Julie Christie, And Why A Certain MP Should Avoid The Subject Of Winter.

Talk about over-compensating for my boring life. My dreams are getting more and more exciting by the minute.

I spent last night playing Lara to Johnny's Doctor Zhivago. Admittedly, Johnny did look rather more like Omar Sharif than he does in real life, and was a lot more romantic, but I did enjoy being Julie Christie. She really knows how to wear a fur coat without turning into an Ewok.

The dream is so convincing that, when I wake up, I still think I'm Julie until I look in the mirror. Then I'm distraught to find that it's not her face that looks back at me, but my usual one, incipient beard and all. Now I wish I hadn't mentioned Ewoks.

If I do manage to grow fur all over my body, though, at least I'll be better-adapted for cold weather. I'm so angry with bloody British Gas about their price rises. Seven per cent! It's a national scandal. I'd write to my MP about it, if I wouldn't have to answer my own letter.

Since the announcement of the increase, Max has become obsessed with the cost of fuel and, even though I try to adjust the thermostat when he isn't looking, he always notices and turns it down again. Then I have to blame the whole thing on Josh and the irresponsibility of youth.

God knows how the poorest are going to cope if we have a hard winter. The hospitals and mortuaries will be full of people who were too scared to turn their heating on at all. Or who have injuries caused by falling downstairs or setting themselves on fire while wearing a Slanket.

Mind you, I'm still considering buying one, despite the risks. It's too much being cold at home as well as at work. The office is freezing at the best of times, but when I arrive today, I discover that the boiler has broken down.

Greg and I are freezing our arses off, and have to keep our coats on all morning - but Vicky says that she  will "work" from home. Apparently, she can't risk low temperatures, due to her chilblains.

"Think she's confusing them with bunions," says Greg. "Caused by those stupid bloody shoes."

"She says they're a political statement," I say. "Due to the red soles."

Talking of political statements, it turns out that Andrew has been at it again - holding forth to the local press without speaking to me first. He's told them that he's going to do everything he can to ensure that Northwick County Council have enough grit this year.

You'd think he have the sense to stay schtum on the subject of winter after last year's fiasco, but he seems to have forgotten all about that. George - the boiler repair man - remembers it well enough, though.

"See your boss is going on about snow again," he says, when he arrives after lunch. "It's in the paper. I'd ha' thought he'd ha' learned his lesson, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed," I say.

There's absolutely no point denying that Andrew made some rather ill-informed comments during last winter's white-out.

"Bloody funny, that were. Talking about what a nightmare Northwick's drivers were having when it turned out he weren't even in the country at the time."

"Hmm," I say.

I do wish the bloody phone would ring. Or there'd be a fire alarm. Or something. But nothing happens to interrupt George's flow:

"It wouldn't ha' mattered, would it - not if he hadn't pretended it took him two hours to drive home from the office that night? What a twonk he must be."

Hearing Greg snort with laughter, I decide it's time to take evasive action.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" I say. "Seeing as it looks as if mending the boiler's going to be a long job."

By the time I've made it, I'm hoping that the subject of Andrew will have been dropped, but no such luck. George carries on where he left off when I return from the kitchen and pass him a mug.

"Cheers," he says. "So, tell me something, ducks. Your boss - have an opinion on everything, does he?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that. Though he does like to take an interest in anything that affects his constituents." I turn my back and pick up a pen. "Now, I really must get on with some work."

"I'll tell you what I think," he says, slurping his tea. "That man will do anything to get his name in the paper."

"Couldn't agree more," says Greg, under his breath. Which is still visible, due to the bloody cold.

The New Cold War And Strategies To Deal With It.

God, I had a terrible dream last night. I was standing outside the old Labour Party HQ in Millbank trying to hold the line against the massed troops of North Korea, who all looked like mini-Ellens. By myself, so this turned out about as well as you'd expect.

Those marching clones scare the shit out of me. I get the shivers every time I see them on the news, even when it isn't as freezing cold as it is today. They're much more frightening than the Russian soldiers who used to parade in front of Brezhnev* - probably because they look so much more focused. Like a demented band of pre-teen baton twirlers.

Anyway, my encounter with them leaves me with a sense of dread that lingers for most of the day. Mr Warner seems to be having the same problem. He comes to the office to tell me that TV Licensing still won't believe that he doesn't own a TV, and that things seems to be getting worse.

"Things are coming to a head," he says. "Everyone's out to get me now - including the bloody Council."

"Why do you think that?" I say.

"They haven't collected my rubbish for the last two months. Not since I wrote to TV Licensing and said I'd shoot anyone who tried to break into my flat. They must share information."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case. It's probably just a coincidence."

I make a note of the last date upon which he remembers his bin being emptied, and promise to see what I can do. Then I stand up and wait for Mr W to take the hint, but he just stays in his chair, fidgeting, and plucking at his clothing.

"Was there anything else?" I say.

Talk about a very bad move. Mr W stands up.

"Do you want to see my ulcer?" he says, as he drops his trousers.

Mr W's legs put me right off my lunch, so I donate my sandwich to the Greg winter stomach fuel fund and send Johnny an email instead. I attach a photo of my new haircut to give him a laugh.

"Wow. You look great," he says. "I'd be really proud to walk into a room with a woman who looked like that on my arm."

"Are you taking the piss?" I say. "I am already having a very bad day, so it's inadvisable."

"No. For Christ's sake, woman, can't you ever take a compliment? Thank you is the appropriate response."

Honestly - whatever must Johnny's wife look like if he thinks my haircut is okay? I apologise, anyway, and blame my grumpiness on the fact that, not only did I spend last night protecting the Labour Party from the North Koreans - singlehandedly -  but I am also freezing to death.

"What the hell are you talking about? North Koreans? And have you forgotten that I live in Russia?" he says. "Generally considered to be somewhat chillier than the UK?"

I have the last laugh on that one, though - as it turns out that it's colder here today than it is in bloody Moscow, although Johnny is quick to point out that it's much worse there in the depths of winter.

"Minus 10 is common," he says.

"Good job I don't live with you then," I say. "How on earth does your wife manage?"

"Oh, she has a mink coat."

The phones start ringing again then, so I don't manage to send my anti-fur response until after the office has closed. Johnny is completely undeterred.

"Yes, yes, PETA* and nasty fur coats - sometimes, darling, you are so predictable," he says. "But just wait until you've tried a winter here without one. You'll do a Naomi Campbell within days."

I'm not at all sure about this last comment. What's with the use of "you will" instead of "you would"? Mind you, with the Cold War that's raging at home at the moment, it's a very tempting thought.

Just imagine: instead of being Molly Bennett, overlooked wife and under-rated MP's caseworker, I could be Molly Hunter, wife of an adoring (if bossy) oil baron. I'd spend my life dancing at embassy parties and swanning around Moscow in designer clothes.

Including a fur coat which, even if I didn't object to it on moral grounds, would make me look like a Ewok. I suppose I'd better don my Primark jacket and head for home.


*Brezhnev, Leonid Ilyich. For those of you too young to remember him.
*PETA - People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, for whom Naomi Campbell was a spokesperson. Until she started wearing fur again.