In A Dry Season: An Absence Of Saliva And Conversational Skills.

I have no idea what nonsense I've written on behalf of any of the constituents today, as I can't stop wondering where the hell Max was on Friday night. Or how I'm going to find out without causing an enormous row.

Max leaves early for work this morning, so it's as if he knows I'm about to ask a very awkward question. Sometimes male intuition is under-rated, although it doesn't seem to apply to teenage boys, unfortunately - as becomes only too apparent when I ask Josh if he knows where Max was that night.

He says that he hasn't a clue, because he was at Holly's that evening, and didn't get home much before I did.

"Dad was here when I arrived, though," he says. "And, anyway, why do you want to know?"

"No reason," I say. Probably in a totally unconvincing manner, but luckily Josh is in a hurry, so he doesn't press me for an explanation.

In retrospect, this is a wise decision: unlike male intuition, explanations are vastly over-rated, if you ask me. Seeing as I think I may have just got one.

I'm on my way home, when I hear footsteps running up behind me, and someone says,

"Hey, Molly! Wait up."

Oh, God, it's Ellen. The very last person in the universe I wanted to see while I'm trying to work out what my husband's up to. I do manage a smile, which feels like a rictus and probably doesn't look much better, but Ellen doesn't seem to notice.

"Did you hear about Susannah York?" she says. "Very sad, isn't it?"

"Yes," I say. "A great campaigner, and she was in some really good films in her day."

Ellen's fallen into step beside me, so it looks as if I'm going to have company all the way home. Just what I didn't need. I light a cigarette in an effort to cope, and refuse to think about what Nan used to say about people who smoked in the street.

"She was a beauty, too," says Ellen. "Lots of people say I look like her, you know."

"Oh, do they?" I say. "You remind me of someone famous, but I don't think it's her."

It's a good job people don't have speech bubbles coming out of their heads, or mine would be shouting: James Blunt!

"You do too," says Ellen. "Remind me of someone famous, I mean. Now who on earth is it?"

I have no idea so I just wait for Ellen to decide. It doesn't take long - more's the bloody pity.

"Lena Zavaroni!" she says. Then she sees my face. "Before she got sick, of course."

"So we both look like dead people, then." I say.

Given that Ellen is claiming to look like a sex symbol, I can't dredge up much enthusiasm for being likened to a child star who died of anorexia, so that's all I can think of to say. Not that my reticence makes any difference. The woman is oblivious to disapproval.

"Oh, we've got more in common than that, Molly," she says. "That's why we get on so well."

Then she winks at me, which is very disturbing indeed. What sort of woman winks at another, for God's sake?

I'm still considering the answer when we turn into our street. Up ahead, I can see Max, who is in our garden putting the recycling out. He looks up, spots me and Ellen, and scuttles back inside the house. Hardly the behaviour of an innocent man.

"How's the head?" says Ellen. "Did the paracetamol help? Sorry I could only lend you a few, but I had a terrible hangover on Saturday morning too, so I needed the rest of the packet myself."

"Big night, was it, then?" I say.

"Oh, not really. Just went for a meal with the man I've been seeing. At that restaurant in Stalborough that was in the paper. You know, the one that's just got the Michelin star?"

I don't reply for ages, until I realise that Ellen's starting to look a bit unnerved but, even then, I only grunt in answer to her question, as I can't seem to form any actual words. Probably because I suddenly have no saliva, and my tongue seems to be stuck.

I probably look brain-dead, too, even though my mind is racing - with the thought that Ellen was in Stalborough on Friday night. The same Stalborough that's only a couple of miles from where Max bought the petrol.

Luckily, seeing as the silence is getting embarrassing, there's not much further to walk and, when I reach our gate, I open it and hurtle up the path leaving Ellen standing on the pavement outside.

"Bye, Molly," she says. "See you for coffee soon?"

I nod, wave and let myself into the house. It's a pretty minimalistic way to say goodbye, but all my energy is concentrated on what the hell I'm going to say to Max.

"Hi, darling," he says, as I walk into the hallway. "Sorry I didn't wait outside when I spotted you, but I'm in a hurry. Got to nip out."

As he leans forward to kiss me on the cheek, I notice he's already got his coat on, and a bag in his hand.

"What?" I say. "Why? You've already finished work. Where have you got to go?"

"Mrs Bloom's," he says. "She bought a big display unit from us and it was damaged when the deliverymen unpacked it. So she's not a happy bunny and I've got to go and try to make it usable until its replacement can be made."

"What?" I say again. "Why? I mean, why now? Why not earlier?"

Repetitive and inarticulate, I know, but it's the best I can do in the circumstances. Max doesn't seem to notice, anyway, as he just jingles the car keys and says:

"She had a hospital appointment this afternoon, so she couldn't be there to let me in until now. I came home early and prepared tea, but now I've got to go. Bye!"

He's out of the house before I can say the words "petrol" or "Friday night" - so now there's nothing to do but wait for him to come back before I can ask him what on earth he's been up to.

Except to try to recall the rest of my vocabulary, I suppose. And remove my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

James Blunt, Christmas Meals, and Teenage Sensitivity - Not To Mention The Call Of Duty.

I wish they'd do away with works Christmas meals. At least those you have to pay for yourself. At this rate, Max and I will be broke by the time it gets to the middle of December.

Even though The Boss will probably pay for our Constituency Office lunch - if he doesn't cancel it at the last minute again - I've still got to pay for the Labour Party one, and now Max says that I'm expected to go to his works "do" with him. And pay for the privilege of being bored out of my brains.

"Do I have to come?" I say. "I'd rather save the money and go out for dinner by ourselves. Or take the kids with us."

"There's no bloody pleasing you," says Max. "Last year you went nuts when I told you you couldn't come."

"Well, that was different. You told me no spouses were invited, and then I found out I was the only one who wasn't. After the event."

He changes the subject after that, which is a good job as I am not listening anyway. I am staring in horror at the advert for the new James Blunt album instead. Bloody brilliant. Now I'm going to have to spend the weeks leading up to Christmas being tortured by seeing a brunette version of Ellen on the TV every five minutes.

To make matters worse, the album is called In Some Kind Of Trouble and the two songs named in the  advert are: Stay The Night and I'm So Far Gone. It'd be funny, if I wasn't sure that Mr Blunt wasn't somehow related to the woman I'm almost sure is sleeping with my husband. He's just mocking the afflicted, as far as I'm concerned.

"I don't see why you hate James Blunt so much," says Max. "Most women seem to love him."

"Well, you wouldn't understand why I can't stand him, would you?" I say. "Seeing as you're such a fan of the blonde female version."

Max just huffs at that, and then there follows one of those uncomfortable silences. Josh decides to try to break it by taking an interest in politics.

"What do you think of this Daylight Savings Bill, Mum?" he says.

"I'm against it," I say. "The less daylight I have to look at myself in, the better. How about you?"

"I'm against it too."

Josh sounds as if he's actually given this some thought. I am very impressed and settle myself for a long discussion. A mother and son bonding session coming up.

"I was only joking," I say. "I'm in favour, and I thought you'd think it was a good idea, too. Why don't you?"

"I don't like change," says Josh.

He looks meaningfully at Max and me. I squirm, while Max says, "Why not?"

"Because change brings pain," says Josh.

Then he goes upstairs to kill a whole nation of people in Call of Duty. Teenage sensitivity only goes so far, after all.

Max and I look at each other, but neither of us speaks for ages. Then, just as Max finally opens his mouth to say something, James Blunt makes a bloody reappearance, standing at the edge of a cliff.

What I wouldn't give to push him off it. Along with the lookalike who's causing all the trouble.

Some Things In Life Should Be Taken Much More Seriously Than They Are.

Argh, what made me do that? It's all Max's fault. He obviously likes women to look like bloody boys, as per the whole James Blunt thing.

I ask him how he thinks I should have my hair cut, before he leaves for work this morning. Admittedly, he's already running late and so doesn't have much time to look at all the pictures of hairstyles I put in front of him - but, honestly, this is a serious decision and demands careful thought.

He ignores all the photos I have put stars next to, and opts for something completely different instead. A messy crop.

"Are you sure?" I say. "I don't want to look like those women of a certain age who work on the cosmetics counters in Debenhams. Like they've jammed their fingers in the plug socket."

"It'll suit you," he says. "You're only small and longer hair drags your face down."

"That's gravity," I say, but he's already rushed out of the door.

I stagger off to the hairdresser's shortly afterwards, in the hope that a haircut will make me feel better, and I'm still feeling quite optimistic after I hand Gino the photograph.

"You'll be a new woman after this," he says.

"I do hope so," I say. "I've gone off the old version."

Things seem to be going quite smoothly until, half-way through the haircut, I have to lie down on the floor until the room stops spinning. It takes ages, and Gino seems pretty fed up by the time I can sit up again. I think I may have been lying in his way, but he didn't need to step over me with quite so much exaggeration on his way to the sink.

Anyway, he's definitely taken his revenge. Now I have no bloody hair left, and look exactly like an extra from Oliver!* You should be made to sign a declaration that you are of sound mind before changing your hairstyle.

And you should never listen to your husband, either. When I get home and take another look at the haircut in the photograph, I see that it is entitled, "For the mature woman." Thanks, Max. Why does "mature" make me think of decayed, rather than ripe?



*Oliver! - I'd rather look like Jack Wild than Mark Lester, just in case anyone's wondering. Though should a grown woman - albeit a headless childlike version - really look like either of them?

Goodbye To All That, And The Usefulness Of Lists.

Okay, that's it with the weight gain plan. I am sick of Complan already.

It tastes like liquidised wallpaper paste, so I'm going to have to come to terms with being a headless child. And Max will just have to accept me as I am - unless he's already decided he prefers blonde James Blunts, in which case gaining a couple of stone won't help.

Anyway, I am not going to think about that today. Marriage is off the agenda, despite William and Kate's attempt to distract us all from the spending cuts. I shall bury myself in my work instead.

It's got to be preferable to sitting around stewing about my home life, even though the dreaded Vicky's back. She isn't wearing a neck collar, so I can only assume that I misdiagnosed her condition. I do have another go at finding out what's she up to, though. I haven't entirely given up on my powers of detection.

"What exactly is it that you're working on now, Vicky?" I say. Subtle is my middle name.

"Something special for Andy," she says. "Confidential."

Huh. Andy. And what a hypocrite! Vicky hasn't even been made to sign a bloody confidentiality agreement, since she complained to The Boss that my suggestion was offensive.

"Everything that goes on here is confidential," I say. "You can tell us."

She won't divulge anything else, though - so Greg's going to have to stalk her, if we're to have any chance of discovering what's going on.

I'm thinking of stalking Max, too. Maybe I'll follow him the next time he "pops to Sainsburys" and check that he isn't stopping off at Ellen's for a quickie instead. In the meantime, I could always start keeping a list of the evidence that suggests that he's having an affair.

I like lists. They're deeply reassuring. In fact, I'm sure I used to make them when I was trying to decide if a boy liked me or not. I shall get my old diaries out again tonight, and check what method I used.

When I mention this to Johnny in an email, he seems pretty pleased about it.

"Then you'll see that I was your first love," he says. "And probably The One."

"I don't believe in The One," I say. "It's only my single friends who do. And, last time I looked at my diaries, you got a mention as my first exhibitionist, but I'm sure I didn't say anything about love."

"You said you'd written Molly Loves Johnny For Ever."

"That was Luvs," I say. "Totally different thing. Fuelled by teenage hormones, too many Babychams, and The Real Thing."

Johnny spends the next few emails trying to persuade me that we all need some romance in our lives, and pointing out that my life with Max is hardly the stuff of Mills and Boon. It seems that even he is not immune to the bloody Royal Wedding.

I study Max's expression for signs of a romantic disposition while he watches TV tonight. It's hard to tell much from the side of someone's head, so I eventually give up trying to read his mind, and start flicking through the diaries instead.

I soon come across some old lists, though they're not exactly illuminating. For a start, I have no idea who half of them refer to, this one being a good example:

Kev Likes Me/ Likes Me Not. 

Pros
He looked at me when I trod on his foot while getting on the school bus.
He answered me when I asked if he was playing footie after school: "No."
He gave me his chewing gum wrapper to put into the bin.
He called me Short-arse twice.

Cons
He didn't ask me out.
He looked at Julie Firman's tits all the way home.
He called me Short-arse twice.

Who the hell was Kev? I have no idea, but he sounds a bit of an idiot.

The lists are interspersed with pages and pages of differing versions of my signature - my first name, combined with the surname of whichever boy was in favour at the time, including David Cassidy and Marc Bolan. (Neither of these two went well with Molly.)

Molly Hunter doesn't make an appearance - although it doesn't sound too bad, now I come to think of it. If I was called that, I'd probably make a brilliant stalker. And it's a definite improvement on Kate Wales.

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.

A Five-Star Romance.

The weather's getting warmer, so now we have to listen to Annoying Ellen's sex life on a regular basis. She must be pretending she's enjoying it. I've never heard anyone make so much noise in my life.

I thought one of her toyboys was killing her the first time she did it. Now I think she's doing it to get attention, as she seems to have pushed her bed in front of the window, which she makes a point of opening before she entertains.

I'm hoping it's a coincidence, but Max seems to be spending a long time in the garden in the evenings, watering the plants - or so he says. He comes back inside with a stupid, dreamy look on his face. Men are such suckers. Why can't Ellen just die - preferably in silence?

Mind you, the whole thing does remind me about the gold stars, so I have a very early night in the hope that this will persuade Max that we should earn another one. I probably shouldn't have mentioned the stars at all, though, as Max is unamused, and assumed that I am awarding marks for sexual performance. by the whole business of the stars, as he thinks I must be awarding marks for sexual performance.

He's unconvinced by my claim that it is a valid sociological study, which will be of great value to any of those market researchers who assess how often the nation is having sex. And by my claim that I merely wanted to ensure that Josh wouldn't know what the stars referred to if he ever consulted the family diary.

Max just rolls his eyes, emits an unfeasibly loud sigh, then turns his back on me and starts snoring almost immediately. So no stars are earned tonight for any reason.

I sleep fitfully for an hour before waking up in a panic. Now I know who Ellen reminds me of - a blonde James Blunt! It's been bugging me for weeks, but now I'm even more worried. If Max fancies Ellen, and Ellen looks exactly like a man, does this mean that Max is gay, and is that why we have no sex? Oh my God.