Bunny Boiling, The Green Goddess* Of Northwick and Offender Profiling.

The clearest indicator that it's the New Year is that all the single people I know are on a mission, or two missions, actually: to get fit, and to get themselves a boyfriend or girlfriend. The profits of gyms and dating websites must be going through the roof.

I feel quite left out, though I suppose I could always try some form of keep-fit as part of my mission to improve my sex-life. Probably something with a more externally-obvious effect than Kegel exercises. I can hardly wear a sign on my head advertising that I do those, after all.

I decide to experiment with the exercise ball Connie bought for Max a few years ago but, although I finally find it hidden in the cupboard under the stairs, it's gone completely flat and, by the time I've pumped it back up, I'm exhausted.

Then, when I try to sit on it, I promptly roll off backwards and end up stuck between the ball and the wall, while Max tries not to laugh. I don't know what he thinks he's got to laugh about, though - he was so offended that Connie thought he needed to exercise that I don't think he's ever used the damned thing.

"Stop laughing and help me," I say. "I can't get any purchase with my feet. This bloody ball keeps moving."

"Can't," he says, "I'm on the phone. Oh, hi, Sam. How are you, mate?"

Oh, bloody hell. I could be here all day if I can't get a grip - which is not something that's easy to do while stuck atop a giant purple ball. It won't stay in one place long enough for me to gain any equilibrium and I'm still wriggling around ineffectually when Josh comes in to the room.

After he's done his share of pointing and laughing, he finally comes to the rescue and pulls me to my feet. I'm quite touched by this, until he says,

"Mum, aren't you too old to be starting an exercise programme without seeing your doctor first?"

"No," I say, though now Josh has mentioned it, I'm not so sure. Pride does come before a fall - and it's certainly impossible to maintain it after one. Knowing my luck, I'll break a hip next time I fall off, or tear all my stomach muscles simultaneously. Once I can actually find the buggers.

It's probably safer to content myself with searching YouTube for videos on how to use the ball for now - so I join Max on the sofa and open my laptop. This has the added advantage of allowing me to eavesdrop on his conversation with Sam.

"What? You want Molly to do it?" he says. "Are you sure that's wise? You know she's compulsively truthful."

Since when has that been a bad thing, for God's sake? Everyone should try it. Especially husbands. I glare at Max, but he just waves at me dismissively and continues:

"And are you sure you want to keep going with this online dating thing anyway? You know you're a bloody loony magnet. Mol and I watched that Love, Virtually thing on Channel 4 last night and those women scared the shit out of me."

That's true, actually. Max went white when the women using the websites started talking about how they cyber-stalk their dates, and even paler when one of them said that she was "immediately" suspicious of her new boyfriend because he "had sixteen female friends on Facebook". (She didn't say that any of them were Thai, so I don't think we were talking about a Dad-style scenario, either.)

Max kept repeating, "Only sixteen?" and Josh just sat there muttering at the presenter:

"Yes, well, you can't get a long-term relationship out of this, anyway - can you? Not seeing as it's your job to blog about bloody internet dating."

Honestly, Josh is such a cynic. I can't think who he gets it from. I was quite enjoying the whole Bunny-boiling thing myself, as I figured it might make Max far more grateful for what he's got: i.e. me.

I don't think he made the connection, though, so then I had to point it out to him - which rather diluted its effectiveness.

"Well, whatever site those women were on is probably called mentally-disturbed-dating.com," he said. "But I'm sure they're not typical of all the single women out there."

I really didn't like how positive he seemed to be about this at the time, and I still don't when I recall it now. It sounded far too much like the voice of experience, but I haven't got time to think about what it might mean at the moment as, when Max hangs up the phone, he announces that he's just promised that I will write Sam's profile for www.mysinglefriend.com And that I'll have it finished by this evening.

"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Why've I got to do it tonight? It's only another dating site, after all. What's so bloody urgent?"

"Well, Sam says he hasn't had sex in ages," says Max. "Weeks, if not months."

"Perhaps he's finally ready for marriage, then," I say.

It's probably a good job Josh got me off the exercise ball when he did as, judging by his expression, I think Max would have been more than happy to have left me there all night.


*Green Goddess - Diana Moran, purveyor of relentless cheerfulness in the godforsaken early hours, back in the days when I could still find my stomach muscles. This video is worth watching just for her saying, "Take the rhythm, the lovely rhythm." Innocent times, before the advent of www.mentally-disturbed-dating.com

Another Attempt To Convert Me To Capitalism.

The day starts off okay, as at least The Boss has gone back to London. Then I get a call from the Jobcentre, saying that we may start getting complaints about access to their building later today, as they have been temporarily forced to close it to the public. Apparently Mr Meeurghn has kicked off again, and sent them into total lock-down mode. Something to do with him being turned down for a payment from the Social Fund. I wish someone would just pay for forged documents to get him back into his own country - especially now that I know that not even the combined might of the Jobcentre's security staff can manage him. Greg needs to get down the gym and bulk himself up asap - before Mr M turns up here to complain about being excluded from the Jobcentre.

Talking of the gym, I wish I could afford to join one. Johnny is pushing for a meeting in London during his next trip back to the UK. He suggests we meet here, for Godsake, on the basis that sipping cocktails in the London Marriott will serve as a form of therapy for me. He argues that it will enable me to contemplate the House of Commons at close quarters, while pretending that I am not just a poor relation from the constituencies, but instead someone at the heart of where the action is. In case this isn't enough to convince me, he says that the experience will also illustrate that capitalism is better than socialism by reminding me of the building's previous and less glamorous incarnation as County Hall. (Has he been talking to David?)

I am thrilled by the idea, despite its supposedly educational purpose, until I recall that Johnny does have a wife. I am turning into a bloody hypocrite, ranting about the crazed, sexual attention-seeking of single women like Annoying Ellen and their penchant for inappropriate flirting with married men - or with Max, anyway. And all the time, here I am doing the same thing with someone else's husband! I'm turning into that Boden-wearing, horse-faced woman from the other night. I can't look at myself in the mirror when I next go to the loo.

I blame Johnny, as I suddenly realise that he hasn't actually mentioned his wife for weeks. I'd forgotten all about her. I re-read his latest email, and discover that he has somehow managed to describe a night at the opera, the trip there and back in his chauffered car, and a meal afterwards - all without saying "we" once. She has ceased to exist - written out of his life without a trace. This starts me fretting about whether he really could be a serial killer. His glasses don't have the double bar, but they are metal-framed, after all....

I sit and stare at his photo. The resemblance to Vladimir Putin is unnerving, apart from the fact that Vlad doesn't wear glasses. Am I being doubly hypocrital? As if it's not bad enough to be considering having an affair with a married man, am I also turned on by power? I've always assumed that I am impervious to it, and mocked those who aren't - but then it's a bit of a stretch to think that The Boss actually has any power anyway.

I am going to have to think about this. Very carefully. Mind you, if Johnny gets sent to the States in return for Tony Hayward being sent to Russia, looking like Putin will probably cease to be advantageous, and he'll have to start trying to look like Obama instead. (This might be too challenging, even for a man of Johnny's undoubted abilities.)

In the evening, I finally get an email from Dad. From a new Hotmail account, and sent from Thailand. It's astonishing how adept he has become at using a computer in such a short time - though Dinah ascribes this purely to his having spent hours each day cruising porn sites. He certainly doesn't spend hours communicating with his daughters. The email simply contains one word: "Hot." I really hope this is referring to the weather, and not to any of his Thai Facebook "friends."