Collective Male Madness. An Under-Reported Problem.

God knows what's going on this week. The more I dither about meeting up with Johnny again, the keener he gets. It's most peculiar. I can't help thinking that both of us should be making more effort to sort out our marriages - if we don't want our kids having to deal with sort of parental nonsense that Dinah and I face on a regular basis.

Dad didn't even mention the Thai bride during his last phone call, but I have a horrible feeling that that doesn't mean she's out of the picture, and Dinah agrees. She says that the rule of thumb with Dad is that, the less he tells you, the worse whatever he's up to really is. A bit like Josh.

Mind you, I might be well-advised to keep Johnny happy. Not for more roses - the Joan Collins debacle was far too bad for my blood pressure - but because my attempt to sort things out with Max isn't exactly going well.

It would help if he didn't keep being so late home from work. I can't believe that one old lady can need so many out-of-hours visits. It's not as if Max is responsible for Care in the Community, which usually seems to be my bloody job. In fact, I'm not even sure that I believe in this Mrs Bloom at all.

It's as if all the men I know are caught up in some sort of collective madness. It's probably George Osborne's fault. Everyone who calls today seems to be freaking about about how bad the news is going to be in tomorrow's Comprehensive Spending Review.

Everyone except for Mr Beales, that is. He has much more important things on his mind when he comes to the office this afternoon. He wants a progress report on what I've managed to get done about his speeding ticket.

"Well, nothing," I say. "You already told me you were speeding. Just pay the fine."

"But what about this charge of dangerous driving?" he says.

"Well, you need to talk to your solicitor about that," I say. "I'm not qualified to give you legal advice."

"Doesn't seem like you're much good at anything. It's simple." He sighs, as if I am a complete half-wit, and then continues, speaking very slowly - just to make his point.

"I. Only. Hit. The Policeman. Because. He wasn't. Wearing. A Luminous. Jacket."

Gah. Does he never give up? I'm sure I'm hyperventilating.

Mr Beales waits for me to finish coughing, and then says, triumphantly,

"And he still isn't wearing the bloody thing either - another accident just waiting to happen."

"How do you know that?" I say.

"I'm a photographer," he says. "We are used to working undercover. I'll send you the evidence as soon as I get it, and then we can talk about what to do next."

For God's sake. What we should do next is to get Mr Beales committed, though maybe I could ask him to check out Mrs Bloom first, if he really is any good at stake-outs. And he could find out who Ellen was with when she bought those Lebkuchen, while he's at it - if that doesn't make me sound completely paranoid. Maybe this week's madness isn't exclusively male, after all.

Max And The Mormons. A Demonstration Of How Not To Greet A Caller Bringing Allegedly Good News.

Bloody hell. The hospice refuses to accept donated flowers, even when I assure them that mine are definitely not contaminated. So much for my good deed for the day. I have no choice but to give one bunch to Greg (for his mum) and the other to Joan. Not Joan Collins - just Joan. Labour Party Joan, aka the bus driver from South Park.

She's almost as overwhelmed as I was, especially when I tell her that they are in recognition of her fantastic work on The Boss's behalf during the election. I just hope she doesn't try to thank Andrew for them when she sees him, or this is going to get really complicated.

It's amazing what red roses can achieve, though. I feel like a new woman, the sort of woman that men want to send flowers to - and in abundance. I get so carried away, that I buy some more fancy knickers in Primark at lunchtime, and manage to ignore the frisson of fear I feel when I notice that even their prices have gone up.

It probably isn't sensible to take the last bunch of the roses home with me after work, though - but I just can't bear to part with all of them. Max doesn't look very convinced when I say that The Boss told me I might as well keep them as they'd arrive too late to give to Joan Collins.

"Didn't Andrew want you to courier them back yesterday?" Max's eyebrow is doing that quizzical thing that he normally reserves for Josh's wilder explanations.

"Not when he heard the quote," I say.

"Hmm," says Max, but then the doorbell rings.

Max goes to answer it, while I peer out of the window. There are two men outside, both dressed in dark suits. Uh, oh - this can't be good news. They're either debt collectors, or Josh has been up to something. I walk into the hallway and stand behind Max for moral support.

"Hi," says one of the men. "I'm here to tell you about -" Ah, Mormons.

"Not interested, thanks,"  says Max, and goes to shut the door. That's not like him at all. He'll even listen to chuggers* droning on, way past the point at which I've lost patience and am tugging at his sleeve.

"Hang on," says the man. "Is there anyone else who would be interested?"

He must have spotted me. Maybe he thinks I need saving? I immediately look guilty, but don't respond.

"Not on this planet," says Max.

"I'm on this planet," says the man, who obviously doesn't know when to take a hint.

"Are you?" says Max, and shuts the door.

Good God - if that's not a rash comment in the circumstances. I have no idea what's got into Max - I've never heard him be so rude to anyone. I hope we're both not damned for this! (Being made to go to Sunday School as a child leaves you a bit prone to assuming the worst.)

Max doesn't seem to be worrying about hellfire and damnation, though - unless it's an aphrodisiac. He slaps my arse, and kisses me on the neck. Blimey. I foresee an interesting night ahead. Who knows, there may even be another gold star in the diary by the morning, although it might be wiser not to sneak upstairs right now to strew rose petals on the sheets.

*Chuggers: charity muggers, according to Josh, and especially to Connie, who is always being conned into giving them more money than she can afford. Probably our fault for choosing her name.

A Surfeit Of Roses And An Unexpected Arrival, Not To Mention A Reference To Miss Joan Collins

Blimey, it seems to be a week of unexpected gestures. I'm working away just before lunchtime, when there's a buzz on the intercom. A delivery.

I send Greg to fetch it as I am too busy. (So far this diary business is coming in quite useful at getting me out of making coffee and walking up and down stairs, though I'm still waiting to hear the detail of The Boss' plan to deal with the Marie-Louise situation.)

"I thought you said you didn't shag Johnny?" Greg says, coming back into the office.

"I didn't," I say. "He nearly knocked himself out, and than he turned into Doctor Kildare 'cause of his daughter's chickenpox, remember?"

"Oh yes," says Greg. "Actually, are you sure that's not what's wrong with your face?"

"Ha, bloody ha. He didn't even kiss me properly. Anyway, why are you asking me about Johnny?"

"Because of these," says Greg, reaching behind him into the lobby and producing three vast bouquets of red roses. "The card says "Enough of the delaying tactics - when do we do it again? Johnny. Kiss.'"

"You what? You opened it, and read the card?" I am outraged, though I'm more astonished. Johnny - sending flowers?

"Well, yes, I did take the liberty of taking a peek. To protect you, of course. You can't be too careful, Molly - these bad boys might have been sprayed with anything."

Greg looks me up and down, as if he's never seen me before, then continues, "You must have done something pretty spectacular to get him to send all these."

"I don't think I did," I say, "but I'm certainly going to need a pretty spectacular excuse to explain them to Max."

I'm so surprised by Johnny's super-sized gift that I go tingly all over - unless it's a hot flush. God knows how much all these roses cost! No, I am not going to think about that, as then I'll start considering all the things I need and can't afford - like an urgent scale and polish, and some new thick tights that don't feel like sandpaper as a result of too many washes. Especially when I can't possibly keep the flowers, anyway.

But, oh, they are so beautiful, and they even have a scent, not like most shop-bought flowers these days. I decide to drape them around my office - just for a little while - before making Greg drive them over to the hospice, but then the intercom goes again. There, I knew it. They're going to say there was some mistake and the flowers were meant for a totally different Molly Bennett.

And from a totally different Johnny Hunter. Ah. Hmmm. That would mean that both our names are wrong. Is that likely? Oh, Christ! Max walks in behind Greg, who is rolling his eyes in a silent (and grossly ineffectual) plea for mercy.

"Couldn't stop him," he mouths.

"Bloody hell," says Max. He looks at me, then at Greg, and back at me. "Who are this lot from?"

"The Boss," says Greg, at the same time as I say, "Joan."

Joan? Have I lost my mind? If there's anyone less likely than me to be deluged with floral tributes, it's Joan.

"Joan Collins," I say. "From The Boss. They've been delivered to our office by mistake. Should have gone to Westminster so he could give them to her in person. Some gala do."

Greg's nodding so hard he's going to give himself a brain injury if he's not careful.

"Bit over-the-top, aren't they?" says Max. "I've always thought red roses a bit naf, myself. You had your lunch yet, Mol? I've got a free half hour, so I thought I'd surprise you."

"Oh, you have," says Greg.

I glare at him, but Max doesn't seem to have heard. He takes down my coat from the hook and hands it to me.

"Come on then, let's go to Pret and I'll buy you a sandwich. I know how to treat a woman," he says.

"Indeed you do," says Greg.

I fix him with a glare and run my finger across my throat, before I turn and follow Max down the hallway towards the stairs. God knows what my blood pressure is now.