In Which The Insecure Maladjusted Child Of A Broken Home Escapes A Fate Worse Than Death.

Mum phones in the morning, while Max is cooking breakfast, and I'm listening to Dad telling me how he'd run the country if he were *PM. (Thank God he isn't, that's all I can say.)

"Ah, Molly, dear. I just wondered if you'd like to bring your father round for coffee?" she says.

"No," I say. "Of course I wouldn't."

"Oh," says Mum, before falling silent for all of a minute. She must be re-grouping, because then she says,

"Why not?"

"Because," I say, with a very hefty sigh, " I can't think of anything worse than having to sit there listening to you and Dad making polite conversation, while poor old Ted squirms and tries to look as if he isn't uncomfortable in the presence of his wife's former husband. I am a grown-up now, and so I don't have to put myself through that any more."

Mum goes quiet again, but now Dad's waving at me to get my attention.

"What?" I say, or rather, hiss. "I'm talking to Mum. Can't it wait?"

"Put me on to her," he says, before grabbing the receiver out of my hand.

I walk off in disgust and go outside to smoke three cigarettes in a row, while contemplating my continuing status as the maladjusted child of a broken home.

Don't Mum and Dad realise how lucky they are that I've got a degree, and that I don't go around mugging people - when all the statistics show that I'm much more likely to do so than people whose parents haven't divorced? Isn't that enough for them?

Obviously it isn't, as Dad still seems to be on the phone when I walk back into the house. No-one takes a blind bit of notice of anything I say.

"Oh," he says. "Well, if you think you might have a cold coming on, then maybe it would be best if I didn't come round. I have just had major surgery, after all."

Blimey - something's obviously happened to change Mum's mind. She sounded perfectly all right when I spoke to her.

I wait until Dad rings off, and then ask him what is going on.

"Oh, your mother's not well," he says. "Nasty coughing fit she had while I was chatting to her. Shame I can't go for coffee, though - especially when I'd just offered to show her all my pictures of Thailand, and of Porn-Poon, too."

It seems that, while Dad might not be up to the job of PM, Mum'd be a natural. That U-turn was worthy of Cameron at his best.



*PM - Prime Minister, a job that every single member of my family - not to mention a considerable number of constituents - believe that they could do far better than the PM himself. Or herself, for that matter, this being a rather long-standing problem.

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.