There's A Hole In My Ideology, Dear Liza, Dear Liza.

Bloody hell, what are Max and I doing wrong? Well, obviously, we're not earning enough - but why? Apart from the undeniable fact that we both have a talent for negotiating the lowest-possible payment for any job we ever do.

After today's events, Max says it must just be because we make very bad decisions - like staying married and declaring our earnings. Not that I can allow myself to listen to him - not when The Boss has already called me a fascist.

I just wish there was the occasional PLP Briefing for dealing with disaffected husbands, as well as for responding to anecdotal evidence that policies don't always work as they're intended to. Some of which we discover this afternoon.

It's getting dark and Max and I are sitting at the table sorting through the bills when Josh and Holly arrive, after what has obviously been a major Sunday shopping spree.

As usual, Josh has bought only one item - yet another bloody hat - but as it's from Northwick's premier men's designer clothes shop, it probably represents a week's wages for him. I have no idea why teenage boys are so set against Primark. Holly isn't, though: she's laden with brown paper carrier bags.

"Holly's dad's going to pick her up in a minute," says Josh. "So we thought we'd just hang out here until he arrives."

"What've you bought, then?" I say. "Come on, show me. I need some excitement."

I'm fed up with trying to make our bank statement add up and, anyway, in my job, one should never miss an opportunity to keep up with what's in fashion.

Politics doesn't exactly offer a multitude of style icons as role models, after all. (Samantha Cameron doesn't count given her clothing budget and, as for Theresa May's sartorial choices: don't even go there unless looking like a slightly deranged Vulcan is the aim.)

Josh shows me a hat that looks exactly the same as all his other ones, so it's a bit difficult to feign much enthusiasm for his purchase. Holly's are a different story, though. She smiles and tips the bags upside down, revealing a series of pretty tops, a handbag, and a really cute jacket. She holds each item up in turn for my approval.

"Bloody hell," I say. "Fantastic. Not that you wouldn't look good wearing sackcloth and ashes, Hol. But how on earth can you afford all that? You must be much better with your wages than we are, if the state of our bank account is anything to go by."

Holly shakes her head and laughs.

"Nah," she says. "I'm not. Just got my EMA, that's all."

I'm confused, but I don't like to say so. Or not to Holly, anyway. I've got no such scruples when it comes to Josh, though: so I ask him for the lowdown instead, as soon as she leaves the house.

"Joshua," I say. "Just curious: how much EMA does Holly get a week on top of what she earns from her job at her aunt's cafe?"

"£30:00, as far as I know," he says. "Why?"

"Bloody hell," says Max. "How - with both her parents working? Don't they have to earn below £10,000 or something for her to get as much EMA as that?"

I shake my head, but Max doesn't notice. He's too busy staring at Josh, who's fidgeting like mad, as if he wishes we'd both shut up.

"Well, her mum only works a few hours a week helping out at the school," he says. "And her dad doesn't work at all, of course."

"Yes, he does," says Max. "He's a bloody window-cleaner. He told me that himself."

"Well, maybe he told you," says Josh. "But that doesn't mean he tells the tax man, does it?"

Seeing Max's expression, Josh leaves the room as fast as he can, and heads upstairs to his room. I think he's probably resorted to shooting virtual nosy parents as therapy now, judging by the sound of gunshots that's coming through the ceiling. Do teenagers have to have the bass so loud on these bloody games?

Max sighs, and looks over at me. He's about to say something, when Pat sends me a text. I read it, then groan in envy.

"What is it now?" says Max, who has abandoned the bank statement and is attempting to "chat" with Connie on Facebook instead - a bit of a challenge for someone with his distinctive one-fingered typing style.

"I'm so jealous," I say. "All Holly's new clothes, and now Pat's got a new dress too - and hers is from AllSaints!"

"I know," says Max. "She's just posted it as her Facebook status too. From her new iPhone, for f*ck's sake."

I  can't think of anything to say to that, but it seems as if Max isn't expecting a reply. He's on a roll.

"Pat still unemployed, Mol?" he says.

"I think so," I say. I have a horrible feeling I know where he's going with this.

"Still doing that mobile aromatherapy service as well?"

"I don't know, Max," I say. "I always think it's better not to ask - and anyway, it's not easy for her to work in a proper job, is it? She's a single parent."

"And no doubt penniless  - just like that woman who's been bonking Lord Strathclyde."

Max rolls his eyes at me, and then shuffles all the bills and the bank statements into a pile, before throwing them into the broken filing tray I brought home from work. It's already full, so they slide straight off and onto the floor, where he decides to leave them.

"Well, at least it seems that a private education isn't the advantage everyone always thinks it is," I say. "Not if Birgit Cunningham is as destitute as she claims. Not very good publicity for Roedean, is she?"

"Maybe not," says Max. "But that's not the point. I reckon we'd better re-think our career choices. At the risk of sounding like a Sun reader: we'd be better off at the moment if I became a supposedly-unemployed window cleaner than I am while doing my bloody job. Unless you divorce me, get pregnant, and become a single, unemployed aromatherapist - if that is how Pat's still not earning her living?"

I open my mouth to say something about the Black Economy of Thatcher's 1980s, when a searing pain shoots though my tooth, and I decide that I can't be bothered. Max watches me wince, then strikes the killer blow in our newly-fascist household:

"I bet Pat's and Holly's families get free dental treatment, too," he says. "As well as that bloody Birgit woman. So you get the J-Cloths, Mol, and I'll find the bucket."

The Necessity to Pass a Psychological Fitness Test Before Using the Phone.

God, the nutters are out in force today. Or on the phone, anyway. All the usual suspects call first thing - I think they store up all their bile over the weekend and are just bursting to vent it at someone by Monday morning. And I always seem to be the recipient of choice.

Miss Chambers is in full flood about her neighbours, who she still thinks are stealing her electricity. She claims they've rigged up some sort of Heath Robinson-style construction between her attic and theirs, and wants me to get the Police to take her seriously. This would be an impossible task, as she is completely barking mad.

Then Mr Beales phones. The conversation is the usual surreal experience, though this time it's not about his lousy photographs, which makes a change.

"Bloody speed cameras," he says, without preamble.

"Oh, yes?" I am bored already.

"I've been done for speeding!"

"And were you?" I stare out of the window and wonder what the hell I am doing with my life. "Speeding, I mean?"

"Well, yeah - but I wouldn't have been. That bloody policeman was hiding in a bush!"

Oh, for Godsake. I have absolutely no patience with people who complain about being caught speeding. As far as I'm concerned, it's simple - if you don't want to be caught, then don't bloody well do it.

"I should just pay the fine and have done with it, if I was you," I say. "Was that all?"

"No - of course it isn't all. He wasn't wearing his luminous jacket!"

"What's that got to do with it?" Now he's going to tell me that, if he'd seen the policeman, he'd have been able to slow down, and wouldn't have got a speeding ticket. I could make a living from predicting the future.

"Well, I wouldn't have hit him if I'd seen him, would I?" says Mr Beales, as if that was obvious.

At lunchtime, Johnny replies to the email I sent him after Max's stunt at the party. He's booked us rooms  - rooms, plural - at the Marriott County Hall for the week after next. Our dirty mid-week "weekend" suddenly seems a horribly real prospect, and I want to change my mind, until I recall Max moving in on Annoying Ellen's neck like a predatory, if semi-conscious, slug - at which point I reply,  saying only, "Send details and see you then."

I still can't decide where Max's offence rates on the scale of marital infidelity. How much does something count when you're so drunk that you probably don't know where your feet are, let alone whether you're married?

I don't have time to analyse the situation further, as the phones just won't stop ringing. Now everyone wants to know why they are personally paying for Ian Huntley to sue for damages, not to mention having to fund any payout he may eventually receive in compensation.

Of course, the daily PLP briefing* is no help on this. In fact, it's never any help on anything as far as I can tell. Not if you would actually like to be able to answer a constituent's question, rather than side-stepping it and boasting instead about the Party's achievements. I always assume the briefings are written by policy wonks in Millbank, and only with MPs and SpAds* in mind.

By the time I get home, I never want to answer a phone again - so of course, the landline rings as soon as Josh has let me into the house.

"Are you Bonjour Freight Shippers?" What is this man talking about?

"Um, no - "

"Well, this was the number I got from 1471. I checked the last caller after I got your answer-phone message, as your man forgot to leave a number."

"Er, sorry - who is speaking, please?" I have had enough of surrealism for one day, thank you very much.

"Mr O'Nyons."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you are talking about. There must be some mistake."

"No," says Mr O'Nyons, speaking very slowly as if I am a halfwit. "The man who left the message said that you had a large shipment of onions that you had been asked to deliver to me, and that you wanted to confirm my address. "

Oh, Christ. Onions. O'Nyons. Bloody hell, do I need this?

"I'm very sorry, but I have never heard of Bonjour Freight Shippers, and I can only assume that there must have been an error at the exchange." My MP's office voice does come in useful sometimes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a family emergency to attend to."

I put the phone down, take a deep breath, and go upstairs. Josh is lying on his bed, laughing his head off.

"You are grounded," I say. "For the next ten years. And don't you dare touch that phone again while I am at work."

"You've got to admit it was funny, Mum," says Josh. "O'Nyons! What a muppet. Didn't mean to forget to put 141 in first, though."

I don't reply. I am married to a Botox Queen-snogger, I have Gary Glitter as a father, and I am raising a juvenile delinquent. I see nothing whatsoever to laugh about.



*SpAds - Special Advisors. Basically the same as me, but earning six times as much, and with better perks, and higher status. (And probably longer legs, too.)

*PLP briefings - daily email briefings from the Parliamentary Labour Party. Suffice to say that they are less than helpful to constituency caseworkers, as they provide "key messages" with which MPs and SpAds* can respond to media enquiries, but are little use in caseworkers' non-political role. We're expected to actually answer real questions! PLP briefings are also top secret - each page has the following warning attached: PLP briefings are the property of the Labour party. They are confidential and are for the use of registered members only. Any publishing or dissemination of PLP political briefing is prohibited and may be unlawful.