The Dangers of Archiving, Suspense, And Ignorance of Cockney Rhyming Slang.

Thank God Recess is over again, if only for the next six weeks. Greg and I are planning to celebrate by ceremonially burning all the draft letters that The Boss wrote to "help us out", but then Vicky throws this plan off course.

She's in a very chatty mood when she finally turns up for work. I much prefer it when she isn't.

"Molly," she says. "Look at the state of your nails. Why on earth don't you grow them - or at least get falsies?"

"Because I like to be able to pick things up properly," I say. "And I can't see the point in long nails, anyway."

Vicky looks down at hers, and wiggles her fingers to show those weird squared-off ends to their full cringe-making effect.

"There's always a point to being well-groomed," she says. "Men appreciate it, even if you don't."

I can't believe this is true of The Boss, whose own grooming habits make me look obsessed with my appearance, but I am trying not to rise to provocation, so I don't say so. Never let people like Vicky see they've got you rattled.

It's far better to be cool yet polite, and to change the subject to something more neutral. In theory, of course.

In practice, as soon as I open my mouth, Freud sneaks in and takes control:

"So, Vicky," I say. "How much longer are you staying with us as an intern? You've been here for months, so isn't the novelty wearing off by now?"

"Yes," says Greg, rather too heartily, even from the depths of the archive cupboard. "When are you leaving? Is it soon?"

I do wish he wouldn't listen in to other people's conversations; and he really should try to sound less keen for Vicky to go. If there's one thing she enjoys - other than inspecting her nails, and other people's - it's frustrating the desires of others. As far as I can tell. The Boss may have a different opinion, of course.

"Well," says Vicky. "I am a bit disappointed to still be waiting for the paid job that Andy offered me, but I spoke to him last night, and he's persuaded me to wait a teensy bit longer."

"Oh," I say. "And did he say where the budget for more staff was coming from, however long you wait? Seeing as no-one's still intending to leave, as far as I'm aware."

"Yes, Vicky," says Greg, sticking his head out of the cupboard, but almost at ceiling height, which is most unnerving. "Do tell all."

She might have done as he asked - if his bloody foot hadn't chosen that moment to slip off the shelf that it was balancing on, causing him to drop like a stone. It serves him right, but I do wish he hadn't let go of the boxes containing Adams - Edmonds in the process.

By the time I've finished putting all the files back together, and Greg has found an old ice pop in the freezer compartment and applied it to his head, Vicky's had a change of heart.

"Thinking about it, it's probably not my place to tell you what Andy has planned," she says. "I'm sure it was meant to be a private chat between the two of us."

That's as maybe, but I'm pretty sure Greg would kill her if he wasn't still feeling dizzy. He can't stand suspense.

I'm going off it myself, too - especially when it's Johnny who's keeping me guessing. He phones mid-morning, because he wants to hear my voice for a change, or so he says.

"Guess who I heard from last night?" he asks.

"President Putin?"

I am in the middle of reading about another of Miss Harpenden's extremely hypothetical calamities, so I'm not taking the guessing business as seriously as Johnny might like.

"Jemima," he says.

Now he has my full attention.

"Jemima Fuck?" I say, before I recall that that wasn't her real name. "I mean, Jemima Tuck?"

"Yes," says Johnny. "It was such a nice surprise."

"I bet," I say, though it certainly isn't for me. Jemima's the one who "went all the way" with Johnny, when some of us never would.

"And guess what she's doing now?" he says.

For once, I'm quite happy to be asked this about an ex-schoolmate. Given that there was a rumour that Jemima traded sexual favours in return for a Wagon Wheel and a Bay City Rollers single, she's bound to have become even less successful than me, which will make a very nice change indeed.

"I don't know," I say. "What?"

I can't wait to hear the answer. I've never forgiven Jemima for stealing my shoes after every netball lesson, so I do hope it's something much worse than working for an MP.

"You give up easily," says Johnny. "Merchant banker."

I laugh, which doesn't seem to be what he was expecting, presumably because it turns out that his answer wasn't intended to be funny.

Josh tells me that I got my Cockney rhyming slang muddled up. Apparently Swiss banker was what I was thinking of.

You Couldn't Make It Up. Though I Bloody Well Wish I Was.

Oh, dear God. Northwick is far too small and incestuous. No wonder everyone's slept with everyone else. (Though I really hope that only applies to my generation, and not to my children's.)

Mum phones me at work in the morning to ask if I want to meet her for lunch today. I don't particularly, as she's bound to ask me how Dad is, but I agree anyway. Sometimes good manners is such a curse.

I leave work in plenty of time and I'm on my way to the cafe when I spot Miss Chambers standing outside it, so I duck into the nearest doorway and hide. I'd like to retain at least a vestige of my hearing, so I'm not prepared to encounter her voluntarily, not even if it does make me late for an appointment.

I wait for about five minutes, risking the occasional peek around the wall, until I see Miss C start to walk away, thankfully in the opposite direction from where I'm standing.

It's only when I step out from my hiding place that I see that the person she has been talking to is my mother. My mother! How the hell did that happen?

I rush towards Mum, and hustle her into the cafe.

"Be careful, dear," she says. "Mind my broken wrist."

"You're lucky that's all that's wrong with you, if you will go talking to any old nutter you meet in the street," I say. "You need to be much more careful, especially given my job. Though I can't understand how that woman knew you were related to me."

"What woman?" says Mum. "Oh, do you mean Carol? Carol Chambers?"

Oh, good God. It's worse than I thought. They're on first-name terms, and my mother is being groomed by our most nightmare constituent. Probably to punish me for hanging up whenever the screaming starts.

"Yes, Miss Bloody Chambers," I say. "Though I probably shouldn't even confirm her name to you. Constituent confidentiality and all that."

Mum looks at me as if I am the madwoman. There is no justice.

"What are you talking about, Molly?" she says. "Constituent? Do you know Carol, then?"

This whole thing is becoming too surreal for words. Of course I know Miss Chambers, though I wish I bloody didn't. And, anyway, the big question is how she knows Mum, so I ask exactly that.

"She's my new cleaner,"  says Mum. "I had to get one when I broke my wrist. And Carol came with excellent references."

I bet she did. Probably written by a bunch of fellow mentalists. (I can tell I'm losing the plot because I've started thinking in teenage-speak. Politically-incorrect teenage-speak.)

"Well, you'll have to tell her you've changed your mind," I say.

"Don't be silly, Molly. She knows I haven't," says Mum. "She started yesterday and she did a fantastic job. She seems quite obsessional about cleaning, actually."

"And not just about that," I say, under my breath. "Not by a very long chalk."

Then I look at my poor, unsuspecting mother and can't think what to say next, so I pour the tea instead.

"You look awfully pale," says Mum. "Are you feeling all right?"

"No," I say. "I'm not. I can't tell you why, but you have to get rid of that woman. Pronto. Especially before she spots all the family photos."

"Don't be so dramatic, dear," says Mum. "You're getting carried away. And anyway, Carol's already seen them. She said you looked familiar, now I come to think of it."

I think Greg might be right that these are panic attacks and not hot flushes. I just hope he can think of a way to make them stop - because I'm buggered if I can.