A Matter of Eggs And Death, And A Joke Turns Very Sour Indeed.

"Am I always right, or am I always right?" says Greg, as he walks into the office this morning.

"About what?" I say, though I'm not really paying attention.

I'm too busy trying to gauge whether the latest parcel sent by a local animal rights activist contains a bomb. (You wouldn't believe how many of them put their correct addresses on the packaging, though this is by no means a guarantee that the contents will prove to be innocuous.)

"Metal-framed glasses," says Greg. "Only ever worn by serial killers and paedophiles."

"Not always," I say, thinking of Johnny's eyewear and hoping Greg is wrong. "And anyway, you said they had to have a double bar across the nose to qualify. Now shut up for a minute - I'm trying to see if this makes a noise when I shake it."

Greg gives me a pitying look, then snatches the parcel from my hands, rushes to the doorway and says,

"Get under your desk!"

It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, before realising how unwise this is. As I stand back up, I see Greg throw the parcel - overarm - as far as he can down the corridor, where Vicky trips over it as she exits the lift. She jumps, but only from surprise.

"Safe," says Greg, retrieving the package and tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette. "Unlike people who wear those glasses. I knew that Tabak bloke had murdered Jo Yeates as soon as I saw his specs."

"You also knew that her landlord had done it when you saw his hair," I say. "So you'll forgive me if I don't always think you're right. Though thank God you were about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up."

"That's because he's an idiot," says Vicky, as she pushes past Greg on her way to the Oprah Room. He sticks his tongue out at her as she slams the door, then lowers his voice and says,

"You'd already ripped the corner of the paper, Mol - so I could see the plastic casing before I threw it."

He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. Wonders will never cease, and I'm about to make a sarcastic remark to that effect when an email pops into my in-box. From Johnny, wanting to confirm when we're meeting on Wednesday, and whether I've booked my rail ticket to London yet.

"Oh, shit," I say. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

"Expressive - but a bit repetitive," says Greg, putting a mug of coffee down on my desk. "Where's the thesaurus gone?"

"I told The Boss to take it with him," I say. "To find an alternative to saying he's had an 'interesting meeting' whenever he updates that wretched blog of his. Gave him the dictionary and a local map too - after he mis-spelled the names of half the parishes in his last post. And, anyway, shit is the only word that sums up what I've gone and done."

"Oh, shit," says Greg, when I've finished explaining that I've just realised that I don't have any money to get to London, or to pay for anything when I'm there. Which rather proves my point.

I bang my head on the desk several times, while Greg thinks aloud - which doesn't take long, and isn't very effective either.

"Well, Johnny's loaded," he says. "So just get him to pay for everything. He won't mind. He's maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look a mess."

"Thanks," I say. "And, anyway, I can't do that. What do you think I am?"

"Stupid," says Greg. "What's the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don't get any money out of it?"

"Or any sex," I say, before reverting to banging my head again. "Why aren't MPs' staff paid until the very last day of the bloody month?"

If I worked for Northwick Council, I'd have been paid days ago, and then this wouldn't have been such a problem. Except that actually it would, because Max has worked out we're not going to have any money even after we've both been paid. And the bank is hardly likely to lend me any, is it? Not when they've got all those bloody bonuses to pay.

"They like to make us suffer," says Greg. "And I'm broke 'til payday too, so I can't lend you any either - sorry, Mol. What are you going to do?"

"Lie," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. "I shall have to tell Johnny I've been struck down with a mystery illness at the last minute. Or, rather, you'll have to do it for me. I'm terrible at lying."

Thank God Johnny has to come to the UK this week anyway. I'd feel even more awful about the whole thing if he was only flying over to see me but, as he isn't, I'm hoping he'll forgive me. Not that this is very likely if Greg doesn't get a grip.

He says he hasn't had this much fun in ages, and spends the next few hours drafting a series of ever more unlikely explanations, finally settling upon one in which I am to be hospitalised after opening a parcel bomb containing non-free range eggs.

"And the beauty of this idea is that you won't be able to communicate with Johnny until you're released," he says. "Because you will be deaf from the blast, and won't be able to text or type due to the fragments of eggshell that have lodged behind your eyeballs."

I look at him in amazement, which he mis-reads as approval. (Which often happens with mad constituents, too.)

"This is where my expertise in horror films comes in useful," he says.

"Or your fondness for Wallace and Gromit," I say. "Sounds about as credible as A Matter of Loaf and Death."

Greg gives me a reproachful look.

"I thought you said it was," he says. "And beggars can't be choosers. Are we going with this idea or not?"

"No," I say. "Try and think of something a little more Gromit, and a little less Wallace. The man's a bumbling idiot."

Greg sighs, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed yet again, and run over to kick it back to life.

"You really should have more respect, Molly," he says. "Both for me, and for Wallace. He is our leader, after all."

I can't help laughing, but I stop as soon as I get an email from Johnny about events at Moscow's Domodedovo Airport.

"I only meant for you to get blown up, Mol," says Greg, who has gone a very funny shade of green.

I can't think of anything at all to say in response.

A Highly-Incompetent Ninja Pays The Price.

Oh, great. Max and I go into town, more for a wander than to shop, as we are broke until payday. We leave Connie and Josh at home, arguing desultorily about whether university is a waste of time.

Max says that maybe we should try and arrange something for next weekend, and suggests we ask David and Susie if we can borrow their holiday cottage. Just the two of us. I have no idea what brought this on, but I'm thrilled - especially as it is entirely Max's own idea, and not the result of furious hinting.

If anything is likely to result in sex, this is it. Being twenty miles away from the kids would mean there'd be no possibility of being interrupted by one of them wanting us to rule on a stupid argument.

"Phone David now," I say. "Quick, before you change your mind!"

"Why would I change my mind?" says Max.

"Oh, I don't know. But something always crops up and then we end up doing nothing," I say. Max gives me a hug and picks up his phone.

David and Susie must be out on the razzle somewhere, as David's phone goes straight to answerphone. Max is about to hang up, but after a lot of nudging from me, he leaves a message asking if we can borrow the house. Yaay! I am so happy I am almost skipping as we start to make our way home. When we come out on the other side of the underpass, Max's phone rings. God, can that be David, already?

"You what?" says Max. There is a barely discernable note of panic in his voice. "He's done what?"

I stick my head up close to his, and can just make out Connie's voice - which is pitched rather higher than usual.

"Well, don't move him," says Max. "We're almost home." He breaks into a run. I follow suit - but he's too fast for me. When I get inside the house, Josh is lying on the floor, half inside the living room and half in the hall. He looks distinctly green, and is uncharacteristically quiet. Max is examining him.

"So what happened, Con?" he says.

"He was getting really stroppy about students, so I told him to piss off and leave me alone," says Connie.

"And?" Max is not looking amused.

"Well, he wouldn't." Connie's chin is sticking out - as it always does when she feels under attack.

"You thumped me," says Josh. (Thank God for that - at least he's capable of speech.)

"Not hard! And anyway, it was your bloody fault what happened." Connie is furious.

"Look," says Max, in a very uncharacteristically assertive way, "Josh's arm is blue - so we need to get him to A&E. I'll get the car."

As he heads for the door, I say, "What d'you think he's done?"

"I think he could have broken his arm and the bone might be cutting into his blood supply."

"Oh Christ," I say, and sit down on the stairs.

"Get his coat and a blanket, and I'll bring the car round," says Max. "And you can stay here while I take him to the hospital. You'll just wind him up if you come, 'cause you look so damned worried."

Gah. I deal with stressful situations every day of the week - why does my husband think I am useless in an emergency?

"I'm coming," I say. "Connie, you can cook dinner while we're gone. I'll phone you when we know what's wrong."

I'm not sure, but I could swear Connie says, "Serves him right," as Max and I manhandle Josh to the car.

We wait for hours in A&E. Josh perks up a bit while he's waiting, but he won't tell us any more about what happened. He sits there muttering,

"Connie's just so f*cking annoying."

He finally gets to see a doctor, who orders an X-Ray, but not before he has asked Josh to explain how the accident happened. Max and I look at him expectantly. Josh says nothing, and just hangs his head.

"Go on, tell him," says Max. "We're all waiting to hear this."

"Well, it's my sister, you see," Josh says to the doctor. "She's just really, really annoying."

"And?" says the doctor.

"She wanted me to go away, so she thumped me."

"What - hard enough to break your arm?" says the doctor. "What is she, some sort of prize-fighter?"

"No-o," says Josh. "I tried to kick her back -"

"Ah," says Max. "What sort of kick, exactly?"

"Well, a roundhouse kick, of course," says Josh, the family ninja.

"So why are you here in A&E with a possibly broken arm, when you were the one who kicked your sister?" says the doctor.

"I missed," says Josh. Very quietly. I'll give the doctor his due, he didn't laugh out loud. Though I'm pretty sure he sniggered.


We finally get home really late. Josh's arm is in a sling to support it. It's not broken, but very badly bruised. The doctor says he has probably temporarily damaged some of the nerves and the blood vessels have been affected, hence the attractive blue colour. Connie gives him a big hug, which makes him wince, and then she says,

"How did you tell them you did it, bro?"

"Told 'em I bloody well kicked you," says Josh.

"And that you missed and fell over - onto your own arm?" says Connie. She's enjoying this far too much - but then so am I.

"I suppose so," says Josh. "Now can you get me a drink? You're going to have to wait on me until my arm's better. I'd better phone you on my mobile whenever I need something."

That wipes the smile off Connie's face pretty effectively. And mine, once it occurs to me that we can't possibly leave these two alone while we have a dirty weekend. They'd probably murder each other, through incompetence, if nothing else. Bang goes my chance of rejuvenating my sex-life. I do wish I'd seen Josh's flying kick, though. Funniest thing that's happened all week.