Poetry In Motion, Or In Letters To Constituents, Anyway.

Oh, my God. How did I forget that the County Council were planning to send out the notifications of secondary school places yesterday? If I'd remembered, I'd have taken today off to avoid the fall-out - on the quite legitimate  basis that I am already suffering from PTSD as a result of last night's poetry reading.

Traumatic isn't a strong enough word for that experience, actually - and I have no idea what happened to Greg once that poet he fancies, Jessica Something-Or-Other, approached the microphone.

First, he started behaving as if he was Lord Byron, waving his arms around and getting as pissed as a fart; and then he committed the heinous sin of calling for seemingly-endless encores, until I had to point out that I'd be forced to kill him if he caused me to have to listen to any more poems about rodents in the wild.

"I like animals," he said. "They're all God's creatures, after all."

"So are constituents," I said, "Allegedly - but we don't encourage them. And why are you talking as if you've become a latter-day saint?"

"Jessica thinks I'm a nice person," he said. "And I don't want to disillusion her. So there'll be no swearing or abuse of minority groups while she's around, okay?"

Seeing as those particular activities are Greg's forte, rather than mine, I had no control over whether they took place anyway, but he went on to prove as good as his word. Which made for a very long evening indeed.

I'm a bit worried that Greg won't have recovered from his transformation into Renaissance Man when I arrive at work this morning, but luckily, he seems to have reverted to type and goes on to spend the whole day swearing about the number of letters and phone-calls we receive from parents complaining about the schools to which their children have been allocated.

Well, not the whole day - but most of it, anyway - apart from when he's writing Greg and Jessica all over his notepad. His brains have definitely been addled by love and, as if that wasn't quite bad enough, now he's decided that he has an aptitude for poetry, too.

"Listen to this, Mol!" he says, while chewing on a mouthful of Haribos.

"Do I have to?" I say. "I'm trying to write these bloody letters about school places. And you're supposed to be doing half of them."

"I am," says Greg. "But mine are much better than yours, not least because mine have rhythm."

He swallows hard and then stands up, climbs onto his desk, and clears his throat.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"Centering myself," he says, taking a deep breath before beginning to declaim:

"Dear Acting Head of Education,
I put to you a complication:
Charlotte doesn't want to go
To Easemount High - because it's so
Full of scary Chav mutations,
It fails to meet Mum's expectations."

I stare at Greg in silence, until he says,

"What's up? There's going to be a second verse, but I haven't finished that yet. I did well to get the word 'mutations' in, though - didn't I? What d'you think of it so far?"

"It's incredible," I say. Which, like most MPs' staff, I find to be a useful, multi-purpose word.

The Curious Incident Of The Chocolate Brownie, And The Definition Of A Happy Marriage

Gah. I'm sure Greg's concussion isn't as bad as he claims, but he says the room keeps spinning around whenever he talks to one of the usual suspects. I thought that was normal but, anyway, he goes home again mid-morning and leaves me stuck in the office with Vicky - who seems to think I have turned into Irma Kurtz.

"Molly," she says. "How long have you and Max been married?'

"Centuries," I say. "Why?"

Vicky starts inspecting her nails. I do wish she wouldn't do that, as they put me right off my brunch. No-one's nails are supposed to be square at the ends.

"Do you think Andrew and Trish are happily married?" she says, while wielding that annoying buffer thing.

"Yes," I say. "Of course they are. Though I'm not sure how you assess what happily means, now I come to think of it. But why do you want to know about The Boss' marriage, anyway?"

"No reason," she says. "Just curious, that's all."

Huh - I think we all know what that means, so I don't enquire any further. I don't want to be burdened with anyone's guilt apart from my own. It's very bad for the psyche, let alone the blood pressure.

"I assume you wouldn't say you were happily married?" I say to Johnny, when I email him later in the day.

"Yes, I would," he says, which comes as a bit of a shock.

"So what are you doing having a virtual affair with me, then?" I ask.

"That's the bit that makes my marriage happy," he says. "Obviously. I do wish you'd keep up sometimes."

I'm not at all sure I follow his logic, but I'm reluctant to appear too stupid, so I let it go. And, anyway, I've got more important things to do - like asking the Coroner to hurry up and establish the cause of death of a woman of forty-five, who only went into hospital for a routine operation.

She had three children, and her husband tells me that he's convinced that she died from dehydration, but that the Coroner's apparently still waiting for the hospital to provide some missing notes. It's already taken months, and the poor man can't even bury his beloved wife. He starts to cry while he's on the phone and, although I rack my brains, I can't think of anything to say to make him stop.

That sort of case really puts things into perspective, though - or, at least, it does until I get home, and make the mistake of asking Max whether he thinks we are happily married. I'm hoping he'll say something to suggest he'd be bereft without me, but he doesn't.

"I'm not clear what you mean, Mol," he says. "Sometimes I'm happy, and sometimes I'm not. Isn't that how it is for everyone?"

"Don't ask me," I say. "I have trouble keeping up - apparently. Though what is the thing that makes you happy when you are? Or should I say which person?"

Max gives me a funny look, and I suddenly wish that I had nails worth contemplating.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "As usual. And are you still going to that poetry reading thing?"

"Yes - seeing as Greg says he's now recovered, and the girl he fancies is going to be reading her poems. It's bound to be bloody awful, but I promised I'd go with him because he says I'm better at arty-farty conversation then he is," I say. "Shit, is that the time? I've got to leave in ten minutes."

"Yes," says Max. "But the meal's not ready, so you'd better grab a snack."

I throw a slice of ham between two pieces of dry bread, and pop a gherkin left over from Christmas on top for good measure. I'm quite impressed with my creativity, but Max looks completely appalled.

"Molly, is that really the best you can do?" he says. "You didn't even put any butter in that sandwich. No wonder you're so skinny - your attitude to food sucks."

"Thanks," I say, chewing furiously. "I'd love to have a foodie conversation but, tragically, I've got to go. Where are the car keys? In your pocket?"

I rummage around in his jacket, marvelling at all the random drill bits, receipts and losing lottery tickets he carries around - until I try the breast pocket, and my hand sinks into something soft and slimy.

"Yuck," I say, pulling my hand out and peering at the revolting brown slime coating the ends of my fingers. "What the bloody hell is that?"

"Home-made chocolate brownie," says Max. "Bambi - sod it, I mean Gemma - brought it into work for me today."

And we all know what they say about the way to a man's heart being through food, don't we? Now Vicky's not the only one who's curious about the state of someone's marriage. I hope there's no love poetry this evening, or I may struggle to applaud.