"So have you missed me this week?" says The Boss, when he arrives this morning.
There's an uncomfortable silence while Greg and I try to work out if he's joking or not.
"After having me around to help out during Recess, I mean," says Andrew, as if to clarify.
"Oh," says Greg, at the same time as I say, "Ah."
This seems to be all that is required, so I make a run for it into the kitchen, where I spend as long as possible washing up and making coffee.
Which turns out to be a mistake as, by the time I get back to my office, I can't see my desk for the debris Andrew has piled on top of it, though I do note the mysterious disappearance of my sandwich.
"Where's my lunch gone?" I say, walking back out into the outer office, but The Boss pretends not to hear. He's busy inspecting his phone.
"Got my phone fixed, then, did you?" he says. "What was wrong with it, anyway?"
"Um," I say, glaring at Greg, who is pulling one of those I'll kill you if you tell him faces. The one where he juts out his chin, and makes his eyes look as if they're popping out of their sockets.
"Well?" says Andrew. "Why did that lead keep coming out of the receiver every time I picked it up?"
"Faulty adaptor," says Greg, as if his having pulled it out every time we had to leave Andrew alone in the office had nothing to do with it. (These things are justifiable, if you consider the damage an MP let loose to answer calls from constituents without supervision can cause. "Pre-emptive action" is how Greg describes it.)
Luckily, Vicky arrives at that moment, and The Boss seems so pleased to see her, that he forgets to pursue the issue of the inexplicably self-disconnecting phone lead any further.
"There'll be three of us in surgery today, Molly," he says. "Vicky's going to come in with us, to observe."
"Why?" I say, before I can stop myself.
"It'll be useful experience for her," says Andrew - as if that explains everything.
Greg seems to think it does, judging by the I told you so face he's pulling now. Unless that's his latest way to stop himself sneezing. He's only got hay fever, but you'd swear it was pneumonia at the very least, the fuss he's been making for the last few days.
He scribbles something on a piece of paper, then shoves it into my hand as I pass.
"Here's that number you wanted, Mol," he says, pulling his meaningful face. "Put it somewhere safe so you don't lose it again."
I glare at him, but open it as soon as I get back to my desk.
"Told you," it says. "Vicky's after one of our jobs now."
She might have been this morning, but I don't think she is now. Not after she encountered Mrs Watts during surgery.
That poor, poor woman. Though I do wish people wouldn't keep coming to tell us they've got holes in their heads. Anyone would think they'd got the wrong end of the stick where MPs' surgeries are concerned.
Now I'm getting distracted, which is what Fridays always do to me, and the subject of holes in the head. Where was I? Oh, yes - Mrs Watts.
Some people are astonishingly brave, aren't they? And utterly selfless, too. Mrs Watts has a brain tumour, and only has weeks to live.
She's angry, you can tell, but she controls it; or rather, she reserves her anger for things she thinks she can actually do something about. Which means that she doesn't want us to do anything at all for her, but what she does want is our help to get her nineteen-year-old daughter what she needs.
"She's pregnant, and her bloke's just buggered off," says Mrs Watts. "I need to make sure that, when the baby comes, and I go, she's not left without any money. So I want to make sure she's got all her benefits sorted out before that happens."
Vicky doesn't say a word during the ensuing conversation. She just sits there, staring at the top of Mrs Watt's head, as if trying to see the hole where the ultimately unsuccessful surgery was carried out.
Her face is unusually pale, even through all that foundation she wears, and she's chewing the side of one of her precious nails.
"You all right, Vicky?" I say, as we walk back upstairs after Mrs Watts has left.
"Of course she is," says Andrew, opening the door to the office and ushering us in with a rather excessive flourish. "Cope with anything, can't you, Vicks? We see life in all its forms here, don't we, Mol?"
"And death," I say, but Andrew can't hear me. Greg's sneezing so loudly, he's drowned my voice out completely.
"God," he says. "I hate this fucking hay fever. It must be the most miserable thing in the world."
Vicky stops halfway across the room, and stares at him for what feels like ages, before she says,
"Well, at least it's not life-threatening, is it, Greg?"
It's a very odd feeling to agree with something that Vicky says, for once.
Showing posts with label Parliamentary Recess. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parliamentary Recess. Show all posts
Friday, 10 June 2011
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
The Dangers of Archiving, Suspense, And Ignorance of Cockney Rhyming Slang.
Thank God Recess is over again, if only for the next six weeks. Greg and I are planning to celebrate by ceremonially burning all the draft letters that The Boss wrote to "help us out", but then Vicky throws this plan off course.
She's in a very chatty mood when she finally turns up for work. I much prefer it when she isn't.
"Molly," she says. "Look at the state of your nails. Why on earth don't you grow them - or at least get falsies?"
"Because I like to be able to pick things up properly," I say. "And I can't see the point in long nails, anyway."
Vicky looks down at hers, and wiggles her fingers to show those weird squared-off ends to their full cringe-making effect.
"There's always a point to being well-groomed," she says. "Men appreciate it, even if you don't."
I can't believe this is true of The Boss, whose own grooming habits make me look obsessed with my appearance, but I am trying not to rise to provocation, so I don't say so. Never let people like Vicky see they've got you rattled.
It's far better to be cool yet polite, and to change the subject to something more neutral. In theory, of course.
In practice, as soon as I open my mouth, Freud sneaks in and takes control:
"So, Vicky," I say. "How much longer are you staying with us as an intern? You've been here for months, so isn't the novelty wearing off by now?"
"Yes," says Greg, rather too heartily, even from the depths of the archive cupboard. "When are you leaving? Is it soon?"
I do wish he wouldn't listen in to other people's conversations; and he really should try to sound less keen for Vicky to go. If there's one thing she enjoys - other than inspecting her nails, and other people's - it's frustrating the desires of others. As far as I can tell. The Boss may have a different opinion, of course.
"Well," says Vicky. "I am a bit disappointed to still be waiting for the paid job that Andy offered me, but I spoke to him last night, and he's persuaded me to wait a teensy bit longer."
"Oh," I say. "And did he say where the budget for more staff was coming from, however long you wait? Seeing as no-one's still intending to leave, as far as I'm aware."
"Yes, Vicky," says Greg, sticking his head out of the cupboard, but almost at ceiling height, which is most unnerving. "Do tell all."
She might have done as he asked - if his bloody foot hadn't chosen that moment to slip off the shelf that it was balancing on, causing him to drop like a stone. It serves him right, but I do wish he hadn't let go of the boxes containing Adams - Edmonds in the process.
By the time I've finished putting all the files back together, and Greg has found an old ice pop in the freezer compartment and applied it to his head, Vicky's had a change of heart.
"Thinking about it, it's probably not my place to tell you what Andy has planned," she says. "I'm sure it was meant to be a private chat between the two of us."
That's as maybe, but I'm pretty sure Greg would kill her if he wasn't still feeling dizzy. He can't stand suspense.
I'm going off it myself, too - especially when it's Johnny who's keeping me guessing. He phones mid-morning, because he wants to hear my voice for a change, or so he says.
"Guess who I heard from last night?" he asks.
"President Putin?"
I am in the middle of reading about another of Miss Harpenden's extremely hypothetical calamities, so I'm not taking the guessing business as seriously as Johnny might like.
"Jemima," he says.
Now he has my full attention.
"Jemima Fuck?" I say, before I recall that that wasn't her real name. "I mean, Jemima Tuck?"
"Yes," says Johnny. "It was such a nice surprise."
"I bet," I say, though it certainly isn't for me. Jemima's the one who "went all the way" with Johnny, when some of us never would.
"And guess what she's doing now?" he says.
For once, I'm quite happy to be asked this about an ex-schoolmate. Given that there was a rumour that Jemima traded sexual favours in return for a Wagon Wheel and a Bay City Rollers single, she's bound to have become even less successful than me, which will make a very nice change indeed.
"I don't know," I say. "What?"
I can't wait to hear the answer. I've never forgiven Jemima for stealing my shoes after every netball lesson, so I do hope it's something much worse than working for an MP.
"You give up easily," says Johnny. "Merchant banker."
I laugh, which doesn't seem to be what he was expecting, presumably because it turns out that his answer wasn't intended to be funny.
Josh tells me that I got my Cockney rhyming slang muddled up. Apparently Swiss banker was what I was thinking of.
She's in a very chatty mood when she finally turns up for work. I much prefer it when she isn't.
"Molly," she says. "Look at the state of your nails. Why on earth don't you grow them - or at least get falsies?"
"Because I like to be able to pick things up properly," I say. "And I can't see the point in long nails, anyway."
Vicky looks down at hers, and wiggles her fingers to show those weird squared-off ends to their full cringe-making effect.
"There's always a point to being well-groomed," she says. "Men appreciate it, even if you don't."
I can't believe this is true of The Boss, whose own grooming habits make me look obsessed with my appearance, but I am trying not to rise to provocation, so I don't say so. Never let people like Vicky see they've got you rattled.
It's far better to be cool yet polite, and to change the subject to something more neutral. In theory, of course.
In practice, as soon as I open my mouth, Freud sneaks in and takes control:
"So, Vicky," I say. "How much longer are you staying with us as an intern? You've been here for months, so isn't the novelty wearing off by now?"
"Yes," says Greg, rather too heartily, even from the depths of the archive cupboard. "When are you leaving? Is it soon?"
I do wish he wouldn't listen in to other people's conversations; and he really should try to sound less keen for Vicky to go. If there's one thing she enjoys - other than inspecting her nails, and other people's - it's frustrating the desires of others. As far as I can tell. The Boss may have a different opinion, of course.
"Well," says Vicky. "I am a bit disappointed to still be waiting for the paid job that Andy offered me, but I spoke to him last night, and he's persuaded me to wait a teensy bit longer."
"Oh," I say. "And did he say where the budget for more staff was coming from, however long you wait? Seeing as no-one's still intending to leave, as far as I'm aware."
"Yes, Vicky," says Greg, sticking his head out of the cupboard, but almost at ceiling height, which is most unnerving. "Do tell all."
She might have done as he asked - if his bloody foot hadn't chosen that moment to slip off the shelf that it was balancing on, causing him to drop like a stone. It serves him right, but I do wish he hadn't let go of the boxes containing Adams - Edmonds in the process.
By the time I've finished putting all the files back together, and Greg has found an old ice pop in the freezer compartment and applied it to his head, Vicky's had a change of heart.
"Thinking about it, it's probably not my place to tell you what Andy has planned," she says. "I'm sure it was meant to be a private chat between the two of us."
That's as maybe, but I'm pretty sure Greg would kill her if he wasn't still feeling dizzy. He can't stand suspense.
I'm going off it myself, too - especially when it's Johnny who's keeping me guessing. He phones mid-morning, because he wants to hear my voice for a change, or so he says.
"Guess who I heard from last night?" he asks.
"President Putin?"
I am in the middle of reading about another of Miss Harpenden's extremely hypothetical calamities, so I'm not taking the guessing business as seriously as Johnny might like.
"Jemima," he says.
Now he has my full attention.
"Jemima Fuck?" I say, before I recall that that wasn't her real name. "I mean, Jemima Tuck?"
"Yes," says Johnny. "It was such a nice surprise."
"I bet," I say, though it certainly isn't for me. Jemima's the one who "went all the way" with Johnny, when some of us never would.
"And guess what she's doing now?" he says.
For once, I'm quite happy to be asked this about an ex-schoolmate. Given that there was a rumour that Jemima traded sexual favours in return for a Wagon Wheel and a Bay City Rollers single, she's bound to have become even less successful than me, which will make a very nice change indeed.
"I don't know," I say. "What?"
I can't wait to hear the answer. I've never forgiven Jemima for stealing my shoes after every netball lesson, so I do hope it's something much worse than working for an MP.
"You give up easily," says Johnny. "Merchant banker."
I laugh, which doesn't seem to be what he was expecting, presumably because it turns out that his answer wasn't intended to be funny.
Josh tells me that I got my Cockney rhyming slang muddled up. Apparently Swiss banker was what I was thinking of.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Free At Last, Thank God Almighty, I'm Free (From Jury Service) At Last - With Apologies To *Martin Luther King.
God, it's been such a relief to see the outside world again over the weekend, and I'm even looking forward to being back at work - until I actually arrive, that is.
"I'm not talking to you," says Greg, as I walk into the office.
"Why?" I say. "I thought you'd be pleased to see me, after I've been locked up on jury service for so long."
"Huh. Frustrating the democratic will of the majority, you mean," says Greg, glaring at me as if I have committed a cardinal sin. "With all that Henry Fonda nonsense. And hadn't you forgotten something rather important, when you decided you didn't agree with most of the bloody jurors?"
I have absolutely no idea what Greg's talking about. It's almost as bad as trying to work out what planet some of those other jurors were from.
"I don't know what you mean," I say. "What have I forgotten?"
"That it was bloody Recess," says Greg. "Which you managed to completely avoid, leaving me to deal with The Boss's wilder extravagances all by myself."
"Ah," I say, as the man himself walks in. Surely he should be on his way back to London by now?
"Molly!" says Andrew. "Decided to pop in and see you quickly, before I catch my train. Done your duty as a responsible citizen, have you? And how is our judicial system working, when viewed from the sharp end?"
"Not as well as one might hope," I say - which could be to understate the case.
Honestly, where do the Courts Service find some of these bloody jurors? I've never seen a more disparate bunch of lunatics in my life - and that's saying something, given the people I deal with on a daily basis. Thank God we don't hang people any more, that's all I can say. (Not that most of the usual suspects would share that view.)
If I ever get arrested for anything - by which I mean falsely accused, of course - the first thing I am going to do is to instruct all my family members to borrow or steal luxury cars, and then to park them in conspicuous spots in the court car park every morning throughout my trial.
Josh looks and sounds too much like a criminal, though, so he'll have to be left at home, writing letters to the media and to my MP instead: explaining that a miscarriage of justice is about to take place, and begging them all to intercede on my behalf. (Though, on second thoughts, the letter to the MP might not help, if I wasn't at work to deal with it myself. I wouldn't want to entrust my freedom to Greg, not with the mood that he's in this morning.)
"But why would your family need luxury cars?" says Andrew. "I don't think I'm following your argument, Molly."
"No change there, then," says Greg, under his breath - or so he thinks.
The Boss glares at him, while I try my best to explain:
"Well," I say. "One of the trials I was on was of two guys who were accused of dealing cocaine, and I was pretty sure that both of them were guilty. So was one of the other jurors, but the rest weren't having any of it. They were just desperate to get a verdict and go home, especially the ones who were self-employed, or who worked in the private sector and were worrying about their job security."
"Not everyone has a boss as understanding as me," says Andrew.
This outrageous statement doesn't deserve a reply, so neither Greg nor I make any attempt at one. Instead, we both rise above the provocation - Greg by stuffing a large handful of Haribos into his mouth, and me by trying to recapture my train of thought, which is easier said than done, after the events of the last few weeks.
"One of the jurors - a big fat guy with a red face - kept yelling at me that I was making a fuss about nothing when I said that I wanted to be sure I was making the right decision," I say. "He said it was screamingly-obvious that one of the two defendants was guilty, and that the other was completely innocent."
"Well, maybe it was," says Greg. "If you saw Mr Beales come up in court, you'd know he'd done whatever he was accused of, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," I say. "But that's not the point. This case was about coke dealing, and one of the defendants was a bit of a chav from Easemount, whereas the other one was 'a nice middle-class boy' according to Mr Red Face - who said that he knew that the kid from Easemount was 'as guilty as sin", but that the other boy just wouldn't have done it."
"How?" say Greg and The Boss, simultaneously.
"Because he was so nicely-spoken, and from such a well-off home, that he wouldn't have needed to make money by dealing in cocaine," I say. "Apparently. And then Red Face said that he could prove this by the evidence he'd seen on the very first day of the trial."
"What evidence?" say Greg and Andrew, again in unison. I have been back at work for five minutes, and I have already restored harmony. I am so undervalued and underpaid.
"He said that he'd seen the boy's parents getting out of a 'very nice Mercedes' when he was arriving at the court that morning," I say.
"Oh," say Greg and Andrew - in a verdict so unanimous as to gladden any judge's heart. I bet Mr Justice Fraser-Smythe would have killed for a similar result. He certainly looked as if he wanted to kill me - on several occasions.
*Martin Luther King - Freedom speech here, complete with its reference to the Negro Spiritual, Free At Last. Proof, if any were needed, that neither Ed Miliband nor I are in Dr King's league, nor that of the Blind Boys of Alabama.
"I'm not talking to you," says Greg, as I walk into the office.
"Why?" I say. "I thought you'd be pleased to see me, after I've been locked up on jury service for so long."
"Huh. Frustrating the democratic will of the majority, you mean," says Greg, glaring at me as if I have committed a cardinal sin. "With all that Henry Fonda nonsense. And hadn't you forgotten something rather important, when you decided you didn't agree with most of the bloody jurors?"
I have absolutely no idea what Greg's talking about. It's almost as bad as trying to work out what planet some of those other jurors were from.
"I don't know what you mean," I say. "What have I forgotten?"
"That it was bloody Recess," says Greg. "Which you managed to completely avoid, leaving me to deal with The Boss's wilder extravagances all by myself."
"Ah," I say, as the man himself walks in. Surely he should be on his way back to London by now?
"Molly!" says Andrew. "Decided to pop in and see you quickly, before I catch my train. Done your duty as a responsible citizen, have you? And how is our judicial system working, when viewed from the sharp end?"
"Not as well as one might hope," I say - which could be to understate the case.
Honestly, where do the Courts Service find some of these bloody jurors? I've never seen a more disparate bunch of lunatics in my life - and that's saying something, given the people I deal with on a daily basis. Thank God we don't hang people any more, that's all I can say. (Not that most of the usual suspects would share that view.)
If I ever get arrested for anything - by which I mean falsely accused, of course - the first thing I am going to do is to instruct all my family members to borrow or steal luxury cars, and then to park them in conspicuous spots in the court car park every morning throughout my trial.
Josh looks and sounds too much like a criminal, though, so he'll have to be left at home, writing letters to the media and to my MP instead: explaining that a miscarriage of justice is about to take place, and begging them all to intercede on my behalf. (Though, on second thoughts, the letter to the MP might not help, if I wasn't at work to deal with it myself. I wouldn't want to entrust my freedom to Greg, not with the mood that he's in this morning.)
"But why would your family need luxury cars?" says Andrew. "I don't think I'm following your argument, Molly."
"No change there, then," says Greg, under his breath - or so he thinks.
The Boss glares at him, while I try my best to explain:
"Well," I say. "One of the trials I was on was of two guys who were accused of dealing cocaine, and I was pretty sure that both of them were guilty. So was one of the other jurors, but the rest weren't having any of it. They were just desperate to get a verdict and go home, especially the ones who were self-employed, or who worked in the private sector and were worrying about their job security."
"Not everyone has a boss as understanding as me," says Andrew.
This outrageous statement doesn't deserve a reply, so neither Greg nor I make any attempt at one. Instead, we both rise above the provocation - Greg by stuffing a large handful of Haribos into his mouth, and me by trying to recapture my train of thought, which is easier said than done, after the events of the last few weeks.
"One of the jurors - a big fat guy with a red face - kept yelling at me that I was making a fuss about nothing when I said that I wanted to be sure I was making the right decision," I say. "He said it was screamingly-obvious that one of the two defendants was guilty, and that the other was completely innocent."
"Well, maybe it was," says Greg. "If you saw Mr Beales come up in court, you'd know he'd done whatever he was accused of, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," I say. "But that's not the point. This case was about coke dealing, and one of the defendants was a bit of a chav from Easemount, whereas the other one was 'a nice middle-class boy' according to Mr Red Face - who said that he knew that the kid from Easemount was 'as guilty as sin", but that the other boy just wouldn't have done it."
"How?" say Greg and The Boss, simultaneously.
"Because he was so nicely-spoken, and from such a well-off home, that he wouldn't have needed to make money by dealing in cocaine," I say. "Apparently. And then Red Face said that he could prove this by the evidence he'd seen on the very first day of the trial."
"What evidence?" say Greg and Andrew, again in unison. I have been back at work for five minutes, and I have already restored harmony. I am so undervalued and underpaid.
"He said that he'd seen the boy's parents getting out of a 'very nice Mercedes' when he was arriving at the court that morning," I say.
"Oh," say Greg and Andrew - in a verdict so unanimous as to gladden any judge's heart. I bet Mr Justice Fraser-Smythe would have killed for a similar result. He certainly looked as if he wanted to kill me - on several occasions.
*Martin Luther King - Freedom speech here, complete with its reference to the Negro Spiritual, Free At Last. Proof, if any were needed, that neither Ed Miliband nor I are in Dr King's league, nor that of the Blind Boys of Alabama.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Hello, Hello, It's Good To Be Back* - But Only If Your Name Is Gary Glitter.
Well, I wish I could say it's nice to be back, but it isn't. It's bloody horrible. Can someone please remind me why I work for an MP?
On second thoughts, don't bother. I probably wouldn't remember the answer for more than five seconds - seeing as I seem to have developed pre-senile dementia over the last fortnight. I can't believe I forgot it was Recess this week.
"Oh, my God," I say, as I walk into the office this morning to find The Boss sitting with his feet propped up on my desk.
"Nice to see you too, Molly," he says. "How's your Dad?"
"Fantasising about the first thing he's going to do as soon as he gets back to Thailand and sees his beloved Porn-Poon," I say. "While unfortunately choosing to share that information with his daughters in rather more detail than is strictly necessary."
"And who can blame him?" says Andrew. "Any man would feel like that about seeing a hot young girlfriend - if he was lucky enough to have one."
I turn my head to look at Greg, who is clutching his throat and making retching motions, but not before I've spotted what I think is Andrew winking at Vicky. Honestly, how has it taken me all these years to work out who The Boss reminds me of? I might just as well be working for my father, the two of them are so alike.
Talking of Dad, it's a good job Dinah agreed to take over nursemaiding duties during half-term. At least I haven't got a murder charge to worry about on top of having to cope with The Boss being around all week. If she hadn't arrived when she did yesterday, I can't promise that today's Dorset Examiner wouldn't be carrying the headline, "MP's caseworker commits frenzied act of patricide."
Which would have been justifiable homicide, as far as I'm concerned, given that Dad had driven me to the verge of insanity by then. Let's just say that having a triple bypass didn't seem to have affected his ability to shout incessant orders for food and drink at full volume, or to complain that the resulting meal wasn't a patch on those prepared by Porn-Poon, which she no doubt usually serves on a bed of lettuce artfully arranged on her naked stomach.
Seeing as I was hardly going to emulate that, I was doomed to fail in the meal provision department despite putting handfuls of chillies and lime leaves into everything I cooked; and I didn't do any better when I disappointed Dad further by what he described as my typically-female lack of appreciation for Sky Sports.
It might not have been tactful to say that I'd prefer to be disinherited rather than ever to be made to watch another Rugby Sevens match, but I thought I was being cruel to be kind - on the basis that, if I annoyed Dad enough, he'd be pleased to see the back of me and wouldn't make a big fuss when the time came for me to leave. So much for best-laid plans.
Dad took one look at Dinah's kids, and started crossing himself while muttering about The Omen again. Then he refused to let me kiss him goodbye.
"Go ahead and abandon your old father, then, Molly," he said, turning his cheek away. "You rush back to your busy life, and your important job. God knows if you'll even find time to phone me this week. Not like my mate Charlie's son, who phones him every day. Every single day. But then he really loves his dad."
"That's because he's a Billy No Mates," said Dinah. "Who doesn't have any kids, or anything approaching what you'd call a life. Unlike some of us, who just have to juggle a load of balls as best we can."
I'd have been a lot more thankful for this undeniably accurate intervention, if Dinah hadn't then felt compelled to add:
"And, anyway, Molly's job isn't at all important."
Which is pretty much how I feel about it, too - once I've finished going through the supposedly-urgent messages that are waiting on my desk. Unless you count managing a bunch of lunatic constituents and a boss with an unerring instinct for saying the wrong thing as being of vital significance to the nation, that is.
*Hello, hello, it's good to be back - an unsubtle reference to Gary Glitter, which I blame on having spent the last fortnight listening to Dad going on about his Thai girlfriend.
On second thoughts, don't bother. I probably wouldn't remember the answer for more than five seconds - seeing as I seem to have developed pre-senile dementia over the last fortnight. I can't believe I forgot it was Recess this week.
"Oh, my God," I say, as I walk into the office this morning to find The Boss sitting with his feet propped up on my desk.
"Nice to see you too, Molly," he says. "How's your Dad?"
"Fantasising about the first thing he's going to do as soon as he gets back to Thailand and sees his beloved Porn-Poon," I say. "While unfortunately choosing to share that information with his daughters in rather more detail than is strictly necessary."
"And who can blame him?" says Andrew. "Any man would feel like that about seeing a hot young girlfriend - if he was lucky enough to have one."
I turn my head to look at Greg, who is clutching his throat and making retching motions, but not before I've spotted what I think is Andrew winking at Vicky. Honestly, how has it taken me all these years to work out who The Boss reminds me of? I might just as well be working for my father, the two of them are so alike.
Talking of Dad, it's a good job Dinah agreed to take over nursemaiding duties during half-term. At least I haven't got a murder charge to worry about on top of having to cope with The Boss being around all week. If she hadn't arrived when she did yesterday, I can't promise that today's Dorset Examiner wouldn't be carrying the headline, "MP's caseworker commits frenzied act of patricide."
Which would have been justifiable homicide, as far as I'm concerned, given that Dad had driven me to the verge of insanity by then. Let's just say that having a triple bypass didn't seem to have affected his ability to shout incessant orders for food and drink at full volume, or to complain that the resulting meal wasn't a patch on those prepared by Porn-Poon, which she no doubt usually serves on a bed of lettuce artfully arranged on her naked stomach.
Seeing as I was hardly going to emulate that, I was doomed to fail in the meal provision department despite putting handfuls of chillies and lime leaves into everything I cooked; and I didn't do any better when I disappointed Dad further by what he described as my typically-female lack of appreciation for Sky Sports.
It might not have been tactful to say that I'd prefer to be disinherited rather than ever to be made to watch another Rugby Sevens match, but I thought I was being cruel to be kind - on the basis that, if I annoyed Dad enough, he'd be pleased to see the back of me and wouldn't make a big fuss when the time came for me to leave. So much for best-laid plans.
Dad took one look at Dinah's kids, and started crossing himself while muttering about The Omen again. Then he refused to let me kiss him goodbye.
"Go ahead and abandon your old father, then, Molly," he said, turning his cheek away. "You rush back to your busy life, and your important job. God knows if you'll even find time to phone me this week. Not like my mate Charlie's son, who phones him every day. Every single day. But then he really loves his dad."
"That's because he's a Billy No Mates," said Dinah. "Who doesn't have any kids, or anything approaching what you'd call a life. Unlike some of us, who just have to juggle a load of balls as best we can."
I'd have been a lot more thankful for this undeniably accurate intervention, if Dinah hadn't then felt compelled to add:
"And, anyway, Molly's job isn't at all important."
Which is pretty much how I feel about it, too - once I've finished going through the supposedly-urgent messages that are waiting on my desk. Unless you count managing a bunch of lunatic constituents and a boss with an unerring instinct for saying the wrong thing as being of vital significance to the nation, that is.
*Hello, hello, it's good to be back - an unsubtle reference to Gary Glitter, which I blame on having spent the last fortnight listening to Dad going on about his Thai girlfriend.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Chariots Of Fire, And Why Snow, MPs And Alcohol Don't Mix.
God, I'm knackered. I hardly slept a wink last night, because I woke up about an hour after I'd dozed off, and then I just could not get back to sleep. Bloody palpitations.
I think they were probably caused by the nightmare I'd been having just before I awoke. The Boss was driving a chariot through Northwick while dressed in a Roman centurion's outfit, and was making me pull the damn thing - on foot! It wouldn't have been so bad, if he hadn't kept whipping me every time I slowed down to catch my breath.
It definitely wasn't some sort of Freudian reference to my lack of a sex-life, as this was not the kind of whipping that anyone would enjoy, not even those people who apparently like hanging out in dungeons, while dressed in gimp suits. Mentioning no particular professions...
And I wasn't dressed in one of those pervy pony outfits, either, though I did have rather high heels on. It took bloody ages to pull the chariot past the market square, thanks to all the stupid cobbles. Architects never think when they decide on these silly "historic" road surfaces, do they?
After lunch, I realise what the nightmare probably signified: I must have been anticipating the inevitable blow-by-blow account of The Boss's journey back to Northwick after the *House rises for Christmas Recess. He always likes to make it as interactive as possible, and share the joy around.
Andrew's first call sets the scene:
"On my way to the station. Be back before the office closes."
"No need," I say. "There's nothing for you to do. Go straight home when you get off the train."
"Doesn't matter," he says. "I've got lots of stuff to give you to do. See you when I get there."
Greg groans when I recount the conversation, and decides to spend the next hour in the archive cupboard throwing darts at Andrew's photo. Then he returns to his desk, logs on to the Met Office's website and sits staring intently at the screen. For what feels like ages.
"What on earth are you doing?" I say. "You haven't even blinked for the last ten minutes."
"Taking evasive action. I am willing it to snow as heavily as possible between London and Northwick," he says. "Right now."
I do a sceptical eyebrow raise, but Greg doesn't take any notice:
"Don't just sit there, Mol - help me! Visualise blizzard conditions and concentrate. We need to harness the power of our minds if tomorrow's Christmas lunch isn't to be cancelled because we've got too much work again."
I pretend to co-operate for a couple of seconds, but then I get bored and give up, so it seems that my mind may be rather short on power today. Greg keeps at it, though - and, eventually, it starts to snow again. Rather heavily - so maybe he genuinely possesses some of those telekinetic powers that Max accused me of having.
This is quite a scary thought, but seems to be confirmed when The Boss sends a text saying:
"Mayhem here. Next train cancelled."
Greg cheers loudly at this news, and then nips off to the pub for a celebratory gin. I start to wonder if he's telepathic as well as telekinetic when Andrew's next text makes clear that his thoughts have also turned to alcohol:
"No idea when next train's coming & it's too bloody cold to wait on station. Going for drink in bar."
Oh, dear. This won't end well. The Boss should never be allowed to combine alcohol and train travel but, when I try to phone him to remonstrate, he's turned his bloody mobile off. I don't hear anything more for a good few hours, and we are just about to lock up when the phone starts to ring.
"Leave it," says Greg, who has already put his coat on, and is waiting in the doorway.
"Can't," I say. "It's the bloody private line. Probably his Lordship. You go, and I'll lock up as soon as I've got him off the phone."
Greg waves goodbye, as I pick up the receiver.
"Molly," says Andrew, in a very loud voice. "I'm on the train."
"Ah, right," I say. "Don't shout, though. You sound like Dom Joly."
"I'm not shouting. And who's Don Jorrey?"
Oh, bloody hell. Doesn't Andrew get the simplest cultural reference? And, if that's not shouting, then my name's Igor and I am a singing postman. Which might actually help in situations where you know there's a rant coming, but you can't do anything to prevent it. If I started yodelling about brotherly love, that'd probably stop The Boss in his tracks.
But I don't know any Russian songs - except for this, which probably doesn't count - so I have no option but to sit silently while Andrew yells about the incompetence of Network Rail, the Travel Information Office, and Philip Hammond MP. He doesn't award Mr Hammond his *Rt. Hon, either.
When he finally pauses for breath - or for what sounds rather like a hiccup - I grab my opportunity.
"Andrew, is there anyone else in the compartment with you?" I say.
"Yes," he says. "A load of businessmen who look like bloody bankers and Jon Tiverton from the Northwick Daily Press."
"Well, then, for goodness' sake stop swearing," I say. "And lower your voice! They're probably all journos who are writing down everything you say. Think about what's just happened to Vince Cable."
"Can't hear you," yells Andrew, even louder than before. "But remind me tomorrow never to support this fucking train operator's application for the rail franchise again.
As I sigh and put the phone down, I'm sure I can still hear him shouting: "Bloody wankers."
Well, they say you can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Or even pull his own damned chariot, now I come to think of it.
*House - House of Commons, which rises for the Christmas Recess today, to the joy of constituency staff everywhere.
*Irony - see above statement.
*Rt. Hon - Right Honourable. See here for clarification, as I can't be bothered to explain after the day I've had.
I think they were probably caused by the nightmare I'd been having just before I awoke. The Boss was driving a chariot through Northwick while dressed in a Roman centurion's outfit, and was making me pull the damn thing - on foot! It wouldn't have been so bad, if he hadn't kept whipping me every time I slowed down to catch my breath.
It definitely wasn't some sort of Freudian reference to my lack of a sex-life, as this was not the kind of whipping that anyone would enjoy, not even those people who apparently like hanging out in dungeons, while dressed in gimp suits. Mentioning no particular professions...
And I wasn't dressed in one of those pervy pony outfits, either, though I did have rather high heels on. It took bloody ages to pull the chariot past the market square, thanks to all the stupid cobbles. Architects never think when they decide on these silly "historic" road surfaces, do they?
After lunch, I realise what the nightmare probably signified: I must have been anticipating the inevitable blow-by-blow account of The Boss's journey back to Northwick after the *House rises for Christmas Recess. He always likes to make it as interactive as possible, and share the joy around.
Andrew's first call sets the scene:
"On my way to the station. Be back before the office closes."
"No need," I say. "There's nothing for you to do. Go straight home when you get off the train."
"Doesn't matter," he says. "I've got lots of stuff to give you to do. See you when I get there."
Greg groans when I recount the conversation, and decides to spend the next hour in the archive cupboard throwing darts at Andrew's photo. Then he returns to his desk, logs on to the Met Office's website and sits staring intently at the screen. For what feels like ages.
"What on earth are you doing?" I say. "You haven't even blinked for the last ten minutes."
"Taking evasive action. I am willing it to snow as heavily as possible between London and Northwick," he says. "Right now."
I do a sceptical eyebrow raise, but Greg doesn't take any notice:
"Don't just sit there, Mol - help me! Visualise blizzard conditions and concentrate. We need to harness the power of our minds if tomorrow's Christmas lunch isn't to be cancelled because we've got too much work again."
I pretend to co-operate for a couple of seconds, but then I get bored and give up, so it seems that my mind may be rather short on power today. Greg keeps at it, though - and, eventually, it starts to snow again. Rather heavily - so maybe he genuinely possesses some of those telekinetic powers that Max accused me of having.
This is quite a scary thought, but seems to be confirmed when The Boss sends a text saying:
"Mayhem here. Next train cancelled."
Greg cheers loudly at this news, and then nips off to the pub for a celebratory gin. I start to wonder if he's telepathic as well as telekinetic when Andrew's next text makes clear that his thoughts have also turned to alcohol:
"No idea when next train's coming & it's too bloody cold to wait on station. Going for drink in bar."
Oh, dear. This won't end well. The Boss should never be allowed to combine alcohol and train travel but, when I try to phone him to remonstrate, he's turned his bloody mobile off. I don't hear anything more for a good few hours, and we are just about to lock up when the phone starts to ring.
"Leave it," says Greg, who has already put his coat on, and is waiting in the doorway.
"Can't," I say. "It's the bloody private line. Probably his Lordship. You go, and I'll lock up as soon as I've got him off the phone."
Greg waves goodbye, as I pick up the receiver.
"Molly," says Andrew, in a very loud voice. "I'm on the train."
"Ah, right," I say. "Don't shout, though. You sound like Dom Joly."
"I'm not shouting. And who's Don Jorrey?"
Oh, bloody hell. Doesn't Andrew get the simplest cultural reference? And, if that's not shouting, then my name's Igor and I am a singing postman. Which might actually help in situations where you know there's a rant coming, but you can't do anything to prevent it. If I started yodelling about brotherly love, that'd probably stop The Boss in his tracks.
But I don't know any Russian songs - except for this, which probably doesn't count - so I have no option but to sit silently while Andrew yells about the incompetence of Network Rail, the Travel Information Office, and Philip Hammond MP. He doesn't award Mr Hammond his *Rt. Hon, either.
When he finally pauses for breath - or for what sounds rather like a hiccup - I grab my opportunity.
"Andrew, is there anyone else in the compartment with you?" I say.
"Yes," he says. "A load of businessmen who look like bloody bankers and Jon Tiverton from the Northwick Daily Press."
"Well, then, for goodness' sake stop swearing," I say. "And lower your voice! They're probably all journos who are writing down everything you say. Think about what's just happened to Vince Cable."
"Can't hear you," yells Andrew, even louder than before. "But remind me tomorrow never to support this fucking train operator's application for the rail franchise again.
As I sigh and put the phone down, I'm sure I can still hear him shouting: "Bloody wankers."
Well, they say you can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Or even pull his own damned chariot, now I come to think of it.
*House - House of Commons, which rises for the Christmas Recess today, to the joy of constituency staff everywhere.
*Irony - see above statement.
*Rt. Hon - Right Honourable. See here for clarification, as I can't be bothered to explain after the day I've had.
Friday, 13 August 2010
A Clash of Cultures. Or Do I Mean Vultures?
Today's the day Carlotta and Marie-Louise come here to see Greg and I in action, as The Boss puts it. I'd much prefer to see them in action, but I suspect that this would prove challenging, if the action was supposed to be work-related.
They arrive mid-morning, and Greg is ordered to drive to the station to collect them. Obviously their longer legs are less functional than mine. It's only a five minute walk, and I'd been rather hoping they'd get lost and we could lose an hour or so of their company while we "tried" to find them. Greg had even helped by sending them a slightly inaccurate hand-drawn map, but The Boss's insistence on their being chauffeur driven dooms us to disappointment. Greg says he'd have bought one of those traffic light air fresheners if he'd known he was going to have to give them a lift, just to confirm their low opinions of us, but he didn't have time.
When he brings them into the building, they have to pass Joan from the Party Office in the corridor. Greg says that Carlotta looks her up and down as if she is an exhibit in a zoo. I have to admit that this is a fairly understandable error, but for the purposes of today, Joan is one of us, and therefore entirely beyond criticism, except from The Boss, of course. When Carlotta says, "We just met Jean or whatever her name was," Andrew just grunts and looks disgusted. Honestly, that man couldn't tell who was on his side if his life depended on it.
Both girls stand around, sniffing as if there is a bad smell, and making the place look untidy, until The Boss orders me to make them coffee and suggests they chill out in the Oprah Room until lunchtime. I have a better idea, and suggest to The Boss that it would be a useful learning experience for both Carlotta and Marie-Louise to sit in on today's surgery. They look as enthusiastic about this suggestion as if I'd proposed they jump into a pit of snakes, which makes it all the more satisfying when Andrew says,
"Damn good idea, Molly." But then he adds, "No need for you to come - one of the girls can take the notes."
This wipes the smile off my face, especially when he continues,
"We'll hand them to you afterwards, so you can do the letters." That'll teach me to get creative. There's nothing worse than trying to work from someone else's notes, even if they aren't Andrew's.
The girls look shell-shocked after surgery, and slump back onto the couch, while The Boss holds forth about Steve Ellington's latest assault on one of his neighbours. Andrew appears to be enjoying giving the impression that he dares to boldly meet with the bad, the mad and the dangerous, without a thought for his own safety. Greg yawns audibly, and I decide to interrupt. (There's only so much that anyone can be expected to endure.)
"Um, Andrew - the surgery notes?" I say, without much optimism.
"Ah, yes - here you are." The Boss proffers one piece of A4, bearing his usual hieroglyphics. "The girls have got the rest."
Carlotta looks at Marie-Louise. Marie-Louise looks back at her. Neither says anything.
"You didn't take any notes?" I say. "None?"
"We thought Andrew had it all under control," Carlotta says.
I can't help myself. Before I know it, I say, "Andrew never has it all under control. For Godsake."
I stomp off for a cigarette. Greg tells me later that, while I am outside, Andrew apologises to the girls on my behalf, tells them I haven't been myself recently, and that there is no need to worry, that I will sort it out, because I always do. Humph.
Now I can't even have a drink at lunchtime, as I shall need all my wits about me to save the situation this afternoon. This doesn't stop anyone else, though, and Carlotta and Marie-Louise are legless by the time we stagger back to the office. I like them a whole lot better drunk, actually - especially when it makes them admit that they count the days until Recess, because Andrew reduces one or other of them to tears so often that they're both thinking of resigning.
It seems he takes the same approach in the Westminster office as he does in ours - which is to blame one of his staff in public, whenever he makes a mistake. Makes me feel a whole lot better that, even with all the glamour of the Cinnamon Club, and the other perks, they too feel stressed beyond belief, and can't cope with all the unnecessary work he creates. In fact, when they tell us how long it takes them to travel in and out of work, and what their rent costs, I end up feeling sorry for them. I don't think I could handle spending hours on the tube each day, just for the dubious pleasure of working for Andrew.
It's kisses all round when their taxi arrives to take them back to the train station. I think The Boss has misunderstood the protocol, though - as he goes for everyone's lips, except Greg's. We all wipe our mouths ostentatiously, while going "Psshaw" - but he doesn't seem to notice. He wanders off to do some work at home, while I spend the afternoon phoning all the constituents who attended surgery this morning.
I have to lure them into telling me the full details of what they have already told Andrew - and the girls - in the guise of seeking "clarification of a few points." I don't mind this as much as I had expected to, and, in fact, I feel oddly cheerful when I have finished. It seems Andrew isn't quite as daft as he looks: he's succeeded in raising office morale, though probably not in the way that he intended. Now we're all united in thinking him a complete nightmare.
They arrive mid-morning, and Greg is ordered to drive to the station to collect them. Obviously their longer legs are less functional than mine. It's only a five minute walk, and I'd been rather hoping they'd get lost and we could lose an hour or so of their company while we "tried" to find them. Greg had even helped by sending them a slightly inaccurate hand-drawn map, but The Boss's insistence on their being chauffeur driven dooms us to disappointment. Greg says he'd have bought one of those traffic light air fresheners if he'd known he was going to have to give them a lift, just to confirm their low opinions of us, but he didn't have time.
When he brings them into the building, they have to pass Joan from the Party Office in the corridor. Greg says that Carlotta looks her up and down as if she is an exhibit in a zoo. I have to admit that this is a fairly understandable error, but for the purposes of today, Joan is one of us, and therefore entirely beyond criticism, except from The Boss, of course. When Carlotta says, "We just met Jean or whatever her name was," Andrew just grunts and looks disgusted. Honestly, that man couldn't tell who was on his side if his life depended on it.
Both girls stand around, sniffing as if there is a bad smell, and making the place look untidy, until The Boss orders me to make them coffee and suggests they chill out in the Oprah Room until lunchtime. I have a better idea, and suggest to The Boss that it would be a useful learning experience for both Carlotta and Marie-Louise to sit in on today's surgery. They look as enthusiastic about this suggestion as if I'd proposed they jump into a pit of snakes, which makes it all the more satisfying when Andrew says,
"Damn good idea, Molly." But then he adds, "No need for you to come - one of the girls can take the notes."
This wipes the smile off my face, especially when he continues,
"We'll hand them to you afterwards, so you can do the letters." That'll teach me to get creative. There's nothing worse than trying to work from someone else's notes, even if they aren't Andrew's.
The girls look shell-shocked after surgery, and slump back onto the couch, while The Boss holds forth about Steve Ellington's latest assault on one of his neighbours. Andrew appears to be enjoying giving the impression that he dares to boldly meet with the bad, the mad and the dangerous, without a thought for his own safety. Greg yawns audibly, and I decide to interrupt. (There's only so much that anyone can be expected to endure.)
"Um, Andrew - the surgery notes?" I say, without much optimism.
"Ah, yes - here you are." The Boss proffers one piece of A4, bearing his usual hieroglyphics. "The girls have got the rest."
Carlotta looks at Marie-Louise. Marie-Louise looks back at her. Neither says anything.
"You didn't take any notes?" I say. "None?"
"We thought Andrew had it all under control," Carlotta says.
I can't help myself. Before I know it, I say, "Andrew never has it all under control. For Godsake."
I stomp off for a cigarette. Greg tells me later that, while I am outside, Andrew apologises to the girls on my behalf, tells them I haven't been myself recently, and that there is no need to worry, that I will sort it out, because I always do. Humph.
Now I can't even have a drink at lunchtime, as I shall need all my wits about me to save the situation this afternoon. This doesn't stop anyone else, though, and Carlotta and Marie-Louise are legless by the time we stagger back to the office. I like them a whole lot better drunk, actually - especially when it makes them admit that they count the days until Recess, because Andrew reduces one or other of them to tears so often that they're both thinking of resigning.
It seems he takes the same approach in the Westminster office as he does in ours - which is to blame one of his staff in public, whenever he makes a mistake. Makes me feel a whole lot better that, even with all the glamour of the Cinnamon Club, and the other perks, they too feel stressed beyond belief, and can't cope with all the unnecessary work he creates. In fact, when they tell us how long it takes them to travel in and out of work, and what their rent costs, I end up feeling sorry for them. I don't think I could handle spending hours on the tube each day, just for the dubious pleasure of working for Andrew.
It's kisses all round when their taxi arrives to take them back to the train station. I think The Boss has misunderstood the protocol, though - as he goes for everyone's lips, except Greg's. We all wipe our mouths ostentatiously, while going "Psshaw" - but he doesn't seem to notice. He wanders off to do some work at home, while I spend the afternoon phoning all the constituents who attended surgery this morning.
I have to lure them into telling me the full details of what they have already told Andrew - and the girls - in the guise of seeking "clarification of a few points." I don't mind this as much as I had expected to, and, in fact, I feel oddly cheerful when I have finished. It seems Andrew isn't quite as daft as he looks: he's succeeded in raising office morale, though probably not in the way that he intended. Now we're all united in thinking him a complete nightmare.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
A Logical, if Non-PC Approach to Casework.
Greg's on a mission today. He says things have been far too miserable around here since Recess began, and that we need to try something far more effective than yesterday's disastrous attempts at raising morale. Especially my morale, as he says I have a face like a wet weekend, which he rates as even less attractive than my "Infected" face.
He suggests we opt for a session of Writing Honest Letters at lunchtime, if we can get rid of The Boss for a while. This seems much more likely to cheer me up than anything else that's been tried, including Johnny's series of grovelling emails apologising for being such a f*ckwit, so I agree. I set only one condition - that we shred the letters immediately after we have read them to each other. (The postman indicated that he wouldn't be open to further bribery if we posted them again by accident. He has no sense of humour.)
There are an awful lot of potential candidates for today's session, but Mr Beales has written in again, so we start with him. This time it's not about "the cheap slapper" who didn't like the headless photos he took of her wedding, or the Policeman who hid in a bush before jumping out in front of him. Now we're on the subject of Mr Beales' sister-in-law. She wanted a gastric band operation, but was ordered to lose five stone before she could be considered for that. Mr Beales thinks this is ridiculous, and tells us so - even though she has almost reached her target now.
Greg starts typing without any prior consideration.
Dear Mr Beales
Thank you for your letter regarding the fact that your obese sister-in-law has had to lose five stone before having her gastric band fitted. Whilst I take your point that the only reason that she wanted the operation was to lose weight, she has now proved that she can achieve this without the need for surgery.
I therefore have a radical suggestion for you: if she's managed to lose some of her excess weight in order to achieve her goal, why doesn't she just keep going? Whatever she is doing is obviously working, and were she to carry on, the funds that would otherwise have been spent on her operation could be used to save someone else, whose illness was not caused by spending too much time and money in Greggs. She might also be able to give your wife some tips.
Yours sincerely
Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
Greg hits print, sits back in his chair and smiles at me.
"Your turn, Molly. Who's it going to be, then?"
So many choices, so little time. It's cruel to have to pick just one, but Andrew could be back at any moment. It is lunchtime, after all - and he hates to pay for food when he could just steal it from me and Greg. In a panic, I opt for Mrs Backhouse. She's had it coming for a long time, now I come to think of it.
Dear Mrs Backhouse,
Thank you for your letter regarding your housing situation. It was kind of you to write, but you really didn't need to bother as, to all intents and purposes, your letter was identical to the last ten that you have sent me, not to mention that it merely re-iterated what you have said during the half-dozen constituency surgery appointments that you have already attended since the most recent General Election.
As I have repeatedly explained to you - and indeed to Mr Backhouse, though I am never actually sure if he is listening - the position is that I am completely unable to force Northwick Council to re-house you and your family, whilst Mr Backhouse refuses to agree to the move. I confess that I am completely mystified by your insistence on bringing this matter to my attention, given that you say that you and your husband are happily married.
Furthermore, as Mr Backhouse is the only tenant named on the tenancy agreement, not to mention your husband and the children's father, the Council cannot approve your exchanging the property either, without your husband's permission. I can therefore only suggest that you divert your considerable energies to endeavouring to persuade him of the necessity for this move, rather than continuing to bother my staff who have rather more pressing issues to deal with.
I am enclosing a leaflet which gives information about the services offered by our local branch of Relate, and I also enclose a list of solicitors who specialise in divorce, should you decide to take more drastic measures. Might I also request that, should you attend any more surgery appointments, you consider bringing your own box of tissues with you.
Yours sincerely
Andrew Sinclair
MP for Northwick East
Working hard for hardworking families, especially those who actually speak to each other without the need for me to act as a referee.
God, WHL Hour is always so therapeutic. We finish just in time before The Boss comes back, and my sandwich provides a useful distraction, allowing me to shred the letters while Andrew chews. Greg and I feel energised, and able to carry on indefinitely - or at least until The Boss comes back from this afternoon's meeting with the Agoraphobics Group.
I'm expecting trouble on that front. If I'd been locked in my home for ten years, and was only just finding the courage to venture out, a couple of hours with Andrew would be enough to convince me to go back home, lock the door and throw away the key.
He suggests we opt for a session of Writing Honest Letters at lunchtime, if we can get rid of The Boss for a while. This seems much more likely to cheer me up than anything else that's been tried, including Johnny's series of grovelling emails apologising for being such a f*ckwit, so I agree. I set only one condition - that we shred the letters immediately after we have read them to each other. (The postman indicated that he wouldn't be open to further bribery if we posted them again by accident. He has no sense of humour.)
There are an awful lot of potential candidates for today's session, but Mr Beales has written in again, so we start with him. This time it's not about "the cheap slapper" who didn't like the headless photos he took of her wedding, or the Policeman who hid in a bush before jumping out in front of him. Now we're on the subject of Mr Beales' sister-in-law. She wanted a gastric band operation, but was ordered to lose five stone before she could be considered for that. Mr Beales thinks this is ridiculous, and tells us so - even though she has almost reached her target now.
Greg starts typing without any prior consideration.
Dear Mr Beales
Thank you for your letter regarding the fact that your obese sister-in-law has had to lose five stone before having her gastric band fitted. Whilst I take your point that the only reason that she wanted the operation was to lose weight, she has now proved that she can achieve this without the need for surgery.
I therefore have a radical suggestion for you: if she's managed to lose some of her excess weight in order to achieve her goal, why doesn't she just keep going? Whatever she is doing is obviously working, and were she to carry on, the funds that would otherwise have been spent on her operation could be used to save someone else, whose illness was not caused by spending too much time and money in Greggs. She might also be able to give your wife some tips.
Yours sincerely
Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
Greg hits print, sits back in his chair and smiles at me.
"Your turn, Molly. Who's it going to be, then?"
So many choices, so little time. It's cruel to have to pick just one, but Andrew could be back at any moment. It is lunchtime, after all - and he hates to pay for food when he could just steal it from me and Greg. In a panic, I opt for Mrs Backhouse. She's had it coming for a long time, now I come to think of it.
Dear Mrs Backhouse,
Thank you for your letter regarding your housing situation. It was kind of you to write, but you really didn't need to bother as, to all intents and purposes, your letter was identical to the last ten that you have sent me, not to mention that it merely re-iterated what you have said during the half-dozen constituency surgery appointments that you have already attended since the most recent General Election.
As I have repeatedly explained to you - and indeed to Mr Backhouse, though I am never actually sure if he is listening - the position is that I am completely unable to force Northwick Council to re-house you and your family, whilst Mr Backhouse refuses to agree to the move. I confess that I am completely mystified by your insistence on bringing this matter to my attention, given that you say that you and your husband are happily married.
Furthermore, as Mr Backhouse is the only tenant named on the tenancy agreement, not to mention your husband and the children's father, the Council cannot approve your exchanging the property either, without your husband's permission. I can therefore only suggest that you divert your considerable energies to endeavouring to persuade him of the necessity for this move, rather than continuing to bother my staff who have rather more pressing issues to deal with.
I am enclosing a leaflet which gives information about the services offered by our local branch of Relate, and I also enclose a list of solicitors who specialise in divorce, should you decide to take more drastic measures. Might I also request that, should you attend any more surgery appointments, you consider bringing your own box of tissues with you.
Yours sincerely
Andrew Sinclair
MP for Northwick East
Working hard for hardworking families, especially those who actually speak to each other without the need for me to act as a referee.
God, WHL Hour is always so therapeutic. We finish just in time before The Boss comes back, and my sandwich provides a useful distraction, allowing me to shred the letters while Andrew chews. Greg and I feel energised, and able to carry on indefinitely - or at least until The Boss comes back from this afternoon's meeting with the Agoraphobics Group.
I'm expecting trouble on that front. If I'd been locked in my home for ten years, and was only just finding the courage to venture out, a couple of hours with Andrew would be enough to convince me to go back home, lock the door and throw away the key.
Friday, 30 July 2010
A Depressing Tale of the Shambles that is Housing Benefit.
Today's surgery seems to be all about Housing Benefit. The whole system is a shambles. For every Somali family living in million-pound luxury in the West End, there are God knows how many other people struggling to keep even the most modest roof over their heads.
Today we have two such enquiries. The first is from Mr & Mrs Farrow, a nice couple in their late fifties. Mrs Farrow is chronically sick and can't work, and Mr Farrow recently got made redundant. They have been forced to claim Housing Benefit for their two-bedroomed council bungalow. So what, you might say - their housing costs are being covered, aren't they? Well, yes, except that the Farrow children are grown up and have moved away. So the Council have decided that they are under-occupying their house, and will only pay a proportion of their rent as Housing Benefit.
Mr & Mrs Farrow have no income with which to make up the shortfall and with her health problems and his age and lack of IT skills, I can't see this being resolved by either of them finding employment any time soon. They are terrified that they will fall into arrears with their rent, and end up being evicted. They've been told that they could always seek an exchange to a one-bedroomed house - but they haven't got the money to pay removal expenses, even if they could find someone to swap with.
Not only that, but they've already had to bail out one of their sons by allowing him to move back home on more than one occasion, and this wouldn't even have been posible had they not had the other bedroom. There seems to be no option but for them to try to "find" the additional rent from Mr Farrow's Jobseeeker's Allowance. The Boss agrees to write to the Council and beg them to use their discretion, but I'm not optimistic about the result.
The business about the Farrow's son is thrown into sharp relief later on in surgery, when Gemma McKeown comes in to see The Boss. It's unusual for someone as young as Gemma to even visit their MP - she's only twenty-three, but has been self-supporting for some five years after a breakdown in relations with her family. She's also recently lost her job, and it looks as if she will soon be homeless too.
I am shocked to hear that young people under the age of 25 are only entitled to approximately 50% of the Housing Benefit payable to people over that age. How stupid is that? Their landlords don't charge them less just because they are younger. The amount of Housing Benefit Gemma receives isn't even enough to cover the cost of her room in a shared house in one of Northwick's grottiest areas, and homelessness is a very real threat if something isn't done. She doesn't have parents like Mr & Mrs Farrow who will take her in.
Her chances of employment don't seem much better than the Farrows' either, as the only jobs she's been qualified to apply for so far have all been on contracts which guarantee only between zero and four hours a week. Nothing like enough hours to reassure her that she will be able to earn enough to pay her rent, even if she succeeds in getting one of the jobs. God knows what we can do to help her, but I'm going to try bloody hard to think of something.
My head hurts by the end of surgery, and even Andrew is uncharacteristically quiet. I think it's dawned on him that he can't blame this Housing Benefit fiasco on the coalition, and he was even sensitive enough - for once - to avoid adding to the constituents' misery by scare-mongering as to what the ConDems' proposed changes to Housing Benefit might do to make matters worse.
All I can think of is that Connie and Josh could find themselves in Gemma's situation, if Max and I were ever to split up, and become unable to provide a roof over their heads in an emergency. I am going to turn Johnny down. Any transient pleasure he might be able to provide would be as nothing compared to how shitty I would feel if I contributed to making my children homeless. I might be capable of low cunning in the face of the long Recess, but I am fundamentally a good person. At least, I hope I am. Who knows - I might even still be a socialist at heart?
Today we have two such enquiries. The first is from Mr & Mrs Farrow, a nice couple in their late fifties. Mrs Farrow is chronically sick and can't work, and Mr Farrow recently got made redundant. They have been forced to claim Housing Benefit for their two-bedroomed council bungalow. So what, you might say - their housing costs are being covered, aren't they? Well, yes, except that the Farrow children are grown up and have moved away. So the Council have decided that they are under-occupying their house, and will only pay a proportion of their rent as Housing Benefit.
Mr & Mrs Farrow have no income with which to make up the shortfall and with her health problems and his age and lack of IT skills, I can't see this being resolved by either of them finding employment any time soon. They are terrified that they will fall into arrears with their rent, and end up being evicted. They've been told that they could always seek an exchange to a one-bedroomed house - but they haven't got the money to pay removal expenses, even if they could find someone to swap with.
Not only that, but they've already had to bail out one of their sons by allowing him to move back home on more than one occasion, and this wouldn't even have been posible had they not had the other bedroom. There seems to be no option but for them to try to "find" the additional rent from Mr Farrow's Jobseeeker's Allowance. The Boss agrees to write to the Council and beg them to use their discretion, but I'm not optimistic about the result.
The business about the Farrow's son is thrown into sharp relief later on in surgery, when Gemma McKeown comes in to see The Boss. It's unusual for someone as young as Gemma to even visit their MP - she's only twenty-three, but has been self-supporting for some five years after a breakdown in relations with her family. She's also recently lost her job, and it looks as if she will soon be homeless too.
I am shocked to hear that young people under the age of 25 are only entitled to approximately 50% of the Housing Benefit payable to people over that age. How stupid is that? Their landlords don't charge them less just because they are younger. The amount of Housing Benefit Gemma receives isn't even enough to cover the cost of her room in a shared house in one of Northwick's grottiest areas, and homelessness is a very real threat if something isn't done. She doesn't have parents like Mr & Mrs Farrow who will take her in.
Her chances of employment don't seem much better than the Farrows' either, as the only jobs she's been qualified to apply for so far have all been on contracts which guarantee only between zero and four hours a week. Nothing like enough hours to reassure her that she will be able to earn enough to pay her rent, even if she succeeds in getting one of the jobs. God knows what we can do to help her, but I'm going to try bloody hard to think of something.
My head hurts by the end of surgery, and even Andrew is uncharacteristically quiet. I think it's dawned on him that he can't blame this Housing Benefit fiasco on the coalition, and he was even sensitive enough - for once - to avoid adding to the constituents' misery by scare-mongering as to what the ConDems' proposed changes to Housing Benefit might do to make matters worse.
All I can think of is that Connie and Josh could find themselves in Gemma's situation, if Max and I were ever to split up, and become unable to provide a roof over their heads in an emergency. I am going to turn Johnny down. Any transient pleasure he might be able to provide would be as nothing compared to how shitty I would feel if I contributed to making my children homeless. I might be capable of low cunning in the face of the long Recess, but I am fundamentally a good person. At least, I hope I am. Who knows - I might even still be a socialist at heart?
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Creative Thinking in the Face of an Emergency.
It's that hellish time of year again - Parliamentary Recess, when MPs return to their constituencies, and wander around like lost souls, irritating the hell out of constituency staff and making work for its own sake. The Boss is worse than most. He thinks he's so indispensable that he cannot take even a single day off, and that we need him to open the mail and answer the phones, despite the fact that these things get done every day whilst he's at Westminster - as if by magic.
I wouldn't mind so much if he'd just go and sit in a coffee bar somewhere and take his laptop with him, but he says he likes to be "in the thick of it", and takes over my desk and my computer instead. Then he decides that I need him to dictate incoherent replies to all the letters he has already opened, or at least, those that he hasn't already misplaced.
This means that I am forced to waste time writing down notes that I have absolutely no intention of making any reference to in the replies that I will eventually write, once he's not looking. To make matters even worse, he seems compulsively driven to start swearing whenever I am on the phone to a constituent - which is really embarrassing. I have to keep explaining it away by pretending that he's the boiler repair man, and has no sense of decorum.
The Boss has also adopted his usual Recess practice of sneaking into the office early so that, by the time Greg and I arrive, he's already rifled through our desk drawers, and the fridge. The most outrageous aspect of this - at least as far as Greg's concerned - is that Andrew has helped himself to Greg's entire secret stash of Twixes, and has used up all the milk.
Greg gestures for me to join him in the corridor for an emergency meeting.
"God almighty, haven't you arranged anything for him to do?" he says.
"I tried," I say, "But bloody Carlotta wouldn't play ball. She even cleared space in his diary so he could spend more time in the office with us."
"Bloody woman. Wasn't winning the sodding World Cup enough for her?"
Greg is pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal, and I am desperate for a cigarette. Already.
"Well, you've got to do something. I can't stand this. I may have to kill him if you don't get rid of him soon." Greg almost looks capable of murder. He has an unhealthy dependency on chocolate.
Far be it from me to boast, but I do have an extraordinary ability to think creatively in an emergency.
"Go and find yesterday's local paper, then search through it for mentions of local organisations that are complaining about something, like lack of funding," I say.
"And?" Greg looks unimpressed.
"Then phone them up, and say The Boss has read about their plight, and is very interested in the valuable work they are doing in his constituency.
"And?"
"Say that he would very much like to come and see it for himself, and could he pop over today?"
"Brilliant!" says Greg, and sneaks off into the Party office to use their phone for his vital secret mission.
Half an hour later, he comes back, gives me the thumbs up, and says,
"Andrew, aren't you supposed to be at your meeting now?"
"What meeting?" Andrew finishes my sandwich in one very over-ambitious mouthful.
"The Phoenix Project in Easemount," says Greg. "Molly, didn't you tell him?"
"God, no. I forgot. Greg has the details, Andrew. Shall I call you a taxi?"
"No, I can drive," he says. "Just put their number into my mobile in case I get lost."
Whether The Boss can drive is a moot point, but the fact that he has the option must mean that he has finally talked Trish into letting him have the car keys back. (She is a very creative individual herself. You probably have to be to survive being married to Andrew.) A few weeks ago, she developed a well-founded fear that Andrew was going to get caught drink-driving and, mindful of the negative Press coverage that would ensue, she decided to take direct action.
While he was engaged in a medicinal drinking session after a particularly hostile GC*, she sneaked into the car park, and drove his car away. She texted me to tell me what she'd done, but I didn't tell him as I wanted to see what would happen when he went to drive home after the meeting. I expected him to come roaring back into the bar, shouting that his car had been stolen. But he didn't.
It turned out that he just looked around the car park for a bit, then gave up and took a taxi home. He obviously assumed that he was just too drunk to recall where he'd left the car, and that he'd remember once he sobered up. The whole story came out the next morning when, staggering downstairs on a quest for coffee and ibuprofen, he spotted the car parked in the driveway of his house. At that moment, he really didn't have a leg to stand on when Trish refused to give him the keys back. God knows how he's persuaded her to reinstate his driving privileges now.
So, due to my low cunning, we are blissfully Andrew-free for the next few hours, which means that I can finally get round to writing proper replies to today's letters, and Greg can spend his time arranging visits to other local organisations. By the end of the afternoon,The Boss is booked up for a good chunk of the rest of this week, and half of the next one too - thank God.
Just before I leave the office, Mrs Cowan phones to apologise that her husband hasn't yet got round to signing his Data Protection form. She says she'll make sure he does it tonight, and that she'll drop it off to me tomorrow morning. Then she bursts into tears, and says that they are now being chased for mortgage arrears, as it appears that their bank hasn't even been honouring those payments.
Honestly, those bankers are such shits. Not that I'm in any position to criticise - spending all my time fretting about not being able to afford a hotel room for a dirty weekend. I need a slap.
*GC - General Committee meeting, as usual.
I wouldn't mind so much if he'd just go and sit in a coffee bar somewhere and take his laptop with him, but he says he likes to be "in the thick of it", and takes over my desk and my computer instead. Then he decides that I need him to dictate incoherent replies to all the letters he has already opened, or at least, those that he hasn't already misplaced.
This means that I am forced to waste time writing down notes that I have absolutely no intention of making any reference to in the replies that I will eventually write, once he's not looking. To make matters even worse, he seems compulsively driven to start swearing whenever I am on the phone to a constituent - which is really embarrassing. I have to keep explaining it away by pretending that he's the boiler repair man, and has no sense of decorum.
The Boss has also adopted his usual Recess practice of sneaking into the office early so that, by the time Greg and I arrive, he's already rifled through our desk drawers, and the fridge. The most outrageous aspect of this - at least as far as Greg's concerned - is that Andrew has helped himself to Greg's entire secret stash of Twixes, and has used up all the milk.
Greg gestures for me to join him in the corridor for an emergency meeting.
"God almighty, haven't you arranged anything for him to do?" he says.
"I tried," I say, "But bloody Carlotta wouldn't play ball. She even cleared space in his diary so he could spend more time in the office with us."
"Bloody woman. Wasn't winning the sodding World Cup enough for her?"
Greg is pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal, and I am desperate for a cigarette. Already.
"Well, you've got to do something. I can't stand this. I may have to kill him if you don't get rid of him soon." Greg almost looks capable of murder. He has an unhealthy dependency on chocolate.
Far be it from me to boast, but I do have an extraordinary ability to think creatively in an emergency.
"Go and find yesterday's local paper, then search through it for mentions of local organisations that are complaining about something, like lack of funding," I say.
"And?" Greg looks unimpressed.
"Then phone them up, and say The Boss has read about their plight, and is very interested in the valuable work they are doing in his constituency.
"And?"
"Say that he would very much like to come and see it for himself, and could he pop over today?"
"Brilliant!" says Greg, and sneaks off into the Party office to use their phone for his vital secret mission.
Half an hour later, he comes back, gives me the thumbs up, and says,
"Andrew, aren't you supposed to be at your meeting now?"
"What meeting?" Andrew finishes my sandwich in one very over-ambitious mouthful.
"The Phoenix Project in Easemount," says Greg. "Molly, didn't you tell him?"
"God, no. I forgot. Greg has the details, Andrew. Shall I call you a taxi?"
"No, I can drive," he says. "Just put their number into my mobile in case I get lost."
Whether The Boss can drive is a moot point, but the fact that he has the option must mean that he has finally talked Trish into letting him have the car keys back. (She is a very creative individual herself. You probably have to be to survive being married to Andrew.) A few weeks ago, she developed a well-founded fear that Andrew was going to get caught drink-driving and, mindful of the negative Press coverage that would ensue, she decided to take direct action.
While he was engaged in a medicinal drinking session after a particularly hostile GC*, she sneaked into the car park, and drove his car away. She texted me to tell me what she'd done, but I didn't tell him as I wanted to see what would happen when he went to drive home after the meeting. I expected him to come roaring back into the bar, shouting that his car had been stolen. But he didn't.
It turned out that he just looked around the car park for a bit, then gave up and took a taxi home. He obviously assumed that he was just too drunk to recall where he'd left the car, and that he'd remember once he sobered up. The whole story came out the next morning when, staggering downstairs on a quest for coffee and ibuprofen, he spotted the car parked in the driveway of his house. At that moment, he really didn't have a leg to stand on when Trish refused to give him the keys back. God knows how he's persuaded her to reinstate his driving privileges now.
So, due to my low cunning, we are blissfully Andrew-free for the next few hours, which means that I can finally get round to writing proper replies to today's letters, and Greg can spend his time arranging visits to other local organisations. By the end of the afternoon,The Boss is booked up for a good chunk of the rest of this week, and half of the next one too - thank God.
Just before I leave the office, Mrs Cowan phones to apologise that her husband hasn't yet got round to signing his Data Protection form. She says she'll make sure he does it tonight, and that she'll drop it off to me tomorrow morning. Then she bursts into tears, and says that they are now being chased for mortgage arrears, as it appears that their bank hasn't even been honouring those payments.
Honestly, those bankers are such shits. Not that I'm in any position to criticise - spending all my time fretting about not being able to afford a hotel room for a dirty weekend. I need a slap.
*GC - General Committee meeting, as usual.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Greg's Helpful Contribution to International Relations
I was too cross about what happened when Greg and I went out last night to write about it at the time, not to mention too tired. I'm still really pissed off with him, though he is looking a bit shamefaced this morning, not to mention very hungover.
I feel surprisingly alert, though, which I can only ascribe to the adrenalin that went pounding through my body while we were being thrown out of the restaurant.
Suffice to say that now we are banned from The Star of India because Greg decided it would be funny to order an "Osama Balti" and a "Semtex Surprise."
God knows how we escaped with our lives. I was so embarrassed - and that's my favourite Indian too. Now I can't ever go there again, thanks to bloody Greg, who spent the rest of last night in a collapsed state on the couch in our living room, demanding to know how "any ordinary, educated, hardworking family" like mine could manage without Imodium in the medicine cabinet.
Luckily, Max was finding Greg funny. I wasn't, which is why I went to bed in disgust. I knew we shouldn't have had all that gin before we arrived at the restaurant.
Greg's being no help at all today, either, even though we're so behind on our work now, that it's going to be a nightmare trying to catch up. I do wish that TheyWorkForYou.com would acknowledge that, sometimes, delays in responding to constituents are unavoidable. Recording our response times is so horribly unforgiving.
Maybe I'll write to them and suggest that they start taking account of some of the challenges we face before they give us our ratings. After all, I bet even they couldn't write letters while being hosed down in a public place.
Honestly, I can't believe I thought this week was going to be bearable. It was next week I was dreading, when the full horror of Recess will be upon us but, now, joining Mr Ellis in a sky-dive is becoming more and more appealing - if he ever gets round to throwing himself off the multi-storey car park, that is.
Come to think of it, I probably should have suggested that he try a practice run while the bouncy castle was still there to provide a nice soft landing. Which is more than Greg got when the owner of The Star Of India pushed him out of the door last night.
I feel surprisingly alert, though, which I can only ascribe to the adrenalin that went pounding through my body while we were being thrown out of the restaurant.
Suffice to say that now we are banned from The Star of India because Greg decided it would be funny to order an "Osama Balti" and a "Semtex Surprise."
God knows how we escaped with our lives. I was so embarrassed - and that's my favourite Indian too. Now I can't ever go there again, thanks to bloody Greg, who spent the rest of last night in a collapsed state on the couch in our living room, demanding to know how "any ordinary, educated, hardworking family" like mine could manage without Imodium in the medicine cabinet.
Luckily, Max was finding Greg funny. I wasn't, which is why I went to bed in disgust. I knew we shouldn't have had all that gin before we arrived at the restaurant.
Greg's being no help at all today, either, even though we're so behind on our work now, that it's going to be a nightmare trying to catch up. I do wish that TheyWorkForYou.com would acknowledge that, sometimes, delays in responding to constituents are unavoidable. Recording our response times is so horribly unforgiving.
Maybe I'll write to them and suggest that they start taking account of some of the challenges we face before they give us our ratings. After all, I bet even they couldn't write letters while being hosed down in a public place.
Honestly, I can't believe I thought this week was going to be bearable. It was next week I was dreading, when the full horror of Recess will be upon us but, now, joining Mr Ellis in a sky-dive is becoming more and more appealing - if he ever gets round to throwing himself off the multi-storey car park, that is.
Come to think of it, I probably should have suggested that he try a practice run while the bouncy castle was still there to provide a nice soft landing. Which is more than Greg got when the owner of The Star Of India pushed him out of the door last night.
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Impending Horror and the Caring Buddhist Approach to Life and Death.
I am too depressed to even think about work. I have just realised that there are only twenty-one days left until Recess. Twenty-one days! I can't even be bothered to explain the significance and true horror that Recess signifies to constituency staff now, though no doubt I'll revisit the subject nearer the time. If I haven't thrown myself off a tall building. (I could join Mr Ellis, invite The Boss and make it a media event.)
I am also feeling riddled with guilt about my attitude to Mum - if not quite so bad about Dad. Turns out that idiot brother Robin bought Mum a book on preparing for death for her birthday. Is he quite mad? As if that isn't bad enough, she phones tonight to tell me that he has suggested that he and she go to Paris together this summer, so that Robin - and I quote - "will have something to remember [her] by." No wonder she's been so obsessed with her buttocks and eyelids. I must try to be more sympathetic - as long as I don't make the mistake of carrying that over into my working life. (That way lies madness.) And I must kill "caring Buddhist" Robin. Why are supposedly sensitive people so unbelievably crass when it comes to other people's feelings?
Talking of other people's feelings, I am still feeling horribly guilty about Johnny and the arse photo, especially as his emails have become a lot more frequent this last few days. Think it's 'cause I still haven't agreed to make arrangements for him to see my arse in the flesh. He can't possibly be concentrating on his job very well - so we'll probably hear about a giant oil spill in Russia soon, if this keeps up. Then I'll be to blame, when all those poor Russian fish die and the fishermen starve. Mind you, it is nice to be treated as someone attractive, instead of just a wife, mother and - worst of all - a very poor substitute for an MP. I rather like that last phrase. It is open to a number of different interpretations, which of course suggests that I have learned more from my years at the dull end of politics than I had previously thought. Robin could learn a lot from me, if he stopped chanting and preparing Mum for death and started listening.
I am also feeling riddled with guilt about my attitude to Mum - if not quite so bad about Dad. Turns out that idiot brother Robin bought Mum a book on preparing for death for her birthday. Is he quite mad? As if that isn't bad enough, she phones tonight to tell me that he has suggested that he and she go to Paris together this summer, so that Robin - and I quote - "will have something to remember [her] by." No wonder she's been so obsessed with her buttocks and eyelids. I must try to be more sympathetic - as long as I don't make the mistake of carrying that over into my working life. (That way lies madness.) And I must kill "caring Buddhist" Robin. Why are supposedly sensitive people so unbelievably crass when it comes to other people's feelings?
Talking of other people's feelings, I am still feeling horribly guilty about Johnny and the arse photo, especially as his emails have become a lot more frequent this last few days. Think it's 'cause I still haven't agreed to make arrangements for him to see my arse in the flesh. He can't possibly be concentrating on his job very well - so we'll probably hear about a giant oil spill in Russia soon, if this keeps up. Then I'll be to blame, when all those poor Russian fish die and the fishermen starve. Mind you, it is nice to be treated as someone attractive, instead of just a wife, mother and - worst of all - a very poor substitute for an MP. I rather like that last phrase. It is open to a number of different interpretations, which of course suggests that I have learned more from my years at the dull end of politics than I had previously thought. Robin could learn a lot from me, if he stopped chanting and preparing Mum for death and started listening.
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