Shoes, Mortification and Some Rather Surprising Insecurities.

It's been a peculiar day, though not because of the constituents, or even The Boss. He's still not speaking to me, even though he should be thanking his lucky stars that I am so much more competent than Liz Truss MP's caseworker.

What a monumental cock-up that was! If you're going to panic that a constituent may be unhinged after they contact you a few times asking for a surgery appointment, you're going to burn-out pretty quickly in this job.

Anyway, it's not Andrew, but Johnny who starts acting out of character.

He thanks me for the photos that he requested in his last email - the ones of various, unspecified parts of my anatomy.

"I wasn't exactly expecting pictures of your foot, elbow and knee," he says. "Though they were all very attractive."

Then he asks whether the sandal I am wearing in the foot photo is a "dancing shoe" and says that he had to go to a ball at the British Embassy at the weekend. He mentions that dancing with his wife was nothing like the time he danced with me all those years ago. Apparently he has been using that experience as a private fantasy for years, together with memories of what happened next. He doesn't specify what for, exactly - and I don't ask.

I'm a bit embarrassed by all this flattery, and don't really know what to say. I get so flustered that I end up telling him that Max and I always avoid dancing together, as people mock us because of the height difference. Johnny's reply comes back immediately:

"How tall is Max?"

He doesn't usually ask anything at all about Max, and I don't volunteer anything either. Some warped sense of propriety. Anyway, I reply:

"Six foot two."

"Bloody hell, woman," Johnny says. "Shit."

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know how I'm going to live up to that."

Is this really Johnny Hunter talking? Go-getting, super-executive Johnny, who spends half his life ordering me to "keep up" via email? It's rather satisfying to hear him express a bit of insecurity. Though I am a bit worried about how short he must be to panic so much about Max's height.

I must check my old photos when I get home. I don't remember Johnny seeming short when we were at school together - but then no-one's shorter than me. And we were lying down most of the time after the disco.....

I do hope he hasn't got short man's syndrome. I'm sure that's why Dad talks about his sex-life so unrelentingly. Talking of whom, I get another email this evening. The text is brief, as usual:

"I'm sending you these photos so you will understand why I had to come back to Thailand."

I think we already know the reason for that, actually - even without the clue afforded by the Thai Bride's name. Oh God. I really, really don't want to open the three picture attachments. F*ck knows what I'm going to find. Probably gynaecological shots. I make Josh open them instead, while I stand behind him, peering through my fingers at the computer screen. (Does this make me an irresponsible mother?)

"Mum, what are you on about?" Josh says. "No naked women at all." Does he have to sound so disappointed?

Photo number one is of Dad, who appears to have grown a very dodgy-looking moustache, and is kitted out in what must be new clothes. He looks like a pub landlord. Where on earth did he get those slip-on shoes, for Godsake? And is that really a medallion he has round his neck? Forget the pub landlord analogy - he looks more like an ageing Jason King. But with an even greater fondness for Grecian 2000.

Photo number two is of a bunch of unidentified old Thai people, and number three shows four young Thai children. There is no sign of the Thai Bride in any of the pictures, either clothed or unclothed.

"What is this?" I ask Josh.

"Probably Grandad's new family," says Josh. "The ones he's keeping with your inheritance. And where the hell did he get those f*cking horrible shoes?"

I need to discuss this with someone. But who? Dinah's already furious with Dad; Max is getting pretty fed up with my family's dramas, and I can hardly chat to Mum about what her ex-husband is up to. She'll probably decide that marrying him was a sign of very early onset pre-senile dementia and make an emergency call to her GP.

Josh still thinks it's funny, and Connie refuses to look at the photos, because she doesn't believe that Josh and I aren't trying to trick her into looking at more pictures of semi-clad Thai totty.

"I am still mortified," she says. "Most people have cuddly grand-dads. But not cuddly in a pervy way."

I shall have to write it all down in my diary and bear the burden alone. I should be getting used to this, as the last ten days have been pretty lonely, now I come to think of it. I almost wish The Boss was speaking to me. No, what am I saying? Thank heavens for small mercies. Just hope Johnny doesn't turn out to be one.

An Epidemic of the Maladjusted....

I have new underwear - lots of it! It doesn't feel great - a bit cheap and scratchy - but as it only has to look acceptable in a photo, who cares? This cheers me up no end, and helps my blood pressure normalise after The Boss gives me a bollocking for "breaching Mr Humphries' confidentiality" by phoning the Police, and then giving a statement when asked to do so! Mr H, meanwhile, is in hospital on a section and hopefully getting some help at last. There is to be an injunction against him returning to the building, so everyone's relieved, except for The Boss, who rants as if he too needs to be sectioned during his phone-call - made from his nice, secure office in Westminster. I wouldn't mind so much, but he's never even met Mr H.

Greg phones James again. His Mum answers and says her son is far too shocked by yesterday's events to ever return to work, and that The Boss should know better than to expose staff to such outrageous risks. I should imagine James'll make doubly sure that any future internship is in the House of Commons, before he accepts it. Maybe he's even been put off politics for good, and will get himself a proper job instead. Every cloud has a silver lining.

Greg has to pack up all James' tea paraphernalia and his bowel medications, and post them back to him. Then he spots the Primark carrier bag on my desk and, before I know it, he's wearing my new lace boxer shorts. On his head. I should be cross, but the sight makes listening to Mr Beales' lengthy phone call oddly bearable. I think I may suggest that cranial knicker wearing is introduced nationwide as a contractual requirement for constituency staff. I'm never going to wear those pants myself now, though.

In the evening, I am in the bathroom, trying to photograph my own arse in the mirror - trickier than it sounds - when I'm interrupted by a phone call from Mum. She says that Dad has been phoning her a lot. What? He hasn't mentioned that to me, but Mum says that he apparently got her number from Connie - who'll tell anyone anything, the idiot. Now what the hell is going on? I like both my biological parents to stay nicely in their separate boxes, along with their matching and various new spouses. It's the bloody least they can do to compensate for making me the insecure maladjusted child of a broken home.