg is wrong. "And anyway, you said they had to have a double bar across the nose to qualify. Now shut up for a minute - I'm trying to see if this makes a noise when I shake it."
Greg gives me a pitying look, then snatches the parcel from my hands, rushes to the doorway and says,
"Get under your desk!"
It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, before realising how unwise this is. As I stand back up, I see Greg throw the parcel - overarm - as far as he can down the corridor, where Vicky trips over it as she exits the lift. She jumps, but only from surprise.
"Safe," says Greg, retrieving the package and tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette. "Unlike people who wear those glasses. I knew that Tabak bloke had murdered Jo Yeates as soon as I saw his specs."
"You also knew that her landlord had done it when you saw his hair," I say. "So you'll forgive me if I don't always think you're right. Though thank God you were about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up."
"That's because he's an idiot," says Vicky, as she pushes past Greg on her way to the Oprah Room. He sticks his tongue out at her as she slams the door, then lowers his voice and says,
"You'd already ripped the corner of the paper, Mol - so I could see the plastic casing before I threw it."
He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. Wonders will never cease, and I'm about to make a sarcastic remark to that effect when an email pops into my in-box. From Johnny, wanting to confirm when we're meeting on Wednesday, and whether I've booked my rail ticket to London yet.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
"Expressive - but a bit repetitive," says Greg, putting a mug of coffee down on my desk. "Where's the thesaurus gone?"
"I told The Boss to take it with him," I say. "To find an alternative to saying he's had an 'interesting meeting' whenever he updates that wretched blog of his. Gave him the dictionary and a local map too - after he mis-spelled the names of half the parishes in his last post. And, anyway, shit is the only word that sums up what I've gone and done."
"Oh, shit," says Greg, when I've finished explaining that I've just realised that I don't have any money to get to London, or to pay for anything when I'm there. Which rather proves my point.
I bang my head on the desk several times, while Greg thinks aloud - which doesn't take long, and isn't very effective either.
"Well, Johnny's loaded," he says. "So just get him to pay for everything. He won't mind. He's maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look a mess."
"Thanks," I say. "And, anyway, I can't do that. What do you think I am?"
"Stupid," says Greg. "What's the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don't get any money out of it?"
"Or any sex," I say, before reverting to banging my head again. "Why aren't MPs' staff paid until the very last day of the bloody month?"
If I worked for Northwick Council, I'd have been paid days ago, and then this wouldn't have been such a problem. Except that actually it would, because Max has worked out we're not going to have any money even after we've both been paid. And the bank is hardly likely to lend me any, is it? Not when they've got all those bloody bonuses to pay.
"They like to make us suffer," says Greg. "And I'm broke 'til payday too, so I can't lend you any either - sorry, Mol. What are you going to do?"
"Lie," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. "I shall have to tell Johnny I've been struck down with a mystery illness at the last minute. Or, rather, you'll have to do it for me. I'm terrible at lying."
Thank God Johnny has to come to the UK this week anyway. I'd feel even more awful about the whole thing if he was only flying over to see me but, as he isn't, I'm hoping he'll forgive me. Not that this is very likely if Greg doesn't get a grip.
He says he hasn't had this much fun in ages, and spends the next few hours drafting a series of ever more unlikely explanations, finally settling upon one in which I am to be hospitalised after opening a parcel bomb containing non-free range eggs.
"And the beauty of this idea is that you won't be able to communicate with Johnny until you're released," he says. "Because you will be deaf from the blast, and won't be able to text or type due to the fragments of eggshell that have lodged behind your eyeballs."
I look at him in amazement, which he mis-reads as approval. (Which often happens with mad constituents, too.)
"This is where my expertise in horror films comes in useful," he says.
"Or your fondness for Wallace and Gromit," I say. "Sounds about as credible as A Matter of Loaf and Death."
Greg gives me a reproachful look.
"I thought you said it was," he says. "And beggars can't be choosers. Are we going with this idea or not?"
"No," I say. "Try and think of something a little more Gromit, and a little less Wallace. The man's a bumbling idiot."
Greg sighs, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed yet again, and run over to kick it back to life.
"You really should have more respect, Molly," he says. "Both for me, and for Wallace. He is our leader, after all."
I can't help laughing, but I stop as soon as I get an email from Johnny about events at Moscow's Domodedovo Airport.
"I only meant for you to get blown up, Mol," says Greg, who has gone a very funny shade of green.
I can't think of anything at all to say in response.
"About what?" I say, though I'm not really paying attention.
I'm too busy trying to gauge whether the latest parcel sent by a local animal rights activist contains a bomb. (You wouldn't believe how many of them put their correct addresses on the packaging, though this is by no means a guarantee that the contents will prove to be innocuous.)
"Metal-framed glasses," says Greg. "Only ever worn by serial killers and paedophiles."
"Not always," I say, thinking of Johnny's eyewear and hoping Greg is wrong. "And anyway, you said they had to have a double bar across the nose to qualify. Now shut up for a minute - I'm trying to see if this makes a noise when I shake it."
Greg gives me a pitying look, then snatches the parcel from my hands, rushes to the doorway and says,
"Get under your desk!"
It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, before realising how unwise this is. As I stand back up, I see Greg throw the parcel - overarm - as far as he can down the corridor, where Vicky trips over it as she exits the lift. She jumps, but only from surprise.
"Safe," says Greg, retrieving the package and tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette. "Unlike people who wear those glasses. I knew that Tabak bloke had murdered Jo Yeates as soon as I saw his specs."
"You also knew that her landlord had done it when you saw his hair," I say. "So you'll forgive me if I don't always think you're right. Though thank God you were about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up."
"That's because he's an idiot," says Vicky, as she pushes past Greg on her way to the Oprah Room. He sticks his tongue out at her as she slams the door, then lowers his voice and says,
"You'd already ripped the corner of the paper, Mol - so I could see the plastic casing before I threw it."
He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. Wonders will never cease, and I'm about to make a sarcastic remark to that effect when an email pops into my in-box. From Johnny, wanting to confirm when we're meeting on Wednesday, and whether I've booked my rail ticket to London yet.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
"Expressive - but a bit repetitive," says Greg, putting a mug of coffee down on my desk. "Where's the thesaurus gone?"
"I told The Boss to take it with him," I say. "To find an alternative to saying he's had an 'interesting meeting' whenever he updates that wretched blog of his. Gave him the dictionary and a local map too - after he mis-spelled the names of half the parishes in his last post. And, anyway, shit is the only word that sums up what I've gone and done."
"Oh, shit," says Greg, when I've finished explaining that I've just realised that I don't have any money to get to London, or to pay for anything when I'm there. Which rather proves my point.
I bang my head on the desk several times, while Greg thinks aloud - which doesn't take long, and isn't very effective either.
"Well, Johnny's loaded," he says. "So just get him to pay for everything. He won't mind. He's maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look a mess."
"Thanks," I say. "And, anyway, I can't do that. What do you think I am?"
"Stupid," says Greg. "What's the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don't get any money out of it?"
"Or any sex," I say, before reverting to banging my head again. "Why aren't MPs' staff paid until the very last day of the bloody month?"
If I worked for Northwick Council, I'd have been paid days ago, and then this wouldn't have been such a problem. Except that actually it would, because Max has worked out we're not going to have any money even after we've both been paid. And the bank is hardly likely to lend me any, is it? Not when they've got all those bloody bonuses to pay.
"They like to make us suffer," says Greg. "And I'm broke 'til payday too, so I can't lend you any either - sorry, Mol. What are you going to do?"
"Lie," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. "I shall have to tell Johnny I've been struck down with a mystery illness at the last minute. Or, rather, you'll have to do it for me. I'm terrible at lying."
Thank God Johnny has to come to the UK this week anyway. I'd feel even more awful about the whole thing if he was only flying over to see me but, as he isn't, I'm hoping he'll forgive me. Not that this is very likely if Greg doesn't get a grip.
He says he hasn't had this much fun in ages, and spends the next few hours drafting a series of ever more unlikely explanations, finally settling upon one in which I am to be hospitalised after opening a parcel bomb containing non-free range eggs.
"And the beauty of this idea is that you won't be able to communicate with Johnny until you're released," he says. "Because you will be deaf from the blast, and won't be able to text or type due to the fragments of eggshell that have lodged behind your eyeballs."
I look at him in amazement, which he mis-reads as approval. (Which often happens with mad constituents, too.)
"This is where my expertise in horror films comes in useful," he says.
"Or your fondness for Wallace and Gromit," I say. "Sounds about as credible as A Matter of Loaf and Death."
Greg gives me a reproachful look.
"I thought you said it was," he says. "And beggars can't be choosers. Are we going with this idea or not?"
"No," I say. "Try and think of something a little more Gromit, and a little less Wallace. The man's a bumbling idiot."
Greg sighs, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed yet again, and run over to kick it back to life.
"You really should have more respect, Molly," he says. "Both for me, and for Wallace. He is our leader, after all."
I can't help laughing, but I stop as soon as I get an email from Johnny about events at Moscow's Domodedovo Airport.
"I only meant for you to get blown up, Mol," says Greg, who has gone a very funny shade of green.
I can't think of anything at all to say in response.
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Reversals Of Fortune And Of Good Intentions - Largely Ed Miliband's Fault.
Ouch, my head hurts. Why the hell do I drink? And what the hell sort of festive celebration was that? The whole thing was such a bad joke that I don't know where to start.
So much for Greg's and my plan not to get drunk, and to go back to work after the Christmas meal. We seem to have accidentally reversed our intentions, ending up as drunk as lords and not actually returning to the office at all - or not when it was open, anyway.
We were both doing quite well for the first hour - drinking fizzy water and managing to stay neutral on the Human Rights Act. I think we even succeeded in distracting the Party staff from the fact that The Boss was only interested in talking to Vicky.
It was only when everyone else started arguing about Ed Miliband that we gave up and started on the wine. It seemed safer than voicing an opinion on that particular issue.
Things got very heated once someone mentioned the lack of a policy agenda, and the argument about community safety went on for ages, so Greg and I probably did get through rather a lot of wine. Even so, I didn't think I'd drunk that much until I went to the loo, and couldn't seem to work out how to get the cubicle door open again.
Then I panicked a bit, and got all hot and bothered. By the time I realised I was turning the handle in the wrong direction, everything was spinning and a voice in my head was saying, "Get home - now."
Things became a bit blurry after that, but I have a horrible feeling that, when I came out of the loo, I took my coat off the coat-rack and staggered out of the restaurant without saying goodbye to anyone. Then I started walking along the pavement at a very bizarre angle. I think I may have been relying on leaning in the direction I wanted to go to give me some forward momentum.
I don't know whether being bent double was the problem, but my limbs didn't seem to be working properly, so I decided I'd better phone Max and get him to come and pick me up. That's when everything got really messy.
"Need you to fetch me. Please. Now. Sorry," I said. "Can't walk, no taxis at the rank. Sorry, sorry, sorry."
I may have done some hiccuping as an added bonus.
"Um," said Max.
"Please," I said. "Can't seem to stand up properly. Ed Miliband-induced red wine."
"I haven't got the car."
In retrospect, the clue was in how hesitant Max sounded when he said that, but red wine makes idiots of us all. Or of me, anyway.
"Huh? I haven't got it. Or at least, I don't think I have," I said. "Oh, God, have I lost the car somewhere?"
"No, you haven't."
Max sounded very uncomfortable by now, and did a lot of throat clearing before he explained:
"I lent it to Ellen for the weekend again."
I can't remember much about what happened next, but I know I somehow ended up back in the office, lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room and waiting for a taxi to turn up. Honestly, as if the MP's office isn't the bloody last place you'd ever want to picked up from when you're as pissed as a parrot. I can't bear to read today's local paper in case there are photos of me in it. I bet the driver had a camera phone.
So I'm spending today hiding out in bed, while Max is over-compensating by bringing me endless cups of tea and offering me food that I can't face eating.
"Is there anything else you need?" he says.
"Yes," I say. "I want the car back. With the number of times we end up taking Josh to A&E at night, I'm not happy being without it."
Max agrees that this is sensible, and tries to persuade Ellen to cut her trip short. He's not exactly assertive about it, though - as she still isn't going to return the car until tomorrow morning.
"Hmm, well - you'd better hope that Josh stays out of harm's way this evening, then," I say. "Especially given the temptation to snowboard through Northwick."
I'd normally have more to say on the subject than that, but a) I'm feeling far too fragile and b) it turns out that I've got other things to worry about.
When I check my mobile, I see that I sent Johnny a drunken text last night. Presumably from the Oprah Room after I found out about the car.
It says, "Sod this. Yes to meeting. Lara. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx"
I don't know if I intended to send all those kisses, or if I'd just lost control of my fingers. As well as everything else.
So much for Greg's and my plan not to get drunk, and to go back to work after the Christmas meal. We seem to have accidentally reversed our intentions, ending up as drunk as lords and not actually returning to the office at all - or not when it was open, anyway.
We were both doing quite well for the first hour - drinking fizzy water and managing to stay neutral on the Human Rights Act. I think we even succeeded in distracting the Party staff from the fact that The Boss was only interested in talking to Vicky.
It was only when everyone else started arguing about Ed Miliband that we gave up and started on the wine. It seemed safer than voicing an opinion on that particular issue.
Things got very heated once someone mentioned the lack of a policy agenda, and the argument about community safety went on for ages, so Greg and I probably did get through rather a lot of wine. Even so, I didn't think I'd drunk that much until I went to the loo, and couldn't seem to work out how to get the cubicle door open again.
Then I panicked a bit, and got all hot and bothered. By the time I realised I was turning the handle in the wrong direction, everything was spinning and a voice in my head was saying, "Get home - now."
Things became a bit blurry after that, but I have a horrible feeling that, when I came out of the loo, I took my coat off the coat-rack and staggered out of the restaurant without saying goodbye to anyone. Then I started walking along the pavement at a very bizarre angle. I think I may have been relying on leaning in the direction I wanted to go to give me some forward momentum.
I don't know whether being bent double was the problem, but my limbs didn't seem to be working properly, so I decided I'd better phone Max and get him to come and pick me up. That's when everything got really messy.
"Need you to fetch me. Please. Now. Sorry," I said. "Can't walk, no taxis at the rank. Sorry, sorry, sorry."
I may have done some hiccuping as an added bonus.
"Um," said Max.
"Please," I said. "Can't seem to stand up properly. Ed Miliband-induced red wine."
"I haven't got the car."
In retrospect, the clue was in how hesitant Max sounded when he said that, but red wine makes idiots of us all. Or of me, anyway.
"Huh? I haven't got it. Or at least, I don't think I have," I said. "Oh, God, have I lost the car somewhere?"
"No, you haven't."
Max sounded very uncomfortable by now, and did a lot of throat clearing before he explained:
"I lent it to Ellen for the weekend again."
I can't remember much about what happened next, but I know I somehow ended up back in the office, lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room and waiting for a taxi to turn up. Honestly, as if the MP's office isn't the bloody last place you'd ever want to picked up from when you're as pissed as a parrot. I can't bear to read today's local paper in case there are photos of me in it. I bet the driver had a camera phone.
So I'm spending today hiding out in bed, while Max is over-compensating by bringing me endless cups of tea and offering me food that I can't face eating.
"Is there anything else you need?" he says.
"Yes," I say. "I want the car back. With the number of times we end up taking Josh to A&E at night, I'm not happy being without it."
Max agrees that this is sensible, and tries to persuade Ellen to cut her trip short. He's not exactly assertive about it, though - as she still isn't going to return the car until tomorrow morning.
"Hmm, well - you'd better hope that Josh stays out of harm's way this evening, then," I say. "Especially given the temptation to snowboard through Northwick."
I'd normally have more to say on the subject than that, but a) I'm feeling far too fragile and b) it turns out that I've got other things to worry about.
When I check my mobile, I see that I sent Johnny a drunken text last night. Presumably from the Oprah Room after I found out about the car.
It says, "Sod this. Yes to meeting. Lara. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx"
I don't know if I intended to send all those kisses, or if I'd just lost control of my fingers. As well as everything else.
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Don't Call Me Stupid.
Blimey, I still can't get used to having so many young people phoning us up and wanting to talk about student funding. It's as if they've just discovered politics for the first time. I mention it to The Boss when he calls me at lunchtime.
"It's very good news," he says. "Perhaps we can stop worrying so much about youth disengagement now."
"About tuition fees, anyway," I say. "Though I'm not so sure that they're all interested in politics in general."
"Hmm," he says. "At least I hope they've learned where being politically naive gets them: LibDems promising the earth and then discovering they can't deliver it. If so many students hadn't fallen for the buggers' pledges, we might not be in this mess now."
This is all very well, but I do wish Ed Miliband would be a bit more careful when he talks about the changes to tuition fees affecting social mobility. It's not as if we've got a glowing record on that ourselves - as one of the older constituents who phones today is at pains to point out.
"Your lot presided over a worsening in the situation," says Mr Fincham. "And as for that ludicrous 50% university target, well that's the elephant in the room, isn't it?"
I hate to say it, but he's got a point. No-one wants to talk about that when the subject of tuition fees comes up. They stay well away from how on earth such a high target could possibly be publicly-funded.
And, as for whether graduates with poor degrees from less-desirable universities stand any chance of getting well-paid jobs, or whether they've been burdening themselves with debt for no good reason, not even the "bold and brave" Nick Clegg will touch that one with a bargepole, will he?
It's very unnerving when you find yourself agreeing with a Tory on anything, but David Davis seems to be one of the few prepared to think the unthinkable. Mr Fincham must be his biggest fan.
"Davis is the only one talking any sense," he says. "You guys should pay attention to him, instead of arguing about a graduate tax and fighting amongst yourselves."
"Ah," I say. Sometimes I can see why The Boss relies on saying that so often.
"Is that all you've got to say?" (I didn't claim it always works.)
"Well, I agree with him about tuition fees hitting those students who come from the tier just above the poorest the hardest," I say. "They do, as with many other means-tested things that involve a cut-off point."
I'm hoping this will satisfy Mr Fincham, but he hasn't finished yet:
"Bloody right. And Davis has got the solution to the whole problem, hasn't he?"
"What's that, then?"
"Send fewer people to university," he says. "Not that the Labour Party will ever have the bollocks to face up to that. Obsessed with degrees at all costs, and couldn't give a monkey's about whether the courses these young 'uns take are even worth doing."
I know what Mr Fincham means. The Boss is completely hung up on degrees for all - not that he seems to think mine is worth much.
When the Labour Government first brought in tuition fees, I kept asking Andrew why, if a university education was such a passport to success, I was so badly-paid in comparison to my non-graduate friends, but he always wriggled out of it.
"Gave you the confidence to argue your case, though - didn't it, Molly?" he said.
"But seemingly not to win it," I said.
I'd ask him again now, and use Johnny as an example of what non-graduates can earn, if I wasn't still worrying about MI5 and drawing attention to my Russian connection. Johnny thinks I'm being ridiculous when I ask him not to email me at work any more, though.
"You'd need to work for someone much more important than your boss for the Russians to be interested in you," he says. "He's a backbench MP - and in opposition, for God's sake. I shouldn't think they've even heard of him in the Kremlin."
"Given his supposedly-Marxist views, they may know him better than you think," I say. "Not that he ever applies them to my pay. But, anyway, I can't take the risk. I don't know what you might try to get me to reveal in an unguarded moment."
"The only thing I'm interested in getting you to reveal is what you look and feel like naked."
"Well, I've only got your word for that," I say. "I'll set up a Hotmail account and get back to you when I've done it. Don't email me until then."
"Now you're just being stupid," he says. He doesn't even moderate the insult with a smily face, or any kisses.
I somehow refrain from pointing out that only 6% of the population made it to university when I went, and Johnny didn't. But the knowledge makes me feel a whole lot better, as long as I don't think about what he earns.
"It's very good news," he says. "Perhaps we can stop worrying so much about youth disengagement now."
"About tuition fees, anyway," I say. "Though I'm not so sure that they're all interested in politics in general."
"Hmm," he says. "At least I hope they've learned where being politically naive gets them: LibDems promising the earth and then discovering they can't deliver it. If so many students hadn't fallen for the buggers' pledges, we might not be in this mess now."
This is all very well, but I do wish Ed Miliband would be a bit more careful when he talks about the changes to tuition fees affecting social mobility. It's not as if we've got a glowing record on that ourselves - as one of the older constituents who phones today is at pains to point out.
"Your lot presided over a worsening in the situation," says Mr Fincham. "And as for that ludicrous 50% university target, well that's the elephant in the room, isn't it?"
I hate to say it, but he's got a point. No-one wants to talk about that when the subject of tuition fees comes up. They stay well away from how on earth such a high target could possibly be publicly-funded.
And, as for whether graduates with poor degrees from less-desirable universities stand any chance of getting well-paid jobs, or whether they've been burdening themselves with debt for no good reason, not even the "bold and brave" Nick Clegg will touch that one with a bargepole, will he?
It's very unnerving when you find yourself agreeing with a Tory on anything, but David Davis seems to be one of the few prepared to think the unthinkable. Mr Fincham must be his biggest fan.
"Davis is the only one talking any sense," he says. "You guys should pay attention to him, instead of arguing about a graduate tax and fighting amongst yourselves."
"Ah," I say. Sometimes I can see why The Boss relies on saying that so often.
"Is that all you've got to say?" (I didn't claim it always works.)
"Well, I agree with him about tuition fees hitting those students who come from the tier just above the poorest the hardest," I say. "They do, as with many other means-tested things that involve a cut-off point."
I'm hoping this will satisfy Mr Fincham, but he hasn't finished yet:
"Bloody right. And Davis has got the solution to the whole problem, hasn't he?"
"What's that, then?"
"Send fewer people to university," he says. "Not that the Labour Party will ever have the bollocks to face up to that. Obsessed with degrees at all costs, and couldn't give a monkey's about whether the courses these young 'uns take are even worth doing."
I know what Mr Fincham means. The Boss is completely hung up on degrees for all - not that he seems to think mine is worth much.
When the Labour Government first brought in tuition fees, I kept asking Andrew why, if a university education was such a passport to success, I was so badly-paid in comparison to my non-graduate friends, but he always wriggled out of it.
"Gave you the confidence to argue your case, though - didn't it, Molly?" he said.
"But seemingly not to win it," I said.
I'd ask him again now, and use Johnny as an example of what non-graduates can earn, if I wasn't still worrying about MI5 and drawing attention to my Russian connection. Johnny thinks I'm being ridiculous when I ask him not to email me at work any more, though.
"You'd need to work for someone much more important than your boss for the Russians to be interested in you," he says. "He's a backbench MP - and in opposition, for God's sake. I shouldn't think they've even heard of him in the Kremlin."
"Given his supposedly-Marxist views, they may know him better than you think," I say. "Not that he ever applies them to my pay. But, anyway, I can't take the risk. I don't know what you might try to get me to reveal in an unguarded moment."
"The only thing I'm interested in getting you to reveal is what you look and feel like naked."
"Well, I've only got your word for that," I say. "I'll set up a Hotmail account and get back to you when I've done it. Don't email me until then."
"Now you're just being stupid," he says. He doesn't even moderate the insult with a smily face, or any kisses.
I somehow refrain from pointing out that only 6% of the population made it to university when I went, and Johnny didn't. But the knowledge makes me feel a whole lot better, as long as I don't think about what he earns.
Friday, 26 November 2010
Bratz, Back-Stabbing, And Some Significant Omissions.
The Boss spends all day going on about how the Party needs to pull together to support Ed Miliband.
"Got to stop those bloody Blairites going behind his back," he says. "Unity, that's the thing."
"Have you had some sort of revelation?" says Greg. "Thought you believed in debate. You certainly seemed to when Blair was PM."
"Different times," says Andrew. "Loyalty's what counts now."
Honestly, that man is almost as shameless as Sarah Palin.
Talking of people going behind your back, I get a nasty surprise when I open the box of Christmas cards that has just arrived from the printer.
"What the hell?" I say, as I stare in disbelief at the most hideous card I have ever seen. "This isn't the one I chose."
"Oh, Vicky didn't like that," says Andrew. "Did you, Vicks? Said it wasn't pretty enough."
So much for the only perk of my job: choosing which entry wins in The Boss' annual "Design a Christmas card" competition. It's usually the highlight of my year. To add insult to injury, the new design stinks.
Instead of the quirky, imaginative one I chose, which was drawn by an autistic child in the special unit at Easemount First School, we now have a complete travesty of a card, courtesy of a twelve-year-old pupil at Northwick High School for Girls. Which is allegedly an Arts Academy. Let's just say that you wouldn't have to go further than the Bratz counter to spot her inspiration.
I'm so cross that I take revenge by giving Vicky the responsibility for handling the rest of the process, including updating the mailing list and printing the labels. She stops smirking pretty quickly at that point - and she hasn't even had the fun of trying to get Andrew to remember to sign all the cards in time to post them yet.
At least it's Josh's night off from the cinema, so that'll cheer me up. I don't seem to have seen him for weeks, so I'm looking forward to it but, when I get home, he's running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.
"I thought you were staying in tonight," I say.
"Nah," he says. "Don't be daft, Mum. I'm not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I'm taking Holly for a pizza and then we're going to see a film. Might as well get some use out of all these free tickets."
Then he goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which I contemplate the side of Max's head while he snores on the sofa. This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when Max's mobile starts ringing.
He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing. (I hate bloody Nokias and late-night phone-calls always make me nervous, and clumsy.)
"Mum," says Josh. "Where's Dad?"
"Asleep," I say. "Why? Are you okay? You sound funny."
"No, I'm not," he says. "Can you get him to come and pick me up? I can't walk."
"Why? Now what's happened?" I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.
"I think I've dislocated my knee. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it's bloody agony again. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me."
"Oh, for God's sake, Josh. Okay - but Dad won't be able to come. He's had too much wine to drive," I say. "Stay put 'til I get there."
Honestly, Josh is so accident-prone that we might as well get a season ticket for A&E. And it's going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That'll teach me to complain about doing nothing in the evenings.
I fish the keys out of Max's pocket, grab my coat and bag, and power walk to the car - but it isn't there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there's still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody hell.
There's nothing for it but to go back home.
"Max. Max! Wake up! The car's been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E," I say, while calling for a cab.
He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I'll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I've finished explaining that, the cab's outside.
"Max - you'll have to phone the Police and report the theft," I say. "I've got to go."
"Um," he says. "Yes, um."
"Yes, um, what? Hurry up - the meter's running!"
"Well, the car hasn't exactly been stolen," he says.
He won't meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He's still staring very hard at the floor when he answers:
"I may have lent it to someone for the weekend."
"Who?" I say, as the taxi driver beeps his horn for about the hundredth time.
"Ellen," he says.
I slam the door so hard on my way out that I think I may have shattered the glass.
So now here I am in the hospital cafe, typing on Holly's laptop and waiting for Josh to come out of X-Ray. Maybe I should ask the Radiologist to check if my heart is broken while she's at it.
"Got to stop those bloody Blairites going behind his back," he says. "Unity, that's the thing."
"Have you had some sort of revelation?" says Greg. "Thought you believed in debate. You certainly seemed to when Blair was PM."
"Different times," says Andrew. "Loyalty's what counts now."
Honestly, that man is almost as shameless as Sarah Palin.
Talking of people going behind your back, I get a nasty surprise when I open the box of Christmas cards that has just arrived from the printer.
"What the hell?" I say, as I stare in disbelief at the most hideous card I have ever seen. "This isn't the one I chose."
"Oh, Vicky didn't like that," says Andrew. "Did you, Vicks? Said it wasn't pretty enough."
So much for the only perk of my job: choosing which entry wins in The Boss' annual "Design a Christmas card" competition. It's usually the highlight of my year. To add insult to injury, the new design stinks.
Instead of the quirky, imaginative one I chose, which was drawn by an autistic child in the special unit at Easemount First School, we now have a complete travesty of a card, courtesy of a twelve-year-old pupil at Northwick High School for Girls. Which is allegedly an Arts Academy. Let's just say that you wouldn't have to go further than the Bratz counter to spot her inspiration.
I'm so cross that I take revenge by giving Vicky the responsibility for handling the rest of the process, including updating the mailing list and printing the labels. She stops smirking pretty quickly at that point - and she hasn't even had the fun of trying to get Andrew to remember to sign all the cards in time to post them yet.
At least it's Josh's night off from the cinema, so that'll cheer me up. I don't seem to have seen him for weeks, so I'm looking forward to it but, when I get home, he's running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.
"I thought you were staying in tonight," I say.
"Nah," he says. "Don't be daft, Mum. I'm not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I'm taking Holly for a pizza and then we're going to see a film. Might as well get some use out of all these free tickets."
Then he goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which I contemplate the side of Max's head while he snores on the sofa. This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when Max's mobile starts ringing.
He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing. (I hate bloody Nokias and late-night phone-calls always make me nervous, and clumsy.)
"Mum," says Josh. "Where's Dad?"
"Asleep," I say. "Why? Are you okay? You sound funny."
"No, I'm not," he says. "Can you get him to come and pick me up? I can't walk."
"Why? Now what's happened?" I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.
"I think I've dislocated my knee. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it's bloody agony again. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me."
"Oh, for God's sake, Josh. Okay - but Dad won't be able to come. He's had too much wine to drive," I say. "Stay put 'til I get there."
Honestly, Josh is so accident-prone that we might as well get a season ticket for A&E. And it's going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That'll teach me to complain about doing nothing in the evenings.
I fish the keys out of Max's pocket, grab my coat and bag, and power walk to the car - but it isn't there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there's still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody hell.
There's nothing for it but to go back home.
"Max. Max! Wake up! The car's been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E," I say, while calling for a cab.
He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I'll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I've finished explaining that, the cab's outside.
"Max - you'll have to phone the Police and report the theft," I say. "I've got to go."
"Um," he says. "Yes, um."
"Yes, um, what? Hurry up - the meter's running!"
"Well, the car hasn't exactly been stolen," he says.
He won't meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He's still staring very hard at the floor when he answers:
"I may have lent it to someone for the weekend."
"Who?" I say, as the taxi driver beeps his horn for about the hundredth time.
"Ellen," he says.
I slam the door so hard on my way out that I think I may have shattered the glass.
So now here I am in the hospital cafe, typing on Holly's laptop and waiting for Josh to come out of X-Ray. Maybe I should ask the Radiologist to check if my heart is broken while she's at it.
Saturday, 25 September 2010
A New Leader And I Am Out Of My Depth In A Sea Of Vibrating Plastic.
I have never felt such an idiot in my life. And I am never going to Ann Summers again, either. What on earth is all that stuff for?
Everything's made of that nasty luminous plastic, like those horrible toys that the kids always insisted on putting on their Christmas lists. I used to ignore their pleas and get something wooden and tasteful from the Early Learning Centre instead, but I'm not sure what the Brio equivalent of the sex world is.
After Greg's texted me the leadership result, I am filled with the spirit of change. I realise that I need to take a new direction too, so I decide to surprise Max with something to liven up our sex life. Huh, talk about best-laid plans and all that.
I lurk around outside the shop for a while, and then make a dash for it when I think no-one is looking. As soon as I walk in, I am confronted by revolting-looking stuff - tons of it. I get quite dizzy. No wonder the psychologists say we're becoming stressed by having too much choice. Not to mention a shortage of clear instructions.
I do know what some of it is for - I'm not totally stupid - but there's a whole load of things that I have no idea what you're supposed to do with. This is very unnerving: I used to have my finger on the pulse! Now I feel like someone who is drowning, not waving.
To add insult to injury, who do I see at the counter when I approach the assistant for advice? Only Mr and Mrs Bloody Beales. Oh yuck.
How depressing is it that even Mr Beales has a better sex-life than me, judging by how much his carrier bag is bulging? I can't bear to think about it, especially as he actually winks at me as he walks out. My bowels are still clenching now.
The whole day is about sex in one way or another. And not in a good way, either. Dinah phones as I am trying to watch the X-Factor.
"It gets worse," she says.
"What does?" I have no idea what she's on about. Or what Louis Walsh means either, for that matter. He's so annoying. And that contestant is obviously a usual suspect. I can always tell the nutters before they even start to sing.
"P-ns nm," says Dinah. Or something like that. The Twilight Zone theme is a bit distracting.
"What did you say, Di?"
"Listen, for God's sake. Porn's name. Or names. Plural."
I forget to answer. Well, I don't - but with Dinah, you never know if a pause indicates your turn to speak, or whether she's just stopping to breathe in or light a cigarette.
"Wake up, Molly! Didn't you hear what I said?'
"Erm, yes. Double-barrelled. Porn," I say. This creates a thoroughly unpleasant image of Mr and Mrs Beales in the act, not for the first time today.
"Yes - guess what her other name is?" says Dinah. "I've just got off the phone to Dad. He's back."
"I don't know, Dinah. Why do I always have to guess? Can't you just tell me? It's been a bad day."
I might as well give up watching the X-Factor. I missed it last week too, due to the stupid TV aerial at David and Susie's cottage.
"Well, you've spoiled it now," says Dinah. "But I might as well tell you anyway. It's Poon!"
"Now you're really making it up," I say. "Don't be ridiculous. Poon? As in Poon-Tang?"
Josh looks up and makes a shocked face. Sometimes I'm sure he thinks I know nothing and that he is the product of an immaculate conception. Mind you, after the depths of my ignorance have been revealed by the Ann Summers experience, he may have a point.
"Yes, as in Poon-Tang," says Dinah. "Porn-Poon. That's our father's girlfriend's name. And I am not telling you anything else, as you are obviously not listening. Phone me when you can be bothered to give this the attention it deserves."
Seems to me that I've given this whole porn thing far too much attention today already. With very little reward, as far as I can see. I do hope the Party's attempt to change is going to be a lot more successful than mine. Maybe I should ask Ed what he suggests I buy.
Everything's made of that nasty luminous plastic, like those horrible toys that the kids always insisted on putting on their Christmas lists. I used to ignore their pleas and get something wooden and tasteful from the Early Learning Centre instead, but I'm not sure what the Brio equivalent of the sex world is.
After Greg's texted me the leadership result, I am filled with the spirit of change. I realise that I need to take a new direction too, so I decide to surprise Max with something to liven up our sex life. Huh, talk about best-laid plans and all that.
I lurk around outside the shop for a while, and then make a dash for it when I think no-one is looking. As soon as I walk in, I am confronted by revolting-looking stuff - tons of it. I get quite dizzy. No wonder the psychologists say we're becoming stressed by having too much choice. Not to mention a shortage of clear instructions.
I do know what some of it is for - I'm not totally stupid - but there's a whole load of things that I have no idea what you're supposed to do with. This is very unnerving: I used to have my finger on the pulse! Now I feel like someone who is drowning, not waving.
To add insult to injury, who do I see at the counter when I approach the assistant for advice? Only Mr and Mrs Bloody Beales. Oh yuck.
How depressing is it that even Mr Beales has a better sex-life than me, judging by how much his carrier bag is bulging? I can't bear to think about it, especially as he actually winks at me as he walks out. My bowels are still clenching now.
The whole day is about sex in one way or another. And not in a good way, either. Dinah phones as I am trying to watch the X-Factor.
"It gets worse," she says.
"What does?" I have no idea what she's on about. Or what Louis Walsh means either, for that matter. He's so annoying. And that contestant is obviously a usual suspect. I can always tell the nutters before they even start to sing.
"P-ns nm," says Dinah. Or something like that. The Twilight Zone theme is a bit distracting.
"What did you say, Di?"
"Listen, for God's sake. Porn's name. Or names. Plural."
I forget to answer. Well, I don't - but with Dinah, you never know if a pause indicates your turn to speak, or whether she's just stopping to breathe in or light a cigarette.
"Wake up, Molly! Didn't you hear what I said?'
"Erm, yes. Double-barrelled. Porn," I say. This creates a thoroughly unpleasant image of Mr and Mrs Beales in the act, not for the first time today.
"Yes - guess what her other name is?" says Dinah. "I've just got off the phone to Dad. He's back."
"I don't know, Dinah. Why do I always have to guess? Can't you just tell me? It's been a bad day."
I might as well give up watching the X-Factor. I missed it last week too, due to the stupid TV aerial at David and Susie's cottage.
"Well, you've spoiled it now," says Dinah. "But I might as well tell you anyway. It's Poon!"
"Now you're really making it up," I say. "Don't be ridiculous. Poon? As in Poon-Tang?"
Josh looks up and makes a shocked face. Sometimes I'm sure he thinks I know nothing and that he is the product of an immaculate conception. Mind you, after the depths of my ignorance have been revealed by the Ann Summers experience, he may have a point.
"Yes, as in Poon-Tang," says Dinah. "Porn-Poon. That's our father's girlfriend's name. And I am not telling you anything else, as you are obviously not listening. Phone me when you can be bothered to give this the attention it deserves."
Seems to me that I've given this whole porn thing far too much attention today already. With very little reward, as far as I can see. I do hope the Party's attempt to change is going to be a lot more successful than mine. Maybe I should ask Ed what he suggests I buy.
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