Rainchecks, Botox and Pumpkins. And An Impending Sense Of Doom.

I'm off the hook for this Thursday. Johnny's trip to the UK has been rescheduled, so at least that gives me some more time to work out if Max is having an affair with Annoying Ellen the Botox Queen. Though God knows how, seeing as Greg's half-arsed investigations still aren't achieving anything so far.

As Max is smoking again, and is less irritable as a result, maybe I should try and talk to him about what's going on, though I'm not at all convinced that that's a good idea.

After all, lots of married women seem to opt not to voice their suspicions however sure they are that their husbands are up to something. I think it's to avoid being forced into a situation where they have no choice but to act on whatever they find out.

I do know that, if Max is guilty, then I'd definitely be entitled to have a fling - as long as said fling was metaphorical and didn't involve Johnny falling over any more stationary objects - but what then? What would happen to Connie and Josh if Max and I split up? Or to me, for that matter? It's not as if I'm sure I'd want to spend the rest of my life with Johnny - even if that was an option.

I'd never get through the oil company's wives' training course, for a start. I can barely boil an egg, let alone prepare canapes for five thousand people, and I can't even eat one of those without getting crumbs all down my front. Now I'm definitely having a hot flush.

"It's another panic attack, you muppet," says Greg. "You're losing your mind. Told you you'd been doing this job too long."

"Thanks so much," I say. "Where's your empathy gone?"

"Caseworker burnout. Well-known problem. You need some Valium."

I suppose Greg could be right, so I decide to make an appointment to see the doctor about my hormones while I'm at the surgery with Josh after work. I'm sure he's broken his hand.

He says that he didn't expect the Hallowe'en lantern to be so hard, and now regrets punching it while yelling "You know the band, the Smashing Pumpkins? Well, this is their greatest hit!"

"Do you never learn?" I say.

"Just playing it for laughs, Mum. Just for laughs. You should try it sometime," says Josh. "Unless that's what you were doing when you chose that outfit."

Honestly, what happened to respecting your elders and betters? Now Josh can tell the doctor how he got this latest injury all by himself. That'll teach him and, anyway, there's only so much embarrassment a parent can take.

So I'm sitting in the waiting room and enduring the seemingly-endless jingles that comprise ninety per cent of Radio Northwick's output, when I spot something lying amidst the old copies of People's Friend and Heat on the table. It's the surgery's newsletter, printed on bright pink paper, and giving details of flu jabs and diabetes clinics.

Good God. And Botox injections - at £150 a throw. What the bloody hell is going on? Isn't Ellen's shiny forehead depressing enough? Now even my doctor seems to be saying that I need my face paralysed in order to be healthy, or at least, to ensure that the sight of it doesn't make anyone else ill. And this is an NHS practice!

I bet Botox is compulsory for oil barons' wives, now I come to think of it. I am doomed. If Josh hadn't already smashed the pumpkin, I'd be very inclined to put it over my head.

I Needed That Like A Hole In The Head. Despite Claims To The Contrary.

Oh, my God. Well, that gold star-induced sense of well-being was short-lived. I have just seen inside someone's head! Not telepathically, by virtue of The Twilight Zone theme, but literally! (This over-use of exclamation marks is perfectly justifiable, as will become only too clear.)

Honestly, if I'd wanted to be a brain surgeon, I'd have made far more effort to pass Biology when I was at school, instead of just concentrating during sex education. But does my disinterest stop Mr Lawson? No, it does not. I have never met such a nutter in my life. And that is really saying something.

Surgery's going quite well today, changes to Child Benefit and public sector pensions notwithstanding - until he comes in. He's never contacted us before, so this is the first time I've met him. I bloody well hope it's the last, as well.

"I want to talk to you about mental health," he says, as he sits down.

"Ah," says The Boss. "And what about mental health, exactly?"

"The professionals' unwillingness to use tried and tested methods to alleviate people's misery."

This sounds interesting. Maybe there's something in it for me? I could occasionally do with some cheering up, so I start paying attention.

"Did you have anything specific in mind?" I ask.

This proves to be absolutely the worst thing I could have said. Mr Lawson smiles - a bit like a crocodile, slowly and with definite menace - then he pulls off his hat, leans forward so that his head is almost touching my notepad, and says,

"This!"

"What?" I say. I can only see greying hair and a smattering of dandruff.

"This," he says again, parting his hair to reveal what looks like a small hole.

Now Andrew's the one who's interested, while I have lost all desire to find out anything more, thank you very much.

"Is that a hole?" he says.

Mr Lawson nods, which makes me flinch - Christ, bits of his brain will probably fly out and spatter me if he doesn't stop doing that. This is horrible.

"Have you had brain surgery, then?" says Andrew.

Honestly, can't he tell Mr Lawson to put his bloody hat back on, instead of encouraging him? I am starting to feel sick - the same as I did when I was made to dissect a cow's eyeball in class. (The damned thing definitely jumped when I cut through the optic nerve, no matter what Miss Rosen claimed at the time. It nearly gave me a heart attack.)

"In a manner of speaking," says Mr Lawson. "Ever heard of trepanning*?"

"Good God," says The Boss. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely,"  says Mr Lawson. "Can't recommend it highly enough."

So now I am supposed to write a letter on his behalf, asking why the NHS doesn't offer trepanning to those suffering from mental health conditions. Honestly, the world is going mad. Which is not a recommendation for Mr Lawson's bloody solution.

I'm starting to wonder if he didn't have completely the wrong idea about the purpose of a constituency surgery. I'm probably lucky my head's still hole-free, though I really can't vouch for Andrew's.


*Trepanning - explanation here. I think. I couldn't bear to read it all, and am definitely not recommending it.