A Novel Approach To Sex Education, And The Reason Why Josh May Have Chosen Film Studies

Honestly, they should make teaching a spectator sport. It'd be so entertaining. Max thinks it's a great idea, too - but only because of what we discover while we're trying to make a democratic family decision about what to watch on TV.

Josh is flicking through all the programmes available on catch-up, none of which appeal to me in the slightest. Which may be because I am in an unaccountably bad mood: something which has nothing whatsoever to do with PMT, despite the looks Max and Josh keep giving each other, and their less-than-oblique references to the subject. Sometimes it's just like living with Richard Keys and Andy Gray.

"Not that," I say, as yet another Skins/Hollyoaks-type programme is highlighted. "Do we have to watch children's television? I am an intelligent adult, though I can't speak for you two."

"How about this, then?" says Josh, giving Max another of those bloody looks. He presses a button on the remote again, and selects The Joy of Teen Sex.

Isn't that just the most pointless programme ever created? Talk about preaching to the converted. Not to mention that I'm pretty sure that teenagers already get more "joy" than anybody else.

"No," I say. "Not that either. For God's sake."

I glare at Josh, who pulls his pseudo-innocent face.

"But, Mum," he says. "It's educational, and you're supposed to be the responsible parent."

Max raises an eyebrow at this implied criticism of his parenting skills, but otherwise stays out of it, as usual. Q.E.D. - so it seems our son can rest that case.

"Somehow, Josh," I say, "I suspect that you've already got a Ph.D in the Joy of Sex. Unlike in Maths, in which even a bloody GCSE would have been nice."

Josh looks outraged, blames the school, and goes on to claim that even the sex education classes were inadequate.

"So what did they involve, then?" I say. "And which of your teachers took the lessons, anyway? I don't think you've ever mentioned them before."

"Lesson," says Josh. "Singular. Taught by Mr Hazeldean."

Max suddenly stops looking at the TV, and re-joins the conversation. I think he's just realised that the programme's on pause.

"Oh, I always liked him," he says. "I wish my teachers had been a bit more like that. He was such a laugh at Parent's Evenings."

"Mainly because he was completely mad," I say. "Which you wouldn't find half as funny if you worked with total lunatics all week. Anyway, don't interrupt. Josh was about to tell us what he learned. Weren't you, Josh?"

I'm expecting Josh to cringe at this idea, which would serve as just retribution for all his sarky comments about PMT but, tragically, he doesn't. Sometimes I am such an idiot.

I've forgotten - again - that, while Max and I both recall our parents' attempts at giving us "the talk about sex" with absolute horror, our kids have no embarrassment threshold whatsoever . Which Greg always ascribes to what he calls Max's and my mad adherence to the Wafty Parent approach, aka treating your children as if they were your best friends. 

So, unencumbered by any sense of awkwardness, Josh launches into an explanation:

"Mr H was late that morning," he says. "Because his car had broken down. I think he said he'd had to poke one of the brake disks or something like that - I can't remember exactly. Anyway, he'd pretty much welded his finger into a stub by the time he arrived at school."

"Did you have any teachers with normal digits left in your school?" I say. (I am, of course, thinking of Mr Thumb.)

"Honestly," says Josh. "You keep going off a tangents, Mum. Do you want me to tell you what happened with Mr Hazeldean or not? "

I nod, though it occurs to me that maybe we should have raised Josh to be a little less assertive. And less impatient. He does a very ostentatious sigh before continuing:

"So, Mr H walked into class, showed us his stub and told us he couldn't stay because he needed to go straight to A&E. Then he put a porno on, and said, 'This is all you need to know.'"

I try not to laugh, while Max doesn't. He cracks up completely, then pulls himself together and says:

"Well, I reckon that was pretty quick thinking in an emergency."

"Well, yes," says Josh. "That's what we thought too. Until we realised that he must have intended to show it to us all along. Seeing as he'd brought it in with him - on VHS."

Max says later that he thinks that this formative experience may account for Josh's subsequent decision to concentrate on Film Studies at A-Level. I say it may also account for his rather Neanderthal attitude to women. And to any fluctuation in their hormone levels.

Conflicting Interests All Over The Place

It's one of those days. First Mr Meeurghn phones, screeching about one of his neighbours picking on him. When I enquire a little further, it seems as if the neighbour objected to Mr Meeurghn ordering him to help carry a stereo and sofa up the stairs to Mr M's flat. Mr Meeurghn has no concept of the notion of asking someone nicely.

Now he says he can't go outside without the neighbour looking at him as if he wants to kill him.

"You write him and tell him," he yells.

"Tell him what?" I want to go home already. And it's only 10:30am.

"You tell him be nice to me, because I am refugee," says Mr Meeurghn.

I sometimes long for just a small part of the vast influence that Mr Meeurghn believes me to possess. I know who I'd use it on first - but that is just wishful thinking. In the absence of any meaningful super-powers, I spend ages trying to tell him that it is really up to him to improve his relationship with his neighbour, but he loses his temper and slams the phone down on me. I can't say I'm sorry.

Greg says, "He's on our list for the next DIY CRB check. Once bloody Recess is over."

I don't think we need to go and spy on Mr Meeurghn to know that he is a total nutter - not since the letter from the Home Office - but I suppose we could check out whether his neighbour looks like a reasonable person or not, just in case Mr M is telling the truth for once. You have to try to keep an open mind, after all. Though that's sometimes a bit of a tall order.

Then John Fuk-Yue phones. He tells me - for the umpteenth time - that the hospital have got his diagnosis wrong: that he has epilepsy, and not a personality disorder. He says that he needs an urgent meeting with me to discuss this in person, as he has to look into someone's eyes to trust them. I don't say that the problem with this idea is that I don't trust him, but I do agree to write to his doctor and express John's extreme disquiet.

"Remind me of the name of your GP?" I say. I can't remember everything off the top of my head, but John takes this as a personal affront.

"I've told you before," he says. "How many bloody times? I don't have a normal GP. I have that bastard that was allocated to me."

"Ah, yes - now I remember. Tell me again what reason they gave for that?"

"That I was too dangerous to be seen by anyone outside the secure medical centre," he says. "And all because I accidentally punched that nurse."

I take the name of the doctor, and agree to fax my letter to speed things up. I am instructed to include a long list of the specific symptoms which John believes signify epilepsy, and I am to point out that if he did have a personality disorder, his self-medication of paracetamol and alcohol wouldn't work. For Godsake - is everyone going to think they have the right to tell me how to do my job today?

I'm almost embarrassed to send the stupid letter, but John scares me more than a loss of dignity does, so I type it up quickly and fax it straight through. Half an hour later, I get a phone call from the medical centre. Doctor Granger would like to have an off-the-record conversation with me. I hate these - they are never good news.

"About our mutual acquaintance, Mr Fuk-Yue," he says. "If that's what he's still calling himself this week?"

"Yes," I say. "He hasn't changed his name for a while now."

"Well, you mentioned that he'd asked for a meeting with you. I'm phoning to tell you that I think that would be most inadvisable."

"Why's that?" I ask, though I have a horrible feeling that I already know the answer.

"Because he is an extremely dangerous, manipulative individual," says Doctor Granger. "You are aware of the special arrangements for his medical care?"

"Ye-es," I say. "He told me there was a misunderstanding when he punched a nurse by accident."

"Regrettably, there was a lot more to it than that, my dear. Suffice to say that, despite the guards at this facility, I myself will not see Mr Fuk-Yue without wearing a stab vest. I strongly advise that neither you nor your MP meet with him without security  - under any circumstances."

"Oh dear, I don't think Mr Sinclair will be happy about that. He refuses to have security, and doesn't believe that anyone should be denied access to their MP. Or to the MP's staff."

"Is Mr Sinclair there? I think I need to speak to him myself," says Dr Granger. God, he's masterful. I'd be quite turned on, if I wasn't so stressed. He reminds me of Johnny, apart from the Scottish accent. Or even Max, when he took control of the Josh situation yesterday. What is going on with my hormones?

The Boss is out of the office, trying to smooth over the situation with the St Helen's Road residents, so Dr Granger tells me to ask Andrew to call him when he comes back. I'm not very optimistic about the likely result of their conversation - realistically, as it turns out.

The Boss goes nuts when I explain what the GP wants. He yells at me, then phones Dr Granger and tells him that he has never had a problem with a constituent being violent, and that that is because of the way that he speaks to them - "soothingly and with respect."

I can only assume that Dr Granger demurs, because then Andrew says, "Unlike some people," in a rather offensive way.

There follows a lengthy argument, and then Andrew slams out of the office, glaring at me as he passes. I wait a few minutes, and then phone Dr Granger myself.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor - but I just wanted to thank you for your efforts to ensure my safety, and to apologise for Mr Sinclair's manner," I say. "He is under rather a lot of pressure today."

"Between you and me, lassie, I'd say he's not under enough pressure. The man needs a reality check. How many times have you been threatened or assaulted?" he asks.

"Um, quite a few," I say. "But then I see constituents rather more often than Mr Sinclair does."

"Exactly the point I made to him, before he hung up," says Dr Granger. "You be careful, my dear. And do not see that man alone."

Considering that John likes to "just pop in", and has frequently been found hanging around in the one corner of the lobby that is not visible from the security door, I'm not at all sure how I'm going to manage to avoid this. But it is nice to know that someone cares.

Greg decides to add John to the DIY CRB list before we go home. In the process of noting down the address, he realises that John lives in the same street as Mr Meeurghn. How did I miss that?

"Great," says Greg. "We can kill two birds with one stone and check 'em both out at the same time."

"That's if they haven't killed each other first," I say.

This leads to the uncomfortable realisation that, if Mr Meeurghn's neighbour is John Fuk-Yue, then Mr M may actually have a valid reason for his paranoia, for once in his life. And I am smack in the middle of a conflict of interest. That'll teach me to gloat about Andrew's cock-up with the St Helen's Road Hostel.

Mind you, I suppose that if Mr M and John did kill each other, that'd be two less scary people to contend with on a regular basis. Or maybe I could suggest that The Boss offers to arbitrate and pays them both a home visit. Then we'd soon see how effective his supposedly soothing voice really is.

I'd better not mention this idea to Greg. He's so cross with The Boss that he'd probably set up that appointment straight away. I wouldn't mind paying Dr Granger a home visit, though. I really need to get a grip on my hormones.