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.

15, Yemen Road, Aberdeen. And A Very Fishy Situation.

Greg spends all morning ranting about John Hirst, when he's not moaning about David Cameron's taxpayer-funded photographer instead. He says he's going to demand £35,000 a year for taking snaps of The Boss from now on.

I'm just hoping Mr Beales hasn't already been given that job, though I can see the argument for headless photos of politicians only too well. I'm fretting about other issues, like the whole printer cartridge thing.

Yemen doesn't sound half as funny as it used to when any mention of the country made you think of Chandler's accidental visit in Friends. I'm worried about all the flying that Johnny does - though he doesn't seem to be.

"Don't be daft, darling," he says. "I've worked in the major trouble spots of the world - given that those are the places where oil is most often located." (Darling?)

"Well, don't mention that to Scotland," I say. "Or you'll have Alex Salmond after you."

"Why are Scottish politicians all named after fish? Isn't there someone called Sturgeon as well?"

Trust Johnny to know about sturgeon, though I bet that's only because of caviar. Honestly, I do wish he would take politics seriously. He does live and work in Russia, after all.

"Anyway, Molly - just think about the fact that I'm willing to risk my life to fly over and see you again as soon as you stop bloody dithering."

Oh, God. Talk about shameless emotional blackmail. Although the idea is becoming more appealing by the day, especially since Max has given up smoking.

He's still in such a bad mood that I bet even Ellen is regretting that he's now a non-smoker, if the whole thing was her idea. Unless Max is reserving his grumpiness just for me, and she's getting the Mr Pleasant stuff.

"I'm flying into Heathrow again next Thursday," says Johnny. "What d'you think?"

Oh. So he's coming anyway - for work? Now I don't feel half so flattered. And haven't we already ruled out a rendezvous at Heathrow?

"Have you seen the latest T-Mobile flash mob video?" I say.

When Johnny admits that he hasn't, I send him the link.

"Just imagine if I'd been waiting there to meet you, like you suggested last time," I say. "I'd have been all over the internet if something like this had happened. I told you it was too risky."

"More romantic than you thought, though?" says Johnny.

That's as maybe, but Johnny's so impatient he'd give Dinah a run for her money. He sends me another email before I've even replied to the last one. It says,

"Don't worry, I've already told you I'll come to Northwick. Again. Okay?"

Now I'm sure I'm having a hot flush. I had no idea they were dithering-related, but I feel very odd indeed. I tell Greg who says,

"It's a panic attack, you fool. Probably due to all these adrenalin-fuelled late nights, looking for Mr Sampson's file. Go and lie down in the Oprah Room for a minute, until you get a grip."

"Are you sure you don't mind?" I say. "I do feel a bit peculiar, though it's bound to be hormonal. Is my face red?"

"No, it isn't. You look perfectly normal," says Greg. "But lie down anyway. It'll be good for Vicky to have to sit upright when she gets back from lunch, too."

Well, thank God for hot flushes, that's all I can say. When I collapse onto the sofa, there's a funny noise, so I stand up again to check I haven't broken it. (I may have been being a little dramatic when I threw myself towards it, if I'm honest.)

I sit down, more carefully the second time - but the noise happens again. And the seat cushion doesn't seem to fit as well as it used to, either. I decide I'd better put my panic attack/hot flush combination on hold and investigate.

"Greg! Greg! Come and bloody well look at this!"

"I have no interest in seeing whatever imaginary symptom you've just developed," says Greg. "You've turned into a neurotic constituent since your birthday, Mol."

"Get in here. Now!"

"Shit," says Greg - as he contemplates Mr Sampson's file. "Bloody hell. What made you take the cushion off?"

"Never mind that," I say. "More to the point, how did the file get there?"

"I think we know the answer to that," says Greg. "Given Vicky's fondness for the prone position. Put the file in your locking drawer, quickly. We need to give our next move careful thought."

"Unlike Chandler," I say, but Greg's too irritable to find anything funny today.

I wonder if there's a shortage of piranha-faced hair-flickers in Yemen? Maybe we could send Vicky on an extended visit, accompanied by John Hirst and a certain photographer.