A Case Of The Friday Wobbles, And A Great Idea To Help Small Businesses Comes To Nothing.

Ouf, I definitely shouldn't have eaten the Scotch egg that Max gave me because he was too riddled with guilt to eat it himself. I feel very odd indeed.

Mind you, I always feel a bit wobbly on Fridays - who wouldn't, with The Boss back from Westminster and constituency surgery to look forward to? God knows what that combination does to my blood pressure, but it can't be good.

It seems pathetic to be moaning about anything to do with life in Northwick in the light of the terrible events in Japan last night, though, doesn't it?

"We need to get our senses of proportion back," I say to Greg this morning, while we're walking into work - but he obviously isn't paying any attention to me. He's far too busy listening to the raised voices that are coming from our office.

"Have a nice time on Wednesday night, did you, Andrew?" says Vicky, in that sort of voice. (Her use of Andy seems to have bitten the dust.)

Greg puts his finger to his lips, and pulls me behind the coat-rack in the corridor. We stand very still and wait for what comes next.

"Um, no," says Andrew. "I don't know what you mean. I went to that do at the embassy, which was okay but a bit dull, so I left at 10:30pm and went back to the flat."

"So why didn't you answer either of your phones?" says Vicky. "I called you every half hour - almost all night."

I think this must have been a rhetorical question as, before The Boss can respond, Vicky comes hurtling out into the corridor, shouts, "Sod you!" and slams the door shut behind her. Then she grabs her coat and glares at Greg and me.

"Heard enough, you two?" she says.

"Yes, thanks," says Greg. "Safe to go in there now, is it?"

Vicky shrugs and walks off towards the stairwell, so Greg counts to fifty and then opens the door. Andrew's sitting at my desk, reading the local paper and chewing like mad. He tries to hide Greg's last bag of Haribos, but doesn't quite manage it in time.

"Morning, guys," he says, as if nothing at all has happened. "Looking forward to today? Lots more lovely constituents who hate the Coalition to sympathise with - can't be bad."

Honestly, only an MP would look forward to surgeries. Probably because they can get through the vast majority of the damned things purely by looking sympathetic and saying, "Ah," a lot. While muppets like me try to note down the garbled details of complicated cases, knowing that we're going to be the ones who have to do the follow-up work.

This scenario is a pretty accurate summary of what happens when we start seeing today's constituents straight after lunch. I show each person in, one at a time, while Andrew makes expansive gestures of welcome from the comfort of his chair. His legs are splayed and his tie askew, and I'm pretty sure there's a gravy stain on the bottom of it. No wonder he never makes GQ's Best-Dressed Man in Britain list.

Once the constituent is settled and starts to speak, The Boss then gives a virtuoso demonstration of sympathetic nodding - while I am left to frantically scribble down details of incomprehensible tax credit awards and overpayment demands; care home charges and a traveller family who apparently spend all their time re-spraying cars in the garden of their council house. It's a laugh a minute in this job.

Today, there's only one constituent in whom Andrew seems to take a genuine interest, and that's Jim Dixon - who is a self-employed carpet fitter working for most major retailers in the area. His business is going under, and he's just beginning to explain why, when Andrew jumps to a conclusion, as per bloody usual. That it's all the fault of the banks.

After listening to The Boss pontificating for what feels like hours about Stephen Hester's bonus and the banks' moral obligation to lend to small businesses, even the mild-mannered Jim looks as if he is going to explode. My head feels as if it already has.

"Andrew," I say. "Why don't you just let Mr Dixon tell us what his actual problem is?"

This earns me a grateful look from Jim, who goes on to describe the behaviour of the retailers who use his services. They're taking longer and longer to pay his invoices, and causing him major cash-flow problems in the process.

"How long are they making you wait?" asks Andrew, who has finally grasped what this is about. Or, at least, I hope he has.

"Our agreement is that payment is due within thirty days of the date of the invoice," says Jim. "And all the shops used to comply with that, at least most of the time. Until this last year. Then one of them wrote to me telling me that they weren't going to pay for ninety days, like it or not - and then all the others started pushing it as far as they could, as well. I've got bills that are still unpaid after nine or ten months."

"Bloody hell," says The Boss. Who may now be re-thinking his negative assessment of IPSA's turnaround of expenses payments. "I can see that would be problematic, to put it mildly."

"It is," says Jim. "Seeing as I still have to pay for everything up front. I can't exactly tell the filling station I'll pay for my petrol when my clients have paid me, can I? Or buy my family's food on tick?"

"No," says Andrew. "I suppose you can't. Bloody outrageous, that's what that is."

He sits and scratches his head for a moment, while looking optimistically at me. I'm starting to feel a bit sick - probably from that damned egg - so I just look straight back at him and concentrate on trying not to burp.

"We did something about this, though, didn't we, Molly?" says The Boss. "When we were in power, I mean."

"Well, sort-of," I say. "We legislated to allow small business people to apply charges for late payment if their bills weren't paid on time."

You'd swear that this had been Andrew's own idea, he looks so pleased to be reminded of it.

"Well, there you are, then, Jim," he says. "Problem solved. By your good old Labour government. Just slap a few charges on these bloody retailers and they'll soon -"

"Pay up, then tell me to bugger off and use someone else in future," says Jim. Which, not for the first time, seems to leave The Boss with nothing of any use to add to the debate. Or not before I have to excuse myself and head for the loo, anyway.

I have to repeat that particular journey so often over the course of the rest of the afternoon that eventually, Greg barges in to the Ladies' toilet to tell me that I might as well go home, for all the use I'm being. So now I have no idea if Andrew found a solution to Jim's problem, or not. The latter seems infinitely more likely than the former, based on past experience.

I suppose I'll find out on Monday morning, when I'll have to rely on Andrew's own notes to carry out whatever he suggested to Jim we would do - which is bound to be a total disaster, whatever it is. Which is a pretty good description of how I've spent my evening, too: on about two hundred more trips to the loo. (This poetry thing is awfully contagious.)

"You still throwing up, then, Mol?" says Max, at about 8:00pm, when he tries to open the bathroom door and finds it locked.

"Yes," I say. "Thanks to you, and that bloody Scotch egg of yours. Go away and leave me alone."

"I'd go to bed, if I were you," he says. "And take a bucket with you, too."

Huh. So it seems The Boss won't be the only one to have had an early night this week. Though I bet his was more fun than mine.

The Winter Of Discontent Arrives Earlier Than Expected.

The first thing Greg says to me this morning is,

"What on earth's the matter with your face?"

After seeing my expression, it's also the last thing he says to me, until lunchtime when The Boss phones with some news: Marie-Louise has gone off sick.

"So, you'll just have to do my London diary until I can get someone in," he says.

"Why can't Carlotta do the diary?" I ask. "She's in London. That does help, you know."

"She's too busy," says The Boss.

I seriously doubt that. I'm pretty sure Carlotta still takes a siesta every day - something to do with her cultural heritage. But I let it go, as I'm more concerned to find out what's wrong with Marie-Louise. She sounded fine when I spoke to her earlier, but Andrew side-steps the question when I ask him.

"She's probably got personal problems," he says," and anyway, it shouldn't take long to find a replacement. I have a plan."

I really don't like the sound of this. Andrew's plans have a nasty habit of resulting in him shooting himself firmly in both feet. Or in my feet, actually, as one of my unwritten contractual duties is to put myself in the line of fire. Also, he sounds alarmingly smug, so it's obvious he's up to something. But what?

I decide to ring Carlotta and find out what has really happened.

"Ah, the poor girl has just had enough," says Carlotta. "Andrew has been horrible today. Marie was in tears by 10:30am and locked herself in the loo for ages. When she finally came back in to the office, he told her not to be a baby, and then - the very next minute - she said she didn't feel well and was going home."

"Christ," I say. "Sounds as if it must've been bad."

"It could have been even worse," says Carlotta. "When she got home, she sent me an email saying she was going to resign."

"Oh, my God! Why didn't The Boss tell me that?"

My squeak alerts Greg, who decides it's worth risking approaching my desk to find out what's going on, so I share the receiver between us. Hope he thinks the blotches are catching.

"Andrew doesn't know," says Carlotta. "I talked Marie out of it, with stories of what the coalition's going to do to the unemployment figures in the next few months. So now she is just off sick - which still leaves the problem of his diary."

"Bloody hell," says Greg. "I can't understand it. He was miles better on Friday so I thought things were looking up. In fact, he was as happy as Larry all week, especially at conference."

"Pfft," says Carlotta. "Today he is determined to upset everyone. Even though he shouldn't even be here, seeing as it's still Recess. He started to dictate some rubbish to me before I'd managed to take my coat off this morning, then said I was a 'bloody amateur' when I asked him to wait a minute."

"Did he ask you to do the diary, then?" I say.

"Yes," says Carlotta. "I told him: Andrew, if you want me to do that, then you have to write all the articles you promised those people at the fringe meetings yourself. Solo. Then he changed his mind. Sorry, Molly."

Sorry, my arse. Bloody, bloody hell. I wonder if Carlotta's going to get to keep the fees for these articles, like she did with the last one she wrote? I bet she is. The Boss doesn't care about money half as much as he cares about publicity - except when it comes to my salary, of course.

He won't be intending to pay me extra for doing his diary, or approve any overtime. He'll just say I need to "buckle down" and remind me of the clause in my contract that covers "any other reasonable duties." That's all well and good, but I do wish IPSA wouldn't leave it to The Boss to define reasonable. It's not a concept that he's overly familiar with.

So it seems I am doomed to become progressively more undervalued by the minute, given the unpaid hours I'm going to end up putting in until Marie-Louise comes back. I am tempted to write to Derek Simpson and ask him what he's going to do about it. I bet he'll say he's far too busy planning mass strikes, and leaning on Ed Miliband to bother with the likes of me.

I really must cancel my union membership, especially now I know what Derek earns - and about his alleged penchant for Thailand. Maybe I could get Dad to put a word in for me, if he should run into Derek during his next visit? Or maybe Porn-Poon could exercise her charms on my behalf? Though, actually, I'd prefer not to think about her charms and their effects.

Carlotta faxes me through all the urgent diary stuff, and forwards me the diary-related emails. She says she'll send everything else in the post. This does not improve my mood. In fact, I am so cross that I spend five minutes cursing and kicking the filing cabinet. Then I have to spend another fifteen minutes trying to get the bottom drawer to open.

Greg starts laughing, so I try to wither him with a look. It doesn't work, even though my face resembles the Infected more than usual.

"Trying to add repairwoman to your job description too?" he says.

"Shut up, Greg - it's not funny. I haven't got time for this! Not with all the bloody diary stuff to do."

"Cheer up, Mol," says Greg. "Think of all the fun you can have, sending The Boss to the wrong locations."

Huh. I wish I could send the usual suspects to the wrong locations. To far-flung destinations, and with one-way tickets. Maybe Derek could take them with him, next time he goes? Miss Chambers rings just before we close, to complain that the man who owns the local Post Office won't serve her.

"Why not?"

"Because he didn't like me calling him a Paki," she says. Or screams, to be more accurate. "Do something about it. I don't know what this country's coming to."

"Nor do I," I say, though I have a horrible feeling that she is oblivious to sarcasm.

Now I come to think of it, I can't see what Marie-Louise has to complain about. Being a Diary Secretary would be a doddle, compared to casework. Imagine only having to deal with the logistics of room bookings, travel and acceptance letters! And I wouldn't have to deal with Miss Chambers any more. But, of course, I shall do as I'm told, as usual. How I envy that Post Office man his self-respect.

A Barbecued Microcosm of The Labour Party, and a Mis-Interpretation of the Omens.

It's Joan's famous Bank Holiday Labour Party Barbecue this afternoon. Max and I are going, though I am a bit nervous about what's going to happen when The Boss discovers that I have ignored his ban on socialising with Party staff - because someone's bound to tell him. He usually appoints a spy in circumstances like these.

Now I'm starting to sound as mad as he is, but that's what happens when you work for someone like Andrew. Neuroses are contagious - as if I didn't have quite enough of my own, mainly around a lack of sex and what seems to be an increasing over-abundance of facial hair.

Even if The Boss doesn't find out, I can't say I'm looking forward to seeing all the local councillors again, after Friday's events, but I can't wriggle out of going now. Joan's Party barbecue is a tradition, and anyway, I like her, and most of the Party staff, so I'm not going to let them down. They're always the ones who rescue me when a constituent goes berserk, too - so risking Andrew's further disapproval seems a small price to pay for ongoing protection.

It's stopped raining by the time Max and I eventually arrive at Joan's, so I take that as a good omen.  It's my fault we're late, as I kept changing my mind about what to wear. Labour Party events are a sartorial challenge, as there is no accepted dress code whatsoever. That's mainly because Northwick Labour Party has a class divide wider than my mother-in-law's arse.

On the sunny side of Joan's garden sit most of the town and county councillors, together with those middle-class activists who names crop up on every committee from the Northwick Preservation Society to the Mental Health Trust, and who are all school governors. These are the members of the various local Party dynasties, their fingers - or rather relatives - in every pie. Jimmy Barton is there too, with his wife, Peggy. He winks at me as I walk past.

On the other side, in the shade, sit those Party members who live on Northwick's council estates, or who are union reps - and who are therefore deemed to have their finger on the pulse of the core vote. Far fewer members of this group have managed to become councillors, and although those that have interact slightly more comfortably with the elite squad than do the rest, you can still sense the mutual distrust. And probably dislike.

Over the last few years, a third group has been on the rise. The young, university-educated Party activists, who stand by the drinks table, as their legs don't tire as easily as those of the rest of us. They are largely devotees of David Miliband, and have an understanding of political theory, demographics and voting intentions that puts the rest of us to shame. I'm a bit doubtful about how much real-life experience they bring to their policy analysis, but there's no doubt that their voices are becoming more and more influential - at least partly because their overt personal ambition scares the hell out of The Boss and the other old-timers.

Despite the fact that we know everyone, Greg and I usually spend these events on the periphery of any group we try to join  - probably because we are equally distrusted by all of them. I'm sure that working for the MP means that we are seen as snobs by some, and as halfwits who know nothing about politics by others. Poor old Max is treated as even more irrelevant than we are.

"Molly! Max! Over here!" It's Greg, who is sitting in no-man's land in the middle of the garden, with some of the regional Party staff that I particularly like. Thank God. Max and I are just about to join them and start the serious business of drinking, when there is another late arrival. The Boss. Bloody hell - that's the one thing I wasn't expecting.

I am so pleased that he must have come to his senses, that I smile at him, but he ignores me and makes a rather wobbly beeline for the county councillors and the rest of the elite squad. Kissy, kissy, kissy. It's horrible to watch. Andrew still hasn't mastered the art of planting his lips on women's cheeks, rather than aiming for their lips, though no-one seems to object today.

Why do women like The Boss so much? They all start giggling, and pay him rapt attention while he holds forth about the merits of Neil Young. I notice Jimmy Barton seems less than pleased to see Andrew, though, which is rather gratifying.

"Where's the bloody beer, then?" Andrew shouts, at no-one in particular.

"Didn't you bring your own?" says Jimmy. "Thought you'd have brought a case of the stuff, with the portcullis on it. Though I suppose times are hard for MPs now, thanks to IPSA."

The Boss doesn't find this amusing in the slightest, but he deserves it. He always ignores instructions to "bring a bottle," except when he donates bottles of House of Commons whisky to constituency fetes and raffles. It's as if social norms don't apply to him at all. Mind you, it doesn't look as if he needs any more alcohol today, as he's staggering pretty well already. I can't bear to watch him any longer, so I change places with Max. Now my back is to Andrew, which is a great improvement.

After we've eaten what probably represents Iceland's entire stock of frozen beef-burgers - consumed with varying degrees of enthusiasm - it's time for a game of cricket. Not poncy cricket, but Labour Party cricket, which normally turns into rounders quite quickly.

"Come on, Andrew - let's see the old semi-pro in action!" says Greg, but The Boss declines. He obviously doesn't want to spoil his mythological sporting status. Given what happens next, he'd probably have done better to make a fool of himself during the match. There is a squeal, then Jimmy's wife Peggy stands up and glares at The Boss.

"That's enough," she says. "Come on, Jimmy - we're going." Jimmy looks puzzled but does as he's told.   The Boss shouts after them:

"Some women have no bloody sense of humour."

I go to run after Jimmy and Peggy, but Greg stops me.

"Leave it alone, Mol," he says. "Best not to draw any more attention to it than necessary."

"What happened?" I say.

"I'm not sure, but when I went to the loo a bit earlier, Peggy was in there."

"What, and you walked in on her?"

"No, but when she came out, she said, 'Your boss really is a shit.' I asked her why, and she said that he was coming on to her, and driving her mad."

"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "So is that why she's gone home?"

"I should think so," says Greg. "Though it'd have been better if he'd gone instead. Any suggestions as to what we do now? He's not going to get any better behaved if he carries on drinking."

"I don't know," I say. "Unless we go home ourselves, before anything else happens. We could always leave him to take responsibility for his own actions for once."

"What a novel concept," says Greg. "But not really an option. Next suggestion?"

I don't answer as, at that moment, we are saved by the bell. Or rather, by the return of the rain. Thank God. It's so heavy, that everyone decides it's time to go - even The Boss. It seems I may have misjudged what constitutes a good omen - sometimes rainfall is exactly what is needed. Gene Kelly knew what he was talking about.

Care In The Community, My Arse.

It turns out that Mr Meeeeurghn is in a bail hostel because he has just got out of prison. More details are being sent by post, and are strictly confidential. 

I have no-one to share this with, as Greg is off sick with his self-diagnosed Post-Traumatic Stress. I'm a model of efficiency today, though, despite all the usual suspects being out in force; and am storming through my caseload when Carlotta phones to ask me to sort out her work permit. 


Huh. I’m not doing anything about that, until I hear what The Boss has decided to do about the inevitable job cuts he’s going to have to make now that he has to pay our pension contributions himself. 

Good old IPSA*. I thought they were going to make things a whole lot better, but they seem to have missed the point a bit. Anything that put paid to mad March when MPs ran around like loonies, buying any old office equipment just to make sure that the IEP* budget got spent is a Good Thing, but losing casework staff isn’t. 


I liked my old blue office chair, and really didn’t want a red one even if we did have to find something to spend the money on. (Red fluff gets everywhere and shows much more against black clothing than the fluff from the blue chair used to.) Anyway, if it comes down to a choice between Carlotta LongLegs’ so-called job or my pension, I may have to take a strategic approach. She’s twenty years younger than me!

Going off at a tangent, the usual suspects do make me think, though. When Old Thatch’s Government got rid of long-stay wards in psychiatric hospitals, it seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. Care in the Community sounded so warm, and woolly-headedly liberal, that it was irresistible to even the most rampant socialist, which I was, then. 


Of course, everyone assumed that two very important features would be put into place to ensure delivery of this great new concept: Care, and Community. Now we - MPs and their staff - have become Care in the Community, so I decide to keep a tally of how many sane enquiries we get in a day. 


Today’s result is nine. Out of a total of thirty-three phone calls, and thirty-nine letters, and not even counting emails. I rest my case. 

*IPSA: Independent Parliamentary Standards Authority, see previous explanation

*IEP: Incidental Expenses Provision, one of three allowances for MPs. 

Nasty Constituents, Oil Spills and Heavy Breathing

What on earth do the girls in the Westminster office do? Are they completely hopeless? In the morning, I receive an email from Carlotta saying that she's booked Mr Beales in for tomorrow's surgery, as Greg and I aren't answering the phone.

Wrong, you dingbat. Greg and I are screening the calls - which is a completely different thing - with the sole aim of avoiding having to give Mr Beales another surgery appointment so soon after his last one. We do try to leave the odd slot free for people with real problems, but it's constant battle, even without the London-based girls being pushovers. Marie-Louise is even more of a wimp than Carlotta.

To add insult to injury, Carlotta says she is going to complain to The Boss about it.

"I should not have to speak to people who are so rude that they make me cry," she says.

Mr Beales? Rude? He's a rank amateur compared to most of the usual suspects - and Carlotta doesn't seem to realise that she wouldn't have a job if it weren't for those "nasty constituents"?

"Those people are for you and Greg to deal with," she says. "I have Andrew's speeches to write."

"Carlotta, Andrew's a back-bencher, for Godsake, and no-one in the Chamber ever listens to a word he says."

This doesn't go down very well, and Carlotta does one of those exaggerated Spanish sighs that she's so good at.

It's not just that the girls are largely decorative: I wish they'd use pseudonyms too, because constituents are constantly moaning about why The Boss only employs "foreigners" in his Westminster office. He doesn't, but he does insist on long legs and an appearance which won't embarrass him at the Cinnamon Club.

Greg's so cross about the Mr Beales incident, that he decides to get his own back on Carlotta. He waits until lunchtime, then phones the Westminster office and leaves 25 "messages" on the answer-phone while the girls are out for their no-doubt glamorous lunch in the House.

The messages involve little more than heavy breathing, coupled with the odd menacing grunt and barking noise. I really hope Greg remembered to press 141 before he dialled.

Things don't get any better in the afternoon. Miss Chambers phones again, this time to complain that the Police aren't taking her latest incident report seriously and "are trying to imply that she has made a lot of enemies."

She goes on to say that she has never upset anyone. This is so delusional as to be almost funny - except that then she asks what kind of madman would post dog-poo through her letterbox?  I don't tell her that I am sitting in the office with exactly such a man.

In the evening, I get another email from Johnny. I don't tell Max, as I'm not at all sure that Johnny's not flirting with me now. It's very odd. You'd think he'd be too busy trying to sort out the Gulf oil disaster - all hands on deck in an emergency and all that.

Also, we have nothing in common, except being the same age and having been to the same school aeons ago, so I can't see what's in it for him - it's not as if The Boss can wield any influence over Obama. Or anyone, for that matter.

Johnny's attached a photo, but it's a bit of a disappointment. He's definitely not the dark-haired blue-eyed one from the school bus, but (just my luck) the mousy paperboy. And he's sitting in a mid-life crisis-style car, grinning inanely, and looking disturbingly like Vladimir Putin - though I suppose if you live and work in Russia, it's quite a good idea to look like someone who's well-connected. I wonder if Johnny looks as good as Putin in a judo suit.

I can't believe how pedestrian my life is, in comparison to his. He seems to be on a plane almost as much as on land, and says he's working flat-out so that he can retire at fifty-five. I haven't even decided what I want to do when I grow up, and my pension's going to be worth nothing, especially now that IPSA's making The Boss pay for it. (I'm expecting a nasty surprise on that one anytime soon.)

On top of that, I bet Max will trade me in before much longer - probably for Annoying Ellen if the sit-ups and mooning around in the garden are anything to go by. Then I won't even get half of his lousy pension and will have to work 'til I drop (or The Boss does).

At that point, I'll probably have to euthanase myself when I can't face another day without heat or food, spent wrapped in a blanket and wearing an incontinence pad. And all while Johnny will be sunning himself on the deck of the architect-designed home he's building for his retirement, and admiring his flash-git car collection.

Mind you, it's quite nice to have an International Director of a Global Oil Company flirting with me. It makes a change - though I do wish I could actually recall whatever it was we did together behind the Science Block.

The Worst Thing To Say To Your Wife Before Going Out & Other More Public Relationship Problems

I do wish The Boss wouldn't phone me on Saturdays. Or, at least, not ten times and not to say the same thing on every occasion. even if he is enjoying the David Laws story rather too much. I'm too busy worrying about the night out Max has planned, even if it is my fault for complaining that we never do anything.

Now he tells me that we're going to meet his colleagues at a bar which coincidentally happens to be Josh's favourite drinking place. This is not promising, as it means that all the women there will be significantly younger than me, if not under-age; and there'll be acres of highly-toned flesh scattered with strategically-placed piercings.

As a result, I have no idea of the dress code, so I ask Max's advice.

"What do you think I should wear?"

"Oh, anything, darling. You always look nice."

This feels like shorthand for I can't be bothered to think about it, and is no help whatsoever. I try on one outfit - too dated. Another causes mutton and lamb to spring to mind. My knees seem to have become baggy overnight. The next option is too low-cut. When did my chest develop wrinkles? It's as if someone stopped working on the Forth Bridge for a week or so, and the whole thing just imploded.

Eventually, all my clothes are in a heap on the bed, and we are already late. I cobble together a combination designed primarily for invisibility, and then slap on my make-up.

Never experiment when you're under pressure. I decide to try out a sample sachet of foundation I found in one of Connie's magazines, which causes hundreds of new wrinkles to erupt. I wash it off again.

Connie phones, Dad phones, and Mum phones. One eye is still without make-up, and it's almost 9:30pm.

"How does this look?" I ask Max. He doesn't move his eyes from the television.

"Fine, darling." Oh, honestly! I have a large gin.

Then Max looks at his watch, says "Christ!" and rushes upstairs, shouting "What do you think I should wear?"

I am still sulking at his use of fine, so say, "Anything will do - you always look nice."

This is rapidly revealed to be untrue. Max puts on everything he owns that is not dirty, which results in a strange, multi-seasonal mix of linen, denim, and wool - all in varying and un-complementary shades of washed-out black and navy.

It takes him a further ten minutes to find his shoes under a pile of smelly laundry. By now. it's 10:30pm, and I decide to lie on the couch and watch television instead. I suspect my partying days are over.

The Gap Between Rich And Poor, Or The Difference Between Me And Johnny Hunter's Wife

I'm almost too depressed to write. Primark has no vacancies. And all that discount out of the window as well! So it looks as if I'm stuck with The Boss for the foreseeable future, or at least until IPSA's cuts cost me my job.

To make things worse, Mr Beales writes in with yet another problem - the third one in the last ten days. One of his clients won't pay for her wedding photographs, and he encloses copies. I'm not surprised the poor woman won't pay: a number of the guests are headless, including the groom.

I am surprised by one new development, however - Greg and I have always thought that Mr Beales was a school photographer. He seemed well-suited for this, in that he most closely resembles a paedophile or, at best, a serial killer. (Greg says that all paedophiles are easily identified by the double bar across the bridge of their metal-framed glasses.)

Anyway, whatever he is, I really can't be bothered with Mr Beales today, so I just dump his letter and photos into the otherwise-empty filing tray marked, Show to the Boss.

In the evening, I get another email from Johnny Hunter. A long one. His tone is very friendly, if a little boastful. He's only an International Director for a global oil company! Married, with two children - much younger than mine, which is presumably why he and his wife have managed to have rather more impressive careers than I have.

Johnny goes on to say that it is "the help" that enables him and his wife to keep flying across the globe with their demanding jobs, by ensuring that their children are well-cared for at the same time. He also says that he can't afford to downsize to spend more time with his family as "you know what school fees are like."

I am a gutless hypocrite. I do not say in my reply that of course I do not know, because I am politically (and financially) opposed to private schools; work for a Labour MP, and have put both my kids through the wringer of the state school system because it teaches them important life skills. (Well, that's what Max and I always tell our posh friends anyway - we don't mention Josh's gang lord credentials.)

No, in response to Johnny, I just wimp out and sympathise with his difficulty, as if I understand it all too well. What on earth is wrong with me? I have about as much idea of what his life is like, as he probably has of mine. And I bet his wife doesn't shop in Primark.

I still can't remember what he looks like, but am hoping he was that nice one with the dark hair and really blue eyes who used to catch the school bus with me. I must check whether he wears glasses, though. You can't be too careful in this day and age.

Anti-Social Behaviour All Over The Place.

In the morning, I represent The Boss at a public meeting to reassure constituents that the powers-that-be are tackling anti-social behaviour - as opposed to simply wringing their hands and despairing. Greg gets there before me and sends me a text:

'Molly, you're late. Meet me downstairs. I will be staring intently at the circus of freaks, losers, the mad, the bad and the weak who pay our wages.'

The meeting is ghastly. It's impossible to answer hostile questions realistically while being constrained by political correctness, let alone while also having to contend with Greg's increasingly demented texts. He just sits there with his mobile underneath the table, typing away furiously while wearing a wholly-angelic expression. I do wish he wouldn't do that.

I'm driven to my own version of anti-social behaviour when I have to sneak out for a cigarette, like the crowd of teenagers hanging around outside. I end up chatting to them - hug a hoodie, as Dave Blancmange Face would say! They aren't too happy about recent calls to ban smokers from outside pubs, and want to know why drunks aren't to be banned as well.

They've got a point, now I come to think of it. Smokers don't go around beating people up on their way home from a night's smoking, or vomit all over the pavements. So that's decided it - I'm definitely not giving up, just because a hypocritical Government containing people like The Boss told me to. (Especially when he's only just stopped smoking a pipe, anyway.)

Talking of The Boss, Greg swears he saw him on yesterday's TV footage of the SWP's raid on the BA Unite talks. Oh God - will Andrew never learn? He's just bored - and still in a mood because he's always fancied himself as a stalking horse candidate for the Party leadership, but isn't needed now that there are so many real candidates popping out of the woodwork.

Mind you, I may not have to put up with The Boss much longer if IPSA* don't get a grip and we all end up losing our jobs, thanks to the cuts in the Staffing Allowance. I just hope that Andrew decides that the girls at Westminster are dispensable, rather than Greg and I.

We're the ones who keep the constituents happy, after all. God knows why an MP doomed to sit forever on the back-benches needs a researcher in Parliament to write his speeches, however pretty she is. He has more than enough to say for himself without anyone else encouraging him.

Maybe he'll be a bit quieter in future, though. Carlotta says that a sign has been put up at the HOC* today, instructing MPs not to abuse IPSA's staff. Greg persuades her to email us a photo of it, and then scrawls, "or your own employees either," underneath.

When I lock up after work, I notice that he's pinned the adulterated notice in a prominent position above my desk. Very funny. I add, "says Greg" to the bottom of the page, just in case The Boss ever decides to read it. You can't be too careful when your job may be on the line.


*IPSA - Independent Parliamentary Standards Authority, set up in the wake of the expenses scandal, with the sole purpose of making unnecessary work for MPs, according to The Boss.
*HOC - as before: House of Commons.