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.

Saintly Sons, A Visit to the Optician & Max Demonstrates Great Sensitivity.

It seems that not every parent thinks their child is a problem. At the other end of the spectrum is Mrs Bloody Lomax, whose wretched son Stephen can apparently do no wrong. According to her, he has almost as many opinions as The Boss, and on about as many subjects - all of which he seems to know equally little about.

Nevertheless, Mrs L deems her son's every utterance to be of enormous significance to mankind - hence her almost daily phone calls to share his words of wisdom with a wider audience. I do wish she'd keep his bloody pronouncements to herself.

It's about time Greg took his turn to deal with her - but he's in the loo when she phones, the lucky bugger. He really needs to buy some more Imodium. Today she drones on and on about something or other that I don't bother to listen to, and then she says that she thinks Stephen would make a much better MP than The Boss.

I don't argue with her. There's no point, and anyway, she could be right. Stranger things have happened and open-mindedness is my new stock-in-trade, although I have never actually met the sainted Stephen, perfect son, scout master and accountant. All I know for sure is that he works for the county council, whose accounts didn't really stand up to scrutiny the last time I heard....

Talking of scrutiny, I go to the optician's at lunchtime for my annual eye test. Luckily for me, if not for Mum, she's been referred to the Glaucoma clinic at the hospital, and so my test is free* for once. This is very good news, as otherwise I wouldn't have been able to afford it and would soon have been squinting like Johnny was without his glasses. Maybe I should get Stephen to sort out my financial situation.

My eyesight's even worse than last time it was tested, but then I knew that already, given my recent inability to see my eyelashes in my 25x magnifying mirror. (Very challenging for mascara application.) The optician gives me the usual lecture about working on a computer all day being very hard on the eyes, and the need to take regular breaks.

"Tell me something I don't know," I say. Famous last words.

"Well, you need to make an appointment to see your GP," she says. "Look at this."

"Yuck," I say. "What is that?" It looks like one of those Lennart Nilsson photos of foetuses in the womb.

"Put your glasses back on," says the optician.

It turns out that the photograph is of the inside of my eye, and she says that the result indicates that I may have a major problem with my blood pressure. Marvellous. Now I'm really worried.

I tell Max about it when I get home from work, in the misguided belief that this may gain me some reassurance.

"Bloody hell," he says. "What a coincidence."

"What d'you mean?" I say.

"Well, I just ran into Frank from round the corner when I was parking the car - you know, the one whose house backs onto Ellen's?"

"Ye-es. And?"

"His wife dropped dead while we were away. Had a stroke. Undiagnosed high blood pressure - and she was only the same age as us."

"Great," I say. "Thanks for that."

I wonder what Saint Stephen would advise me to do about my husband. I may ask Mrs Lomax if he gives relationship advice, next time she phones. I just wonder how long it'll take Max to seek advice himself - on the subject of my life insurance.

*Specsavers tell me that your eye test is free if you have an immediate relative with glaucoma. Presumably because you yourself are doomed to the same fate.