Hungry Like A Nicotine-Deprived Wolf. Not That Duran Duran Have Ever Been In That Particular Situation.

Oh, my God. I've got over my hangover, just in time to starve to death.

"Don't eat that," says Max this morning, when he spots me about to make some toast. "Can't you see the mould on that bread?"

"No," I say. I must be wearing the wrong glasses, again. "Can you get some when you go to Sainsburys? I think we're almost out of milk, as well."

"Um, no," says Max. "I've been meaning to talk to you about buying food."

Then he gives me that look. The one that involves not looking at me. It's much, much scarier than a glare would be.

"What is it?" I say, as all my muscles tighten, and my digestive system grinds to a sudden halt.

"I can't actually go shopping."

Max grinds to his own halt - but I'm not sure if that's the end of the sentence, or whether there's an explanation to follow, so I stand still and wait to find out. It takes ages, but eventually he carries on:

"We haven't got any money left, you see."

"Oh," I say. "Ah. Okay. Well, we'll just have to economise then, won't we? We knew this would happen now you've lost your job. How much is actually left in the account?"

"Nothing," says Max, very slowly and deliberately. "That is what I am trying to tell you."

I know I should be practical, and positive, and find a creative way out of this situation, but I think I may have to sit down first, and have a fag.

Oh, Christ. Have a fag. If there's no money for food, then there's none for tobacco, either, is there? And the incidence of violent crime in Northwick may be about to rise.

The Smoking Gun. Or Rabbit, In This Case.

Huh, so much for Max's much-vaunted self-discipline during his latest attempt to renounce smoking.

I'm sitting in the garden at lunchtime today - smoking, of course, but then I'm not the one who's claiming to have given up - when Josh comes out to complain about Connie. Apparently, she's getting too competitive while boxing on the Wii and has just whacked Josh on his unbroken arm.

"I'd take that as your punishment for the shoes incident, if I were you," I say. "And, anyway, leave me alone - I've only come out here to get away from you two arguing."

"No, you haven't," says Josh. "You're a filthy addict, unlike Dad. If he can give up - just like that - I don't see why you won't even try."

"Unlike your father, I have a genuinely stressful job," I say, "And maybe I'm not motivated by the same rewards."

Josh isn't listening. That's so typical.

"Look at that," he says, pointing towards the side of the shed. "Something's on fire."

He's right. There are clouds of white smoke, billowing around from the back of the shed wall and drifting across the garden.

"Dad. Dad!"

Honestly, I don't know why the kids always assume Max is the only person who can deal with an emergency. He doesn't even know the meaning of the word, not to mention that I am the designated fire officer at work. (There's no need for everyone to keep pointing out that I can't lift the extinguisher by myself.)

"Yes?" comes Max's voice - from the other side of the shed.

"What are you doing? Are you okay?" says Josh.

"Just feeding the rabbit, and cleaning out the hutch," says Max. "Nothing to worry about."

"But there's smoke coming from the back of the shed." Josh is getting very worried now, and is heading towards it.

"No, that's just dust from the hay. I'll be with you in a minute."

"Oh, for God's sake," says Josh, in a tone of deep disgust. "Mum, Dad's smoking a bloody cigarette. Right next to the poor old rabbit. Dust from the hay, my arse."

"Oh, honestly, Max," says Ellen, over the garden wall. "And when you were doing so well, too. "

I do wish Ellen would stop appearing from nowhere, even when she's fully-clothed - although I'm quite enjoying watching Max blustering and claiming it is "just a lapse." At least, I am until I remember that he is my husband, and yet I'm not the one he's been trying to please.

I don't say anything about it, though. Some of us are capable of genuine self-discipline.