Why One Should Always Expect The Unexpected.

You learn something new every day, don't you? But I certainly wasn't expecting it to be that.

The Boss comes into the office quite early, ready for an appointment with someone called Brian Sadler, whom Andrew says he hasn't seen for years.

"He's not a constituent, then?" I ask. "The name doesn't ring any bells with me."

"No, he's not," says Andrew. "Just a very old friend, who wants me to do him a favour. I'll see him in private when he arrives. All you need to do is show him in and then bugger off and leave us alone."

The trouble with Andrew is that he can't sit still for a second, and he can't wait for anything either. So when Brian isn't here on the dot of 09:30am, Andrew gets bored and rings the local paper to offer them an interview. About the EU and herbal medicines, or something of equal concern to the population of the Easemount estate, who form the paper's main readership. He never takes his audience into account.

Anyway, he's still chuntering away on the phone when Brian arrives, so I have no option but to make a coffee and offer Brian a seat in my office while he waits for The Boss to finish.

"So how's my old mate, Andrew, then?" he says. "Still full of hot air, I see."

"Hmm," I say.

Non-committal is always best - seeing as Brian's question could all too easily be a trap. Just because Andy Coulson's finally decided to resign doesn't mean it's now safe to make unguarded comments, after all.

I wouldn't put anything past anyone these days, which is probably a very sad reflection of the world view of most MPs' staff - with the exception of Vince Cable's, of course. Who'd do well to learn from the cynics amongst us when booking their boss' surgery appointments in future.

"You'd never think Andrew used to be a Tory, would you?" says Brian.

He smiles as he waits for my reaction, but I don't say anything, as I'm too incredulous for speech. I just sit there, staring at him with my mouth wide open. (I must stop doing that: I know it makes me look gormless.)

"Don't believe me?" he says.

I shake my head, as the door to the Oprah Room opens, and The Boss comes out.

"Molly doesn't believe what?" says Andrew.

"Just some of the things you got up to when we were at college, dear boy," says Brian.

Andrew looks at his so-called friend as if he'd like to strangle him, then pulls himself together and makes some half-arsed laughing noises, though they're not exactly convincing. Then he puts his arm round Brian's shoulder and almost drags him into the Oprah Room.

As soon as Andrew slams the door, I hustle Greg into the corridor to tell him what Brian said. Away from Vicky's big ears. (This is not a metaphor: you can see them whenever she does that hair-flicking thing.)

Annoyingly, Greg isn't half as surprised by Brian's revelation as he damn well should be, which takes all the fun out of passing it on. I sulk, until he explains why he hasn't fainted with shock, as I'd been assuming he would.

"Always suspected something like that," he says. "The Boss tries far too hard to be more left-wing than anyone else. It's that 'protests too much' thing that gives it away."

"I didn't think of that," I say. "Very Shakespearean. Since when did you get to be so smart?"

"Since half the women I go to bed with try to pull the same trick," he says. "The minute they start making a racket, I always know they're putting it on."

Ha - I knew that Ellen was pretending! I must find a way to drop this pearl of wisdom into a conversation with Max - just in case he's fallen for all the yelling she does whenever she entertains, or whatever she calls it. Especially when her bloody bedroom window's open.

Mind you, even Ellen doesn't do as much yelling as The Boss does when he's in a mood, which he certainly seems to be once Brian has left. He even shouts at me a couple of times in front of constituents during surgery. I'm not sure who is more uncomfortable about it: me or them.

Andrew carries on in this vein for the rest of the day - except when he's ignoring me instead - but both options are almost equally wearing. I'm pretty fed up by 5:00pm and still have no idea why he's behaving like this, so I decide to tackle him about it before I miss my chance.

It's not easy get him in private, though, because Vicky's never far from his side; but I finally manage it by dint of following them both into the car park after work.

I hang back until they've said their goodbyes and Vicky has driven off, and then, as soon as Andrew gets into his own car, I sneak towards it under cover of some bushes. Rather like a panther, now I come to think of it.

I tap on the window, and The Boss opens it, rolling his eyes as he does so.

"Andrew, can I have a word?" I say. "It won't take long."

He says nothing, although he does pause in the act of starting the engine. Then he just glares at me and waits for me to speak.

"What on earth's the matter with you today?" I say. "You're like a bear with a sore head. And I wish you'd stop shouting at me in front of everyone. It's embarrassing, as well as not very professional."

"Let's just say I'm not comfortable with working with a fascist," says Andrew.

This seems like a non-sequitur, so I resort to the open-mouthed staring again, coupled with an excessively-raised eyebrow.

"Vicky told me what you said about Michael Gove," he says. "Seems like you're working for the wrong MP. We're supposed to be Socialists in this office, you know, Molly."

"Well, at least I've never been a member of the bloody Tory Party," I say. "Unlike you - or so I hear."

This must be the first time in my life that I've ever managed to come up with a cutting response while the person who deserved it was still present. Though, judging by The Boss' expression when he revs the engine before he drives off, I suspect it's going to cost me dear.

Sleep Deprivation Due To Electoral Success. Not To Mention Michael Gove & Norman Lamb.

"Comrades - the fightback has begun!" says The Boss when he arrives this morning.

"Hrmph," says Greg who, like me, stayed up too late last night watching the election result from Oldham East and Saddleworth.

Andrew glares at him, so then Greg tries a bit harder. He punches the air, but so feebly that it comes across as camp, rather than triumphalist.

"You look like shit," says Andrew. Who doesn't look any better himself, but appears not to own a mirror.

I do, and I can confirm that I look the worst of all of us, which I ascribe not only to being knackered, but to the as-yet unresolved trauma of finding myself agreeing with Michael Gove during part of last night's Question Time.

I don't quite know what happened but, one minute he was spouting the usual pompous rubbish in that ghastly voice of his, and the next he'd turned into Pob the Evangelist. For a man who looks like a very cold fish indeed - probably because his adoptive father was something to do with them - I wasn't expecting such passion and intensity.

I suddenly found that I wished Josh's education had reflected Gove's vision, rather than what he actually got: an A-Level in Film Studies and a job at the cinema shovelling popcorn. Then I spent the next hour worrying that I was having a breakdown or some sort of secular crisis of faith, and I couldn't concentrate at all by the time the TV coverage of the election result finally started.

When it did, I couldn't believe who was on the panel. Nor could Max, who took one look and then said what he always says in these circumstances:

"Oh, God. Norman Bloody Lamb."

It's like Groundhog Day. The same series of questions always follow this initial statement. Every single time Norman appears on TV.

"Why the hell doesn't that man even have a house in his constituency?" Max says. "Does he think he's too good to live in the same place as the people he serves?"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" I say. "I don't know. I've never met the man, and I only heard about it from someone else - so don't shout at me."

Mind you, if I think Max's shouting is bad, I'd better keep my Michael Gove epiphany to myself, and hope it wears off when I've had a good night's sleep. The Boss would kill me if he heard about it - even though he's a product of the sort of education to which Gove was referring.

And I'm not likely to get much sleep again tonight. Unless it's due to a drunken coma.

"Drinks this evening to celebrate," says Andrew, once surgery finishes. "Seeing as we couldn't be there in Oldham last night. I'll meet you in the George at 7:00pm. Go and invite everyone in the Party office too, Molly. Make sure you include everyone who's in there."

Then he wanders off to a meeting with the local Patient Liaison group, taking Vicky with him. I don't bother to ask why, as I'm so glad to see the back of her. It's pretty obvious that she didn't stay up too late last night. Dewy skin and bright eyes are occasionally very annoying to behold.

Greg puts his head down on his desk as soon as the door closes behind them. Then he pretends to snore.

"Oh, God," I say. "I know how you feel. I really want an early night tonight. I had no idea what anyone was talking about during surgery, as I kept starting to doze off and then jerking awake just as my head dropped forward."

"I bet that was attractive," says Greg. "But we haven't got a choice, anyway. His Master's Voice has spoken so we've got to go to the pub."

He's right, of course. And just because we're tired doesn't mean that winning the election isn't very good news. As is Andrew's unusual behaviour.

"The Boss even said to invite everyone," I say. "Maybe that means he's finally stopped thinking that everyone in the Party's out to get him?"

"Oh, I don't think that's his motivation," says Greg. "Haven't you been into their office this week?"

"No," I say. "Why?"

"Go and see for yourself."

I haven't got time, though - so I make Greg go and deliver Andrew's message while I try to finish today's surgery letters. By the time I've finally posted them, he's asleep on the sofa in the Oprah Room, though I shall have to go and wake him up soon. It's almost 6:40pm now, and we'll have to leave for the pub in a minute.

I'll just see if concealer will hide the bags under my eyes a bit first, while Greg's not looking. And laughing. There's nothing worse than someone who thinks he's a comedian watching you try to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, after all. Except finding yourself agreeing with a very odd Tory by accident, of course.