Spinelessness In The Face Of Provocation.

I am knackered. I know I've said it before but, honestly, snoring really should be grounds for divorce. I finally drag myself out of bed mid-morning, but just can't be bothered to get dressed. It's too cold to undress first, anyway.

So I'm still sitting around in my thermals and hideous fleece nightshirt - attractively topped off with both my own and Max's dressing gowns - at lunchtime, when the doorbell rings. Then Max invites Ellen to come in, the idiot.

I glare at him, while she produces a gift-wrapped plant pot and hands it to me.

"This is for you, Molly," she says. "As a thank-you for the loan of the car last weekend."

I'm not exactly sure what comes out of my mouth next, but it's something along the lines of, "Humph."

Gracious is my middle name where nymphomaniac neighbours are concerned. And I don't like Christmas cactuses anyway (or should that be cacti?). They never bloody flower, just sit there promising much and delivering very little. A bit like certain governments I could mention.

My lack of enthusiasm must be obvious, because Ellen says,

"Max said you weren't very happy about him lending it to me - but it was all my fault. You mustn't blame him."

She pats Max on the arm at the same time as saying this, and it's all I can do not to swat her hand away. And what gives her the right to tell me when to be cross with my own husband?

"Humph," I say again.

I'm getting grumpier by the minute, but in the absence of any proof that she is sleeping with Max, there's nothing I can do but try to pull myself together, which is challenging in this outfit.

Luckily, Ellen is off to do her Christmas shopping, so she doesn't stay long. I'm so relieved that I manage to avoid asking why she hasn't already done it, given that her school has been closed since the first hint of snow.

After she's gone, I unwrap the cactus and put it on the table, and then I start to feel a bit guilty for being so rude to her, despite the restraint I showed about school closures. What if she isn't up to anything with Max? That'd make me the bad guy - especially if you  take Johnny into account. Thank God I didn't have virtual sex with him the other day.

If I told idiot brother Robin about it, he'd no doubt start going on about karma, so I decide I'd better try and compensate for any of the bad stuff I may have earned, just in case. I shall lure Max into having real sex by virtue of wearing my new(ish) underwear in his honour.

Putting thermals on top of lace does rather spoil the effect but, as long as I whip them off quickly tonight, Max probably won't even notice what I'm wearing until I get down to my bra and knickers. Then speed will be of the essence if I'm to avoid freezing to death.

The safest bet is probably to turn the electric blanket up to maximum temperature, and dive in to bed as fast as I can. This should avert hypothermia, as long as we don't disturb the covers too much after that. Now the whole thing's starting to sound like a military operation, which could be a bit depressing if I thought about it too much.

I decide not to think about it too much and am very nice to Max for the rest of the day instead. I don't even remark on the whole bottle of wine he downs while he's cooking dinner. He does, though. As he drains his glass, he says,

"Don't worry, Mol. I know I always snore when I've had a drink - so I'll sleep in Connie's room tonight."

Oh, for God's sake. Begging would be far too humiliating, so it seems that the only thing I'm going to score today is a bloody cactus. And even that's been cultivated to remove its prickles.

There'd be a joke there, if I was in the mood to make it.

Call That An Interview? Abandon Your Dignity All Ye Who Enter Here.

Josh has his interview at the cinema today. I'm keeping everything crossed, which is a little uncomfortable, though maybe that'll compensate for my failure to do regular Kegel exercises. I suppose it's a bit late to start them now, seeing as I am meeting Johnny on Thursday.

Wouldn't it be fantastic if Josh got the job, though? Throughout the day, I keep drifting off into reveries in which Josh owns a chain of cinemas, and is able to keep his mother in the style to which she would like to become accustomed. Then I could tell The Boss where to stuff his job next time he makes me deal with a total lunatic without security. Or if he ever pretends that he has fallen asleep while I am speaking again.

This fantasy is so compelling that I almost manage to convince myself that I am just working out my notice, and so I even manage to stay calm in the face of Richard Levinson's demands that the Government "grows some balls like Sarkozy, and chucks out all those bloody gypsies" who are, apparently, the only reason that Richard and his fiancee aren't being given a three bedroomed council house all to themselves. I rise above all this, lost in my imaginary universe - and very nice it is too.

Reality makes its presence felt the moment I get home, though. Josh is back in ranting constituent mode as soon as I step through the front door. Can't say I blame him. What on earth has happened to interviews? When did they become about how much a candidate is prepared to humiliate him or herself?

Apparently, the Jobcentre sent about eighty young people for the interviews at the cinema - which rather undermined the impressiveness of Josh's achievement in being one of them. They were split into two groups, and then set some of the most stupid and demeaning tasks I can imagine.

These included being asked which fruit you are, and why. (What the hell kind of stupid question is that?) Then came an exercise in recalling and repeating everything the previous ten people had said in one of those "I went to the shops and I bought" tasks so beloved of 1980s TV improvisation shows - you know, the ones which starred Josie Lawrence and occasionally John Sessions (before he got fat and unrecognisable).

If the candidates hadn't already lost the will to live by this point, they then had to say what their favourite film was - to which Josh was, unsurprisingly, the only one to say "Mrs Doubtfire." Next, they were each paired up with another applicant to act out dialogue from film scripts.

I mean, I know this is a job in a cinema, and Josh did have high hopes for his Film Studies A-level, but really - does he actually need to be able to act and recite in order to sell tickets and over-priced popcorn? He reckons he's in with a chance of getting the job, though, as he says most of the other candidates were dead from the neck up and could barely remember their own names. Three of them apparently chose vegetables when they were asked what fruits they were - which Josh thought very appropriate.

He finds out sometime in the next two days if he's been successful. It'll be very worrying indeed if he hasn't been. In the meantime, maybe I should start asking constituents what sort of fruit they are - though the answer would be bound to be "cake."