In Which Catherine De Medici Or De Northwick Appears To Me In A Dream.

God, I'm dying. And Bambi is quite patently a poisoner. I spent all last night sleeping fitfully in between dreams about her putting arsenic into Scotch Eggs, using a mediaeval version of a syringe.

I'm still in a really bad mood when Max wakes up.

"That bloody Bambi girl of yours is trying to kill me," I say. "She was *Catherine de' Medici in a previous life. I know, because I saw it in my dreams. Her Italian's a bit dodgy, though. She needs to work on that."

Max sighs, and pulls the covers back over his head.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Mol?" he mumbles. "Dreams aren't actually real, you know."

"Well, this one seemed pretty convincing to me," I say. "Seeing as I really have been throwing up. That hasn't been in my imagination."

"No," says Max. "More's the pity. You finished with that bucket yet? And Bambi's not my girl. Sod it - Gemma isn't."

He puts the pillow over his head, on top of the quilt, just in case I haven't already got the message.

"Now I am going back to sleep," he says. "In the probably futile hope that you'll be in touch with reality when I next wake up."

There's no need to be rude about it, is there? He's just being defensive, because it was his so-called colleague who poisoned me. I need to pay more attention to that girl. Maybe Ellen's not Max's love-interest after all.

There's no doubting what Dad's is, as becomes only too apparent when I finally stagger downstairs and throw myself on to the sofa to recover from the effort.

I've just turned the TV over to watch BBC News 24 to follow what's happening about the explosion at the nuclear reactor in Fukushima, when Dad comes hurtling in to the room at speed. You'd never think he'd had a heart bypass less than a month ago. I look miles more unhealthy than him.

"Quick," he says, grabbing the remote control. "I'm missing the match."

Before I can object, he changes channel and sits down, hard. On my feet.

"Gah," he says, then stands up again, pushes my legs off the sofa, and settles back down with a sigh of relief.

"You're looking better, Molly," he says, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Would it make any difference if I wasn't?" I say, but Dad just grunts in reply.

Honestly, talk about bad manners. I'm bloody glad they aren't genetic.

"Would it, though, Dad?" I say. "Matter, I mean?"

I stare at the side of his head, willing him to answer this time. God knows if it's working but it brings my headache back, big-time. I don't give up, though. My methods were honed by Penelope Leach, you know.

After what feels like hours, Dad shifts in his seat, as if it's hot. Ha! Now it's working. You can teach an old dog new tricks, and I am the natural heir to *Barbara Woodhouse. Just call me the Northwick Dad Whisperer.

"Yes, Dad?" I say, to encourage him.

"For God's sake, Ref!" he says. "Foul! What the hell are you playing at, man?"

 Some people never learn, do they? Though I'm not sure whether that applies to me or Dad. No wonder I have trouble with reality. I can't say I like it one little bit.



*Catherine de' Medici - accused of poisoning, probably denied it. Remind you of anyone?
*Barbara Woodhouse - see here if you've never heard of her. Or heard her, in fact.

How To Bypass A Sense Of Humour, And Bangkok Airlines Is Re-Branded.

Bother, bother, bother. I'm in the middle of a somewhat surreal conversation with Miss Emms about the latest MPs' expenses story, when an email pops into my in-box from Dinah. Then I make the mistake of trying to deal with both things at the same time.

"Oh, shit," I say. "Oops, sorry, Miss Emms. No, that wasn't a comment on the story in The Daily Telegraph. I can see your point, though to be honest, the article is a little misleading. MPs who left at the last election claimed the winding up allowance to make redundancy payments to their staff, and to pay any outstanding rent on their offices etcetera. So this isn't really in the same league as the other expenses scandal at all."

Miss Emms doesn't sound at all convinced, and to be honest, I'm starting to wonder if she's got a point by the time she's emphasised that some of the MPs knew they were leaving Parliament months before the General Election, so should have given their staff and landlords notice much earlier than they did, and saved the taxpayer the money.

Miss Emms doesn't pay any tax, anyway, but I'm so desperate to get her off the phone by then, that I decide that it's not worth debating the subject any longer. Instead, I opt for the tried and tested technique of assuring her that her comments have been noted - repeatedly - until she gets so bored that she hangs up, thus leaving me free to re-read the hideous contents of  Dinah's email.

"You'll have to come and get Dad tonight and take him home with you," she says, "If you can't get any more time off work to stay with him, that is. I am so out of here. The man's got no sense of humour since he met the Thai Bride."

Oh, for God's sake - isn't this just all I need on top of the stress about Max's job? And he'll probably leave me if I have to bring Dad home for any longer than twenty-four hours. Max might have the patience of a saint, but even that has its limits. I'll just have to persuade Dinah to change her mind.

I dial her number but, although it connects, it cuts off after three rings and goes to her answer-phone. I try again, several times, but still without success. Which is odd, seeing as Dinah sent the email from her iPhone only a couple of minutes ago.

"Greg - remind me how you tell when someone's ignoring your calls?" I say. "As opposed to when the phone's just turned off, or engaged?"

"When it rings a few times and then goes to answer-phone," says Greg.

So that explains that, then. There's nothing for it but to ring Dad instead.

"Oh-h, Molly," he says, as if the end of the world is nigh. "I'm so glad you phoned your poor old dad. It's nice to know one of my daughters cares."

"What are you talking about?" I say. "Have you and Dinah had a row?"

"Your sister has no respect for her elders," he says. "Oh, hang on a minute - I need to press record on the TV. I don't want to miss the end of this match."

"I'm at work, Dad," I say. "And I'm busy, so I can't hang on -"

But Dad's already put the phone down, leaving me to wait for what seems like hours, while I listen to him talking to himself. Or to whoever it is that is playing whatever sport it is that he's been watching.

God knows how many times he says, "Oh, come on, boys!" but, by the time he gets round to asking himself, "What the hell's the matter with this damned remote?" I've almost lost the will to live.

I'm just about to end the call, when he finally comes back on the line.

"Sorry," he says. "The boys almost scored a try just then."

"Never mind the bloody rugby," I say. "What's happened with you and Dinah? And seeing as she's been the one looking after you for the last ten days, don't you think you might be over-reacting to whatever it was?"

"No, I'm not," he says. "There was no call for what she said. None whatsoever. Not when all I'd asked her to do was to book my next flight to Thailand."

I am obviously going to need a cigarette if I am to get through the rest of this conversation. Three weeks after a heart bypass, and all Dad can think of is getting back to Thailand and pumping himself full of Viagra. It's enough to make a grown woman weep. Not that Porn-Poon would qualify as that.

"Okay, Dad," I say, as I walk down the stairs towards the lobby. "So what exactly did Dinah say?"

"Well, I was explaining to her what to do about the internal flight for the last leg of my trip," he says. "And I told her her to book me onto the airline I always use."

I light a cigarette and take an enormous drag. Call it sixth sense, but I think I'm going to need all the nicotine I can get. Meanwhile, Dad sighs as if no-one understands him, and then continues to explain:

"So Dinah says, 'Oh, who's that, then - Steradent Airlines?'"

My laugh seems to have come from nowhere, so I have to try to turn it into a coughing fit, while Dad explains that Dinah never knows when to stop.

"Then she says that there's probably enough of the stuff on board to float a battleship," he says. "What with all the old men flying out to see their girlfriends."

"Is that all?" I say, hoping for the best, but doomed to disappointment, as usual.

"No," says Dad. "Then she asks me how long check-in will take but, by then, I can tell she's trying to be funny, so I just ask her how long she thinks it'll take. And she says, 'About six hours - what with all the zimmer frames they've got to get on board.'"

"Ah," I say, borrowing The Boss's best non-committal response, but Dad's a lot harder to shrug off than the average constituent.

"Don't give me that 'Ah' business," he says. "You told me what you use it for. Anyway, Dinah's just left, and she said you'd come and collect me. So what time will you get here?"

Now Dad's not the only one who's misplaced his sense of humour. Just wait until I get hold of Dinah. Though I will have to congratulate her on the Steradent gag.

The Unexpected Consequences Of Aversion Therapy, Age Gaps, And Marriage.

Oh, bloody, bloody hell. Now Dad's in hospital and I'm sure it's all Dinah's fault. (I told her her supposedly-salutary lessons never worked.)

I've just got off the phone to Richard Levinson, who's complaining about how overpaid some Council officers are, when my mobile starts ringing.

"Shit, Mol," says Dinah. "You won't believe what's happened."

"Oh, I probably will," I say. "I work for an MP, remember. Nothing much surprises me any more."

"Yeah, well," she says. "You won't have seen this one coming. Dad's got to have a heart bypass operation. First thing tomorrow morning."

Oh, dear God. I bet that's because Dinah told him that lie about Connie having a sixty-five-year-old boyfriend. The shock was obviously far too much - not that Dinah's taking any responsibility for what has happened.

"Coincidence," she says, when I ask whether she thinks her attempt at aversion therapy may have backfired. "More likely to be the effect of trying to keep up with the Thai bride that's done it. So what are we going to do? Someone'll have to go down to Dorset tonight."

Why is it that when someone says "someone", they usually mean, "you"?

"Well, who?" I say. "I've got to work."

"Yes, I know," she says, "But your kids are much older than mine, and Max will be there to keep an eye on things anyway. I am a single parent, don't forget."

Honestly, it's like a game of top trumps, which I am always doomed to lose. Maybe that's what Cameron's tax allowance proposals were designed to compensate married people for? There must be some benefits in return for all that hard labour at the coalface of marriage, but getting out of things definitely isn't one of them.

"All right," I say. "You win. I'll ask The Boss if I can take unpaid leave. That's bound to make me even more popular with him than I already am."

"But he's a socialist," says Dinah. "So he'll believe in treating his employees well."

I can't think of anything to say to that ridiculous statement, so I content myself with drawing loops of barbed wire on my notepad instead. Then I create cages around the loops. God knows what Freud would say if he ever saw my doodles.

"Maybe we were too harsh about the Thai bride," says Dinah. "Just think, if she'd been in the UK, you wouldn't have needed to go."

"If you hadn't freaked Dad out and nearly given him a heart attack, I wouldn't have had any reason to," I say, but Dinah pretends she hasn't heard, tells me to call her back when I've sorted everything out, and hangs up.

Once I've done a bit of swearing, I realise that, not only am I patently rubbish at guilt-tripping people, but I've also lost any sense of what's important. What on earth am I doing, trying to score points against Dinah and fretting about work, when I should be worrying about Dad? I need to get a grip, request emergency leave and go home to pack.

After all - it's not as if anyone ever puts "esteemed workaholic" on a headstone, is it? And, if Greg's right about the general uselessness of what we do at work, I doubt anyone will notice my absence anyway.