Reversals Of Fortune And Of Good Intentions - Largely Ed Miliband's Fault.

Ouch, my head hurts. Why the hell do I drink? And what the hell sort of festive celebration was that? The whole thing was such a bad joke that I don't know where to start.

So much for Greg's and my plan not to get drunk, and to go back to work after the Christmas meal. We seem to have accidentally reversed our intentions, ending up as drunk as lords and not actually returning to the office at all - or not when it was open, anyway.

We were both doing quite well for the first hour - drinking fizzy water and managing to stay neutral on the Human Rights Act. I think we even succeeded in distracting the Party staff from the fact that The Boss was only interested in talking to Vicky.

It was only when everyone else started arguing about Ed Miliband that we gave up and started on the wine. It seemed safer than voicing an opinion on that particular issue.

Things got very heated once someone mentioned the lack of a policy agenda, and the argument about community safety went on for ages, so Greg and I probably did get through rather a lot of wine. Even so, I didn't think I'd drunk that much until I went to the loo, and couldn't seem to work out how to get the cubicle door open again.

Then I panicked a bit, and got all hot and bothered. By the time I realised I was turning the handle in the wrong direction, everything was spinning and a voice in my head was saying, "Get home - now."

Things became a bit blurry after that, but I have a horrible feeling that, when I came out of the loo, I took my coat off the coat-rack and staggered out of the restaurant without saying goodbye to anyone. Then I started walking along the pavement at a very bizarre angle.  I think I may have been relying on leaning in the direction I wanted to go to give me some forward momentum.

I don't know whether being bent double was the problem, but my limbs didn't seem to be working properly, so I decided I'd better phone Max and get him to come and pick me up. That's when everything got really messy.

"Need you to fetch me. Please. Now. Sorry," I said. "Can't walk, no taxis at the rank. Sorry, sorry, sorry."

I may have done some hiccuping as an added bonus.

"Um," said Max.

"Please," I said. "Can't seem to stand up properly. Ed Miliband-induced red wine."

"I haven't got the car."

In retrospect, the clue was in how hesitant Max sounded when he said that, but red wine makes idiots of us all. Or of me, anyway.

"Huh? I haven't got it. Or at least, I don't think I have," I said. "Oh, God, have I lost the car somewhere?"

"No, you haven't."

Max sounded very uncomfortable by now, and did a lot of throat clearing before he explained:

"I lent it to Ellen for the weekend again."

I can't remember much about what happened next, but I know I somehow ended up back in the office, lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room and waiting for a taxi to turn up. Honestly, as if the MP's office isn't the bloody last place you'd ever want to picked up from when you're as pissed as a parrot. I can't bear to read today's local paper in case there are photos of me in it. I bet the driver had a camera phone.

So I'm spending today hiding out in bed, while Max is over-compensating by bringing me endless cups of tea and offering me food that I can't face eating.

"Is there anything else you need?" he says.

"Yes," I say. "I want the car back. With the number of times we end up taking Josh to A&E at night, I'm not happy being without it."

Max agrees that this is sensible, and tries to persuade Ellen to cut her trip short. He's not exactly assertive about it, though - as she still isn't going to return the car until tomorrow morning.

"Hmm, well - you'd better hope that Josh stays out of harm's way this evening, then," I say. "Especially given the temptation to snowboard through Northwick."

I'd normally have more to say on the subject than that, but a) I'm feeling far too fragile and b) it turns out that I've got other things to worry about.

When I check my mobile, I see that I sent Johnny a drunken text last night. Presumably from the Oprah Room after I found out about the car.

It says, "Sod this. Yes to meeting. Lara. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx"

I don't know if I intended to send all those kisses, or if I'd just lost control of my fingers. As well as everything else.

Stress-Related Dyspraxia And A New-Found Empathy For Camilla.

God, I'm knackered, and I look like shit. I got so distracted by Question Time and then by reports of the attack on Charles and Camilla's car last night, that I forgot I'd left the entire contents of my wardrobe strewn all over the bed earlier in the evening.

At bedtime, Max took one look at the state of our room, and decided to sleep in Connie's. Again. Even after I'd stopped worrying about what that signified, I couldn't go to bed until I'd tried everything on, and put it away again, and I still didn't find anything I didn't look bloody awful in anyway.

Things don't get any better this morning when I oversleep as, by the time I get to work, The Boss is already there.

This is really bad news, as I like to prepare myself for our Friday encounters with plenty of coffee and some deep breathing, so I'm already feeling quite agitated as I tiptoe towards the Oprah Room, where he's sitting on the sofa and talking to someone on the phone.

Andrew's back is turned, and he doesn't seem to have heard me come in, so I stand in the doorway, waiting for him to finish.

"Well, I just think it would be easier to handle if you weren't here," he says. "I reckon she'll drop in again today."

Then he glances up at the window, spots my reflection in it, and almost drops the receiver. It's not very flattering, as he looks absolutely horrified to see me - though it is pretty much the same reaction as I get when I look in a mirror.

"Got to go," he says, to whoever he's talking to. "I'll call you later."

Then he hangs up, turns round, and glares at me.

"Problem?" I say. "Do you need me?"

"No," he says. "Haven't you got any work to be getting on with, instead of sneaking up on people?"

I pretend not to have heard him, and then stay out of his way for the rest of the morning. Greg doesn't follow my lead, but wishes he had when he takes Andrew a cup of coffee and gets no thanks for it.

"Ungrateful sod," he says. "Hope he burns his tongue. He's sulking because bloody Vicky's working from home, I suppose."

"Oh, so that's where she is," I say. "I did wonder. Every cloud has a silver lining, then."

Mind you, Vicky couldn't have been any less helpful than Greg is, when I ask him what he thinks I should wear to Max's works "do" this evening.

"You always look okay, Mol," he says. "And, anyway, the restaurant won't be brightly-lit. Just hide in the shadows and then you won't put people off their food."

"Very funny," I say, though I don't mean it.

God knows what has happened to me. I used to look forward to social occasions, but now they make me so anxious that I'm a mess for days beforehand. Today, I can't concentrate at all, and seem to have completely lost my ability to open the mail without shredding it with the letter-opener.

The incompetence doesn't end there and, by late afternoon, I'm covered in paper cuts, have managed to jam the printer three times, and shut my fingers in the filing cabinet. I'm still swearing about that when Trish comes into the office.

"Hi, Molly. Oh, and hello Greg," she says. "Isn't Victoria here?" I notice that her hands are clenched into fists.

I shake my head, but there's no time to explain as, at the sound of Trish's distinctive voice, Andrew comes hurtling out of the Oprah Room, and does a very exaggerated double-take at the sight of his wife.

"Trish!" he says."What a lovely surprise. Wasn't expecting to see you here."

Honestly, if there was an Oscar for hamming it up, he'd win hands down. Trish looks almost as unconvinced by it as I do, but neither of us says anything.

She perches on my desk while she waits for Andrew to get ready to leave.

"You okay, Molly?" she says. "You look awfully pale."

"Yes," I say. "It's just that I've got to go to Max's work Christmas dinner this evening, and I haven't got a clue what to wear."

Greg rolls his eyes in disgust, but Trish gets it straight away.

"Oh, God," she says, sympathetically. "I know exactly how you feel. Max works with almost as many young women as Andrew, doesn't he?"

"Yes," I say. " More. Though I've never thought about it like that before."

I'm still trying to stop thinking about the similarities when I get home from work, and now I've got less than half an hour to shower and get ready. Aargh. Can it be normal to be dreading a night out as much as this?

At the risk of sounding like Camilla before she quit, I think I need a quick gin and a cigarette. Especially as Max has just asked me what I think he should wear.

James Blunt, Christmas Meals, and Teenage Sensitivity - Not To Mention The Call Of Duty.

I wish they'd do away with works Christmas meals. At least those you have to pay for yourself. At this rate, Max and I will be broke by the time it gets to the middle of December.

Even though The Boss will probably pay for our Constituency Office lunch - if he doesn't cancel it at the last minute again - I've still got to pay for the Labour Party one, and now Max says that I'm expected to go to his works "do" with him. And pay for the privilege of being bored out of my brains.

"Do I have to come?" I say. "I'd rather save the money and go out for dinner by ourselves. Or take the kids with us."

"There's no bloody pleasing you," says Max. "Last year you went nuts when I told you you couldn't come."

"Well, that was different. You told me no spouses were invited, and then I found out I was the only one who wasn't. After the event."

He changes the subject after that, which is a good job as I am not listening anyway. I am staring in horror at the advert for the new James Blunt album instead. Bloody brilliant. Now I'm going to have to spend the weeks leading up to Christmas being tortured by seeing a brunette version of Ellen on the TV every five minutes.

To make matters worse, the album is called In Some Kind Of Trouble and the two songs named in the  advert are: Stay The Night and I'm So Far Gone. It'd be funny, if I wasn't sure that Mr Blunt wasn't somehow related to the woman I'm almost sure is sleeping with my husband. He's just mocking the afflicted, as far as I'm concerned.

"I don't see why you hate James Blunt so much," says Max. "Most women seem to love him."

"Well, you wouldn't understand why I can't stand him, would you?" I say. "Seeing as you're such a fan of the blonde female version."

Max just huffs at that, and then there follows one of those uncomfortable silences. Josh decides to try to break it by taking an interest in politics.

"What do you think of this Daylight Savings Bill, Mum?" he says.

"I'm against it," I say. "The less daylight I have to look at myself in, the better. How about you?"

"I'm against it too."

Josh sounds as if he's actually given this some thought. I am very impressed and settle myself for a long discussion. A mother and son bonding session coming up.

"I was only joking," I say. "I'm in favour, and I thought you'd think it was a good idea, too. Why don't you?"

"I don't like change," says Josh.

He looks meaningfully at Max and me. I squirm, while Max says, "Why not?"

"Because change brings pain," says Josh.

Then he goes upstairs to kill a whole nation of people in Call of Duty. Teenage sensitivity only goes so far, after all.

Max and I look at each other, but neither of us speaks for ages. Then, just as Max finally opens his mouth to say something, James Blunt makes a bloody reappearance, standing at the edge of a cliff.

What I wouldn't give to push him off it. Along with the lookalike who's causing all the trouble.