An SOS From Skye, And Some Biscuits Whose Provenance I'd Prefer Not To Consider.

Sam's not having a very good time on his sex trip to Skye. Just after breakfast, Max gets a text from him. It says,

"Help! Incompatible in bed and nothing to talk about. Supposed to be here another two days :-S"

So much for sexy underwear, I want to say - but then I remember my new pants and decide against it. Max looks vaguely disappointed. I think he quite fancied Shona too.

"What should he do?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "He's your friend, and anyway, he always ignores my advice. I told him to start reading the women's bloody profiles instead of just looking at their pictures on the websites."

"And to ignore the shared interests," says Max. "Bearing in mind the Park Warden and the Tall Enigma."

"Anyway, I'm leaving him to you," I say. "I've got to go for coffee at Ellen's. Are you okay?"

Max looks awfully pale. "Ellen's?" he says. "I thought you hated her after the bin incident and, well, you know - "

"When you snogged her at the party?" I say. Amazing how much of your sense of humour you can get back when you have been sent hundreds of red roses. 'Oh well, I've taken your word for it that there's nothing going on. Is there?"

Now I've said this, I feel guilty about the roses, so I don't make Max answer and instead take pity on him. Or on Sam, anyway.

"Send him a text saying his cousin's in hospital and he needs to come home immediately in case he needs to give blood," I say. "Then she'll think he's a good guy with a rare blood group, and she won't feel rejected either."

"God, you're cunning," says Max. "Sometimes I forget you work for a politician."

I tap my nose and wink at him, then head to Ellen's. I have no idea why she's invited me round, unless it's to apologise for the exhibitionism with the bins the other night. I'm in a forgiving mood, so I shall wait and see what she says.

Ellen's fully-clothed, I'm pleased to report and, although she still looks like a blonde James Blunt who's been shot full of Botox, she makes me welcome and doesn't do any of that one-upmanship thing that she usually does. Or at least, she doesn't do it for at least ten minutes.

She makes the tea, then sits down and says, "How's Max?"

"Um, oh, he's okay, thanks."

"Oh, good,"  says Ellen. Her tone's a bit funny, so I raise my eyebrows and say, "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," she says, and then, "Well, it's just -"

"Just what?" I say.

"He's always so friendly whenever I see him. So friendly. Know what I mean?" She giggles. (God, I hate gigglers.)

"Not really," I say. "Not to Mormons, anyway. These biscuits are great, by the way. What are they?"

"Lebkuchen," says Ellen. "I got them on my trip to Germany a couple of months ago."

Ouf. I can't say I recommend them, after all - they suddenly taste like sawdust in my mouth. Or maybe that's just all the questions I'm biting down on, like: "When were you in Germany? Who were you with? Was it my husband and is that why he claimed he didn't know the name of his hotel?"

I am bloody well not going to make a fool of myself. I am not, or not yet, anyway. Not 'til I find out exactly what is going on. But I am wondering if it's time to wake up and smell the roses. Low cunning may not be the sole preserve of those of us who work for politicians, after all.

Sex Tourism Becomes De Rigueur. Regardless of Destination.

Sam's here for the weekend again. Well, he's here in person, but I'm not at all sure where his head is at. Somewhere in the Isle of Skye, I think - home to his latest internet dating conquest. She has four children. Four - imagine that! I didn't think Sam even liked kids, but he seems pretty determined to try to like hers.

He spends the afternoon making us look at all the photos she's sent him. I can't see most of them as I seem to have picked the one spot where I can't see the computer screen properly, probably because Max has elbowed me out of the way.

He's only supposed to be faking interest out of politeness, but then I catch a glimpse of Shona and realise why he's paying such close attention. I wouldn't have thought you could buy underwear like that out in the wilds of Scotland.

"I'll be seeing that in the flesh next weekend," says Sam.

"Huh," I say. "Not if she's got four children, you won't." Does he know nothing about teenagers?

"They're going to their dad's," says Sam, "So we all know what that means, eh?"

How on earth does Sam think a love affair with someone who lives on Skye is going to last? It'll be almost as daft as Johnny's idea that he and I can carry on a "relationship" while he's still living in Russia. There must be a nice girl nearer to home, who would suit Sam just as well.

Ha! I realise that, if we leave "nice" out of the equation, I have the perfect solution.

"Well, if you don't mind kids part-time," I say, 'why don't you ask Ellen out on a date? Northwick's a hell of a lot nearer to where you live than the bloody Isle of Skye."

This is a cunning plan - devised on the spur of the moment - to kill two birds with one stone. I am such a creative thinker when under pressure. Sometimes.

"I don't like Ellen," says Sam.

"Bugger," I say, at the same time as Max says, "Why on earth not?" The answer to that should be obvious, as far as I'm concerned.

"You said she makes a lot of noise during sex," says Sam. "I can't be doing with all that. Whatever would my lodgers think?"

"Same as me, probably" I say. "That she protests too much."

"Are you questioning my sexual capabilities?" says Sam. Oh, for goodness' sake, now he sounds like Dad, who - coincidentally - phones shortly afterwards.

"I'm thinking of selling the bungalow, Molly," he says. "So I wanted to take your advice first."

"What?" I say. "Why?"

"It's getting too big for me," says Dad. "It's okay at the moment, but when I get older, it's going to become a struggle."

Phew. So he can't be planning on bringing the Thai bride here after all. Dinah's going to be thrilled.

"And I'm a bit short of money with all these trips abroad," says Dad. "By the way, did I tell you I'm going to Thailand again next month?"

"No. How long for this time?"

"Three months, to see how I like living there," says Dad. Christ. I'm not telling Dinah.

"Well, make sure you let Dinah know," I say. "I'm not sure I'm can face it. I'm already worried about my blood pressure."

"You need a holiday," says Dad. "And some excitement in your life. I feel twenty years younger these days."

Good God - is it becoming unacceptable to have a sex life with someone who lives in the same town or city these days? Maybe I should redecorate our bedroom to resemble a hotel room, and buy a mini-bar and some headed stationery if I want to rejuvenate my marriage.

Or perhaps I could persuade Max to drive twenty times round the ring road before he heads for home. Then he could pretend he's off to a secret assignation in a far-flung location, and I could greet him either in a Scottish accent, or by saying "jiggy, jiggy" and swooshing my sarong. I'd have to buy a sarong first, but that's a minor detail.

It seems as if everyone thinks it's normal to travel to find sex, whether to Skye or Pattaya. At this rate, Northwick could even become the top sex tourism destination for International Directors of Global Oil Companies, who knows? Perhaps I count as exotic too - to someone with very short sight, or who has never seen a bearded lady before.

Agonised Faces, Shared Interests & Marital Hubris.

Greg's finally taking his turn at doing supermarket surgery, so I am looking forward to a very long lie-in. This proves to be impossible. Greg likes to share the joy, so I awake to a barrage of texts in which he uses every bit of punctuation available on his mobile to denote various agonised faces. He doesn't add any actual words. At 09:45am I give up the attempt to sleep, and get up.

Over brunch, cooked as usual by Max - who is far more competent in the kitchen than me - Sam updates us on the progress of his internet dating. This does not seem to be without its pitfalls. The last woman to contact him sounded perfect, and after a series of increasingly flirtatious and innuendo-laden texts and phone calls, Sam arranged to meet her in a National Park somewhere out in the wilds. (The location alone would have given me pause for thought, but then I am constitutionally mistrustful - comes with the job.)

Anyway, Sam drove up to the parking spot and saw what looked to be a very butch Park Ranger standing near a picnic table. Apparently she'd have made a convincing prop forward. Sam panicked, turned the car around and drove off again, hoping she hadn't seen him. Now he's blocked her calls and changed his email address. God knows what he expects when he will keep insisting that any prospective girlfriend shares his interests. I really doubt Kate Moss likes rugby and hill-walking.

The Boss phones mid-afternoon to tell me that he will drop off his surgery notes sometime tomorrow, so that I can "get on with them." Tomorrow is Sunday! I try to find a subtle way to explain that Andrew's so-called notes will be worse than useless, and that Greg will have taken his own, far more coherent ones, but Andrew never takes a hint. In the end, I have to resort to saying that Max and I are going out for the day and that it would be far too hazardous to leave the notes with Josh or Connie, as they cannot be trusted with sensitive information. Both look up reproachfully as I say this, but luckily don't start moaning until after I have hung up. If I have learned one thing about handling The Boss, it is never to agree to do anything he claims will be a one-off, unless it is a genuine emergency - as otherwise he will expect it to become a regular fixture thereafter.

Later, Max and I have a discussion about what we would have looked for in a husband or wife, if we'd had to advertise for one. Max says that he would have sought someone who loved cooking and travel; whereas I would have wanted a partner who enjoyed foreign-language films and reading. Instead, Max got a travel-phobic who can't competently boil an egg, and I got a dyslexic who can't follow subtitles. Both of us therefore question the need for a woman to share Sam's interests quite as fully as he seems to think necessary.

Max and I feel oddly-bonded for the rest of the night, and sit there exchanging smug, affectionate glances while Sam explains how all he wants is to be "as happy as you guys." I don't mention Johnny Hunter and Max doesn't mention the business trips. Or his soft spot for Annoying Ellen. By the time we've polished off three bottles of wine between us, Max and I are madly in lust. By the time he and Sam have drunk another bottle, Max is asleep. The gold stars remain in the drawer.

Disappointment And Delusional Co-Dependency (Whatever That Means)

Mr Meeurghn has been convicted of murder. To add insult to my injured faith in human nature, it transpires that he can't have his passport back because he is on bail and, anyway, he doesn't need it to go home - because he can't go home. His country of origin won't let him back in. God knows what he did there. My faith in the public has taken yet another blow. 


I email Greg and tell him that I don't care if he is still traumatised, I need him back at work tomorrow to save me from plunging into a suicidal depression. 


There is some good news, though. The Boss has approved a new security measure! Just the one, mind you - and that's a replacement door for the one Steve Ellington broke on his way out this morning. 


The viewing panel's shattered, and the frame is all bent out of shape - even though there wasn't a mark on Steve's forehead. I'm pushing for toughened glass to be fitted in the replacement but, if it's more expensive than the ordinary stuff, I'll be out of luck.


Steve's clash with the door isn't the only shock of the day. Johnny sends me an email in which he says that he loves my photo, but that I look tired and "in need of a massage." What on earth? Maybe the oil spill and Obama are messing with his mind, and he and I are locked in a delusional co-dependency. 


I have no idea what any of that last sentence means, but I quite like the sound of it. Sam told me that one of his internet dates said it to him, immediately before dumping him. (I have warned him over and over again to rule out any woman who lists "self-help books" in the Preferred Reading category of their dating profile, but he won't listen.)


Max certainly isn't co-dependent this evening, or not with me, anyway. He barely says anything and looks very tired, so I leave him in front of the TV and catch up on personal correspondence at the computer instead. This doesn't include Johnny, as I still haven't decided how to respond to him yet, but Greg replies to my earlier suicidal email thus:


"What about drinky-boos and a little outing after work tomorrow night? To include pizza and gin, then gin, gin and gin? I have a pent-up rage that needs dealing with, and minority groups will no doubt suffer. "


I ask Greg where we're going, but he won't say. He just tells me to put together a list of all our craziest constituents. (He defines these as the people in whose company I hear The Twilight Zone theme.) No doubt I'll find out tomorrow why he needs it - mine is not to reason why.


When I tell Max that I have a date with another man, he seems unbothered, presumably on the basis that he thinks I wouldn't be tempted by an American Psycho lookalike half my age. Maybe he'd think the same thing about Johnny, the oil-rich Putin lookalike, too - but Max doesn't know about him. 


Even so, I don't know whether to find his faith in me touching, or arrogant. Maybe he thinks that it's irrelevant whether I'd be tempted or not, as no-one would be tempted by me?

Wanted: Soulmate

Sam arrives for the weekend, and brings a girl with him. He met her via Guardian Soulmates. He says he wants her to meet Max and me so that she can see that he does know "some married people." She's six feet tall, wears trainers and says nothing. Really. Nothing.

After dinner, Sam suggests that we all go to the pub for a drink, but I can't face it - the idea of a whole evening with a woman who's taken a vow of silence is too much for me, so I claim I have an urgent report to write for work, and send Max off with the lovers. He's much more tolerant than me, as well as being far closer to the girlfriend's height. I have a crick in my neck already.

As soon as they leave, I make a cup of tea and curl up in front of the TV to watch "Buy yourself a home either in this country or somewhere much nicer for far less money." Well, it's legitimate research - The Boss is considering bringing in a bill to restrain estate agents, though I don't think he knows exactly what he means by that.

Anyway, there seem to be more estate agents on TV than anywhere else, and I am in the vanguard of spotting the trend, which used to be what New Labour was all about. As a result, I decide that a glass of wine would be far more Westminster and less constituency than tea, so I switch to Cotes du Rhone.

After one glass, I fall asleep in a neck-paralysing position on the couch, only waking when Max, Sam and the Tall Enigma come in and catch me drooling all down the front of my TV-watching fleece. Max is roaring drunk, and the lovers are eager to get to bed - so I wait 'til they've gone upstairs, then say,

"So, how did it go?"

"Never been so bored in my life," says Max.

"Did she speak at all?" I say. They've been gone for four hours...

"Well, she told a few rude jokes and then they spent the rest of the night talking about rugby. It was like a night out with your Dad."

"Oh God, That's it!" All has become clear.

"What's it?" says Max or, rather, "Whasht-it?"

"What Sam sees in her," I say. "She shares his interests."

"Too true," says Max, and passes out attractively on the couch.

I wait 'til he starts drooling, then cover him with a blanket and go to bed. At least our house is going to bear witness to some sex tonight, I suppose - though I hope the Tall Enigma doesn't bring rugby moves to the bedroom. The spare bed has a really wobbly headboard.

University of Life and Other Irritations

Sam arrives first thing to stay the weekend. We haven't seen him since my ghastly birthday party, and of course Max hasn't phoned him at all since.

How can you call someone your best friend when you never bother to contact them? That doesn't stop Max acting as if he's delighted to see Sam, and slapping him on the shoulder in that weirdly repressed male way.

I reckon Sam only puts up with Max's neglect because he still hasn't got a girlfriend. Now he's joined an internet-dating site and wants me to check his profile for its woman-appeal.

It's hilarious. He's claiming to be a non-smoker (!); a moderate drinker (only true if compared to Annoying Ellen), and he's put University in the education section. In response to my raised eyebrow, he mutters, "University of Life."

His photo is terrible too - he looks like a middle-aged woman with a really bad haircut. Why do so many middle-aged men insist on growing their hair? Thank God Max wouldn't dare - I'd wield the scissors while he slept if necessary.

For some unaccountable reason, Sam's also swathed in a scarf that could almost be one of those hideous pashmina things that everyone but me seems to be wearing. (Everyone female and of my age, that is.)  In the About Me section, he's written a load of pseudo-sensitive stuff that completely belies the fact that he's about as unreconstructed as you can get.

I'm still trying to find a subtle way to tell him that his profile and photo are rubbish, and that he's doomed to permanent bachelorhood, when he announces that fifteen women have already contacted him in the three days since he registered. Fifteen! Why do I find that so depressing? (And am I a middle-aged woman since my bloody birthday?)

In the evening, Dinah calls to say that she thinks Dad's taken up internet dating. She says he seems to be sending emails very late at night and sounds "suspiciously cheerful." She says it's either that, or he's becoming obsessed with online porn. Why is everyone else having sex except me - even if only virtually?

It's not as if Max and I lead exciting lives - not like Ed Balls and Yvette Cooper, who've got three kids and self-satisfied smirks. Greg and I once looked up Yvette's CVs in Dods*, and we couldn't see how she'd managed to fit all her qualifications and experience into such a short time, let alone all those kids.

Oh well, I suppose they say power is an aphrodisiac - though I'm pretty sure that's not what all these women see in Sam. Maybe they just want to borrow his pashmina?

* Dods: Dods Parliamentary Companion. Invaluable reference book for those involved in politics. Unfortunately, it's annual, and so expensive that most constituency offices are using copies that are terribly out of date. Ours dates from 1997, when The Boss was first elected, and was only too happy to pay for everything his staff needed to do a great job for the constituents. Like some of us, that original copy of Dods is looking pretty dog-eared now.