Job Descriptions - Not Always What They Seem.

God, talk about cock-ups. It turns out that Marie-Louise hasn't actually booked The Boss into a hotel for conference. Apparently she thought I was doing it - as if I haven't had enough to do all summer, while she and Carlotta have been taking holidays, and swanning around Westminster as if they owned the place.

"Well, why didn't you tell me you hadn't booked Andrew's room?" she says.

"Because you are his Diary Secretary," I say. "And I have been otherwise occupied, minding him."

I'm not sure, but I think she says something abusive in French in reply. I try to recall the phrase my Dad once learned from a Breton fisherman, and which he used to shout at motorists when they drove too slowly, but it's hopeless. I can't remember it. My brain's still in a post-Recess fug.

I suppose I could phone and ask him, but he's probably busy learning the Thai for bring me my slippers* now, anyway, and will have abandoned any interest in French. There must be another way to deal with Marie-Louise, if I put my mind to it.

When I have found a copy of her contract and faxed it through to her, we finally reach agreement on whose job it is to make The Boss' hotel arrangements. Hers, of course. I think I manage to hide my satisfaction fairly well.

At lunchtime, Max phones to tell me that he's just spoken to David, and has mentioned that he's on leave next week. Apparently David says Max and I can have his holiday cottage for the whole time, if I can take some holiday too, so I check with Greg and then book the time off. Yeeha! Now Carlotta and Marie-Louise will have no option but to do their bloody jobs for a change.

Shortly afterwards, there's employment news of a different kind. Josh phones to say he has got the job at the cinema. I'm thrilled, but he doesn't sound very pleased.

'What's the matter?" I say. "You don't sound as chuffed as I thought you'd be."

"Well, I'm a bit pissed off, Mum," he says. "You know how they said it was a full-time job?"

"Yes. I thought that's what you wanted?" It's certainly what he needs if he's to stand any chance of succeeding in the important business of keeping me in luxury in my old age.

"Well, it sounds as if that was a bit of a con. They only give you a four hour contract."

"What?" I can't believe it. "And you're supposed to sign off Jobseeker's Allowance for that?"

"I suppose so," says Josh. "They say we'll all probably get more hours than that in practice, but they aren't guaranteeing any more."

Bloody hell. Is nothing ever as it appears? And what were the Jobcentre thinking, advertising these jobs as full-time? Josh is lucky he still lives at home. Though it's less certain that Max and I share his good fortune. It seems we may have to wait a bit longer for the freedom to have rampant sex all over the house. Josh isn't going to be able to rent anywhere on the salary from four hours' paid work a week, is he?

I am almost tempted to ring Marie-Louise back and ask her if she realises how lucky she is to have a full-time bloody job. Maybe then she'd start actually doing some work. Talking of which, I suppose I'd better get on with mine. Looks like it may take a bit longer before I can tell The Boss to shove his job where the sun don't shine.

*The Thai for "bring me my slippers" is, according to Google translate, "นำรองเท้าแตะของฉันฉัน" or, read phonetically: "Nả rxngthêā tæa k̄hxng c̄hạn c̄hạn."