An Extended, If Muddled, Metaphor About Chickens, And Their Tendency To Steal Their Parents' Drugs.

I'm dying, and there is no paracetamol in the house.

Josh must have used it all up to treat his multiple hangovers, though he's kindly put the empty packets neatly back into the box. I'd kill him, if the room didn't keep spinning around whenever I get out of bed to go and find him.

It's all The Boss' fault for making me drink so much last night. Does he have to be so argumentative?

First he fell out with those young people who'd voted yes to AV - the ones who described most of the UK population as "clueless apes" - and then it was Pete Carew's turn.

He came into the pub halfway through the evening, presumably intending to celebrate having held on to the leadership of Northwick Council. (He can't have been intending to celebrate the referendum result, seeing as he too had voted yes.)

"Evening, Andrew," he said, nodding to me, Greg and Vicky, as if there was an economy drive on words.

"Sixty-nine percent said, 'no'," said Andrew, by way of reply. "Didn't see the way the wind was blowing on that one, did you, Pete?"

"Neither did you, until Molly and I warned you what would happen," said Greg, but Andrew wasn't listening to him, and nor was Pete.

They stood squaring up to each other like a pair of fighting cocks - rather bedraggled ones, so bantams might be a better comparison, except for the fact that they are female.

That's probably why they look so shitty compared to the males: they don't have time to spend on their appearance as they're far too busy laying eggs. (Which turn into chicks, who hang around far too long in the nest, and then use up all their parents' paracetamol without so much as a by your leave.)

I know just how they feel, but now I've lost my thread. How many brain cells did I kill last night? Oh, yes - Andrew and Pete, and the argument.

"Well, at least I gave our leader my support," said Pete, jutting his chin out and loosening his tie.

"More fool you," said Andrew, who wasn't wearing one, and whose chin isn't visible due to his beard. "You might as well have voted no like sensible people did. I know we put AV into our manifesto, but only as a bargaining chip to bribe the LibDems into a coalition with us."

If there was ever a time to kidnap one or more politicians, this would have been it, but Vicky was nowhere to be seen, and both Greg and I were too tired to make a pre-emptive strike.

Instead, we just sat back in our seats, sipped our drinks, and watched in horror while Andrew and Pete had a stand-up row about AV; the meaning of party loyalty; the relative importance of local versus national politicians, and whose fault it was that we're now in opposition.

All in front of a rapt audience of constituents, who were obviously listening to every single word. (They weren't even pretending to talk to each other, like well-mannered people would.)

Eventually, the whole thing just became too much, not to mention that we'd finished our drinks.

"Someone should stop them," I said to Greg. "It looks terrible, them arguing in public like that."

"I know," he said. "Come on. Grab your bag and follow me."

I thought we were just going to the bar but, once we got there, Greg dumped our used glasses on the counter, and then made a sharp turn to the right, pulling me along behind him.

"Keep your head down," he said, as we negotiated our way past various groups of drinkers, all of whom spilled at least part of their drinks onto my head.

"Why?" I said. "Where are we going?"

"Tesco Express," said Greg. "For a bottle of gin, some tonic and lemons. Then we are going to your house, to drink it all. I trust that you do have ice."

Which may be what I need for my head, in the absence of any pain relief.

A Loss Of Liberty, Thanks To An Off-Shoot Of The Green Ink Brigade.

I'm not going to have time to write my diary in the evenings for the next few days, thanks to The Boss and the local elections. Greg and I have just been ordered to help one of the candidates in his campaign to become a local councillor - in our supposedly free time, of course.

"If he'd just shave off that ridiculous twirly beard and sideburns combo, he wouldn't need any help on the doorstep," says Greg, but Andrew doesn't take any notice of that.

He's probably contemplating the creative possibilities offered by his own facial hair - when he's not fretting about LibDems getting creative with paper and ink.

Jen had promised to send me a letter she'd received last week from the LibDem to whom her MP lost his seat - which finally turns up in the post today. I'm so surprised when I see it that, like a fool, I email a scan of it to The Boss - who then goes up in metaphorical smoke.

"Christ, those LibDems know how to walk a fine line," he says, when he phones me to discuss the damn thing further. "Look at the colour of the paper, and the ink. The only thing missing is the bloody Commons crest."

For once, Andrew's right. The letter is within the rules, but it could very easily mislead. In it, the MP advises his constituents to vote for the various LibDem candidates at the local council elections in his constituency - as party political a message as can be - and which therefore mustn't be sent out on House of Commons headed paper.

Whenever The Boss wants to send anything similar to his constituents, we use the cheapest, plain white paper you can buy - which the Party has to pay for, of course, and not the taxpayer. It looks like shit, and doesn't really carry much clout at all.

However, Jen's new LibDem MP has found a cunning way to suggest that his suggestion of how to vote in the local elections has the official stamp of approval - which is why The Boss is blowing his top.

The letter is printed on cream paper which is exactly the same shade as the proper HOC* stuff, and the header is printed in green ink - also of the exact same shade as that used by the HOC. The lay-out of the MP's name and address is also the same, and the only thing missing is the Portcullis crest.

Now The Boss has decided that, if the LibDems should prove capable of similar campaign creativity in Northwick too, our candidates will need all the help they can get. Which apparently takes the form of me and Greg.

So, in the absence of a good barber with a way with twirly facial hair, that's the next few evenings spoken for - and all thanks to the new Green Ink Brigade. I can't wait for Friday night, and some time alone with Max - if he hasn't gone off and left me by then.

I wonder if you can cite jury service and local elections as grounds for divorce? Not to mention facial hair...



*HOC - House of Commons, as usual.

E.T. - Make An Appointment To See Your MP. Everyone Else Is Doing So.

It's mayhem when I arrive at work. Greg's wearing a party hat with *Dan For Barnsley handwritten on it, and The Boss is glued to his mobile - phoning every LibDem he knows to congratulate them on their party's "historic result."

It takes all my powers of persuasion to calm things down in time for surgery, which is going to be double its normal length today, as so many people want to see The Boss. God knows why - constituents obviously have no idea how pointless MPs surgeries are.

First they make an appointment, and then they wait for days, or sometimes weeks, while worrying about how they are going to present their cases to Andrew.

Then, when the day of the appointment finally comes around, they travel to the office, where they have to sit in the waiting room with a load of the usual suspects, before finally being shown in to the presence of the great man, who is probably only half-listening anyway.

After being asked for a brief explanation of their problem - much briefer than they've anticipated - they then get five minutes of um-ing and ah-ing, followed by The Boss telling them to go home, stop worrying and to leave it us. (Us being a very relative term.)

So I have no idea why constituents put themselves through this farce - when all they really need to do is phone the office, or send us a letter, to achieve a better result three times as quickly. Unless they find Andrew much more appealing in the flesh than Greg and I do.

Mind you, I wouldn't want The Boss to always be spared the agonies of dealing with constituents, especially the usual suspects, who are out in force, thanks to the bloody National Archives. Dealing with (non) reality is character-building, after all.

"Bloody hell," says Andrew. "Does everyone want to talk about UFOs today? Is no-one interested in The Fightback?"

"Don't you ever watch the news?" I say. "I blame the BBC. And the Government, who've decided to close the department that investigates reports of sightings."

"Yeah," says Greg. "And we all know who has to handle this stuff instead of the *MOD now, don't we?"

The Boss looks blank, so Greg decides to bring him up to speed.

"MPs like you do, Andrew," he says. "Except that you don't have to deal with these nutters, because Molly and I do it for you. Sparing you the joys of people like Mr Aitchison, who phones up every time an alien appears at the foot of his bed. Or John Newman -"

"God, yes - he's the worst," I say. "Does he have to go into quite so much detail about where the aliens insert their probes?"

"Can't say I blame them," says Greg. "I'm often quite tempted to shove something up his jacksie too."

The Boss perks up at this. Some men never grow out of finding the mention of bottoms funny.

"I bet that's what Nick Clegg felt had happened to him," he says. "When he heard his Party had come in sixth."



*Dan Jarvis, winner of the Barnsley by-election - details here. Look away now if you're Nick Clegg.
*MOD - Ministry of Defence. Missing a number of Harrier Jump Jets and an aircraft carrier, as well as a department to investigate UFOs.

Getting On With It. Whatever IT Is.

I spend all morning ranting about The Boss, until Max snaps.

"For God's sake, Mol," he says. "You're starting to sound like one of the mad constituents you're always moaning about."

"That's because I am being driven mad," I say. "It must be contagious."

"Well, don't come too close, then. I don't want to catch it. I need all my wits about me."

In response to my raised eyebrow, he continues, rather portentously:

"Because I am going... into the loft."

Honestly, Michael MacIntyre's loft sketch couldn't be any more accurate. Max isn't getting away from me that easily, though. I follow him onto the landing, and stand underneath the ladder, kicking at the bottom rung for emphasis.

"I think I should try and get another job," I say. "Before I become completely certifiable. Or kill an elected official while the balance of my mind is disturbed."

"Geonwfttuten," says Max. Or words to that effect. What the hell is he doing up there?

"What did you say? I do wish you wouldn't mumble."

He sticks his head out of the loft, rolls his eyes at me and says:

"Get. On. With. It. Then. Before you drive me insane as well. And stop kicking the bloody ladder. You're making me nervous."

Get on with it, then - yes, thanks, Max. It's hardly a considered opinion, is it?

But I suppose he might be right - for once - so I get out my laptop, resist the temptation to chat to Connie on Facebook, and open a new document. Then I type: Molly Bennett - Curriculum Vitae at the top and stare blankly at the page for the next hour.

After a further two hours have passed, I've drafted what may qualify as the worst CV that anyone's ever seen and, to make matters worse, I haven't even finished writing about my current job yet. It's much more difficult describing what working for an MP involves than I expected it to be.

"Doing your CV, then, Mol?" says Max. "How's it going?"

He dumps several dust-covered boxes onto the table and completely buggers my concentration in the process. I put my head in my hands and groan in lieu of a reply.

"That bad, eh?" Max pats me on the back, and says, "I know you work for a politician, but you could always try just telling the truth for once."

Somehow I manage to avoid all mention of pots and kettles, and to stick to the point. God knows how. Sometimes I am a paragon of virtue.

 "I don't think saying that I deal with all the shit that happens in the Constituency Office - while pretending to be the MP - would go down too well," I say. "I'll have to ring Jen and ask for her advice. You're no help at all."

Max gives me a two-fingered salute and heads back upstairs in search of more boxes of Connie's junk. (Also known as Connie Bennett's important sentimental possessions - not to be thrown away.) I smoke a cigarette in a vain attempt to marshal my thoughts, and then dial Jen's number.

"Don't ask me," she says, as soon as I've finished explaining why I've called. "I still haven't got another job. Which makes it even harder not to punch people when they say that now they wish they'd voted Labour in the *GE."

"I know what you mean," I say. "That is annoying, isn't it? But you've had loads of interviews - so at least your CV must look good."

"Thanks," says Jen. "So the problem occurs when employers actually see me, you mean?"

Which rather goes to prove that it is definitely time for me to find another job. I have obviously lost the ability to assess the impact of an ill-chosen phrase.

"No," I say. "Sorry. I meant your CV impresses them enough to want to interview you. And you always look good anyway, Jen."

"It's irrelevant what I look like," she says. "They only ask to meet me because they want the inside track on what it's like to work for an MP, and to see what MPs staff are like in the flesh. Then - usually right at the end of the bloody interview when you think it's all gone really well - they mention the expenses scandal, and you can feel that you're buggered. Tainted by association."

Oh, God, I hadn't even thought of that. So not only is it no advantage to have worked for an MP, it's the bloody kiss of death.

I wonder if this is how George Osborne feels when people keep asking, "What's Plan B?"



*GE - General Election 2010. When some of you must have accidentally voted in some Tories and hardly any LibDems.

By-Election Fever Grips The Office, For A Few Minutes At Least.

The private line's ringing when Greg and I arrive at work this morning, which is never a good start.

"I can't talk to Andrew until I've had a coffee," I say. "I haven't got the energy. You answer it, Greg. Youth is on your side."

Greg pulls a face but does as he's told. For once. Though, in retrospect, I'm not sure that this wasn't a mistake. He listens to The Boss for all of thirty seconds, then says,

"For God's sake, Andrew - you're not campaigning now. It's me you're talking to. And we all know you can never trust the polls."

"What was that about?" I say, as Greg hangs up and rolls his eyes in despair.

"Idiot must have thought he was talking to the Press, or something," says Greg. "Boasting about the latest ComRes poll and saying we were going to win at Oldham, for f*cksake. Has he forgotten you should never write a LibDem off at a by-election?"

That's true, but Greg's just in a mood because he couldn't go and help in the campaign.  He thinks that he's indispensable in an election, especially since The Boss retained his seat against all the odds.

"We need all hands on deck there," he says. "It's a bugger I don't have enough annual leave left to go."

Given that that's because we both had to take most of it to help out in the General Election campaign, I can't say I'm too upset about it. Unlike Greg, who obviously is.

"Why does The Boss have to be so bloody scrupulous about it, all of a sudden?" he says.

"Because he's got to be squeaky clean," I say. "Considering that he's made so many complaints about the LibDems' election expenses over the years. And, anyway, I'd like to save some holiday for something more pleasant than campaigning."

Like a trip to Russia, for example. I don't mention that, though, as Vicky's just arrived. Late, as usual.

"Why don't MPs and Ministers have to take leave in order to campaign?" she says. "Seeing as Constituency Staff have to. It doesn't seem fair."

This may well be the first sensible question that she has ever asked, and it's just a shame that Greg and I don't know the answer. We look blankly at each other, and then shrug - simultaneously.

To anyone with any sensitivity at all, it would be apparent that, as far as we're concerned, the subject's now closed, but Vicky has never been one to take a hint.

"How do they get away with it when they're being paid by the taxpayer?" she says. "There are hordes of MPs descending on Oldham every day."

"Well, except for Tory MPs," says Greg. "Though they will keep denying that they've made a pact with the LibDems not to try too hard to win the seat. Talking of which - did you catch up with The Politics Show last night, Molly?"

"Yes," I say. "I'm sure Chris Grayling didn't even know the name of the Tory candidate. That embarrassed smirk reminded me of Josh when he's in the wrong."

Actually, though, I haven't seen Josh looking guilty for a while. Maybe he's finally growing up, now he's left school and has to face the reality of working life. This ought to be a good thing but, after this evening's events, I think he may be taking it too far. He's gone from irresponsible teenager to Victor Meldrew in the blink of an eye.

When I get home from work, very late after a lengthy lecture from Edmund Beales about how we should all start carrying guns in the UK, Max still isn't back from work. Josh is, but he's ranting like a maniac. Or like Mr Beales, anyway, which is probably pretty much the same thing.

"Smell this," he says, shoving a microwaved meal under my nose.

"Yuck," I say. "What the hell is that? It smells like a chemical spill."

I push the container out of the way, while hoping I haven't got any of whatever it contains on the end of my nose. It really stinks.

"It's Taste The Difference* Chilli Con Carne," says Josh. "I can taste the f*cking difference all right. It's disgusting."

"Well, maybe it's out of date."

Josh looks at me as if I am an idiot, then says,

"I only bought it ten minutes ago. Seeing as neither you nor Dad were here to cook tea, and I haven't eaten all day."

"The service is lousy in this hotel, isn't it?" I say. (You can't always come up with an original response, after all.) "Let me see the packet."

As Josh passes it to me, I notice that there is a vein throbbing in his temple. I've seen that before, but never in a member of my own family, so I really hope my son's not turning into a mad constituent now. That would be all I need.

"Well, the date's okay," I say. "But it says it's new and improved. Maybe that's why it tastes and smells so weird?"

"Humph," says Josh. "I told you I don't like change. Especially when it's always for the worse."

Let's just hope the voters of *Oldham and Saddleworth feel the same way. As long as they don't object to Ed* on those grounds, too.



*For those of you not in the UK; or those of you who are, but who have unaccountably lost all interest in politics: explanation re the Oldham & Saddleworth by-election here.

* Taste The Difference Chilli Con Carne - I can't say Josh recommends it, because he really, really doesn't.

*Ed - Ed Miliband, new(ish) leader of The Labour Party. Opponents would probably claim that a Labour defeat at Oldham was a signal that the electorate are rejecting him. Possibly on the grounds of his perceived resemblance to Wallace. This may, or may not, be true of some within the Party, too.