Caught In The Fall-Out From The News Of The World Affair. Somehow Or Other.

Thank you so much, Rupert Murdoch. I am trying to enjoy my holiday.

I'm having a lie-in, in an attempt to amass as much beauty sleep as possible before Sunday night's school reunion, when Greg sends me a text, which I don't read.

Instead, I text him back:

"If this is about work, I don't want to know."

"It's an important message from The Boss," he says. "To tell you that he told you so."

Oh, God. Apparently, Andrew's decided that, if all these other people's phones were hacked, then his definitely must have been - as he's been claiming all along.

"He says that, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean that the bastards aren't out to get you," says Greg, when I get fed up of texting, and call to speak to him instead.

"Usually, it just means you're mad," I say. "Feel free to tell him so."

I don't know what's got into me. Ever since those few hours Max and I spent on Chesil Beach, work doesn't seem to have the same importance. Or appeal - if appeal is something it ever had.

"Couldn't we just sell everything, buy a camper van, and bugger off?" I ask Max, when he joins me at the table for breakfast.

"And live on what?" he says.

"Well, we're not doing too well at that, anyway," I say. "Not on my salary alone, since you stopped working."

Max gives me such a filthy look that I almost choke on my coffee.

"I didn't stop working," he says. "I was made redundant. Just like the staff at The News Of The World. That's what happens in the private sector. Moaning about pensions is a luxury only public servants can afford."

"It's no fun being a struggling pensioner like me," says Dad, putting aside his latest Thai travel brochure.

I decide the time is ripe to make yet another trip to Tesco. Preferably by myself.

When I get there, I spend ages wandering around the store, looking at the vast range of stuff they sell - and trying not to think about whether there'll be any other shops left for Max to work in if Tesco carry on like this.

By the time I've checked out their stock of stationery, clothes and electrical products, it's almost lunch-time. According to Dad, anyway. Routine becomes very important once you're retired.

I'd better text him to warn him I'm going to be late. That'll be so much easier than phoning him, and letting him give me the third degree.

"In a very long queue. Be about twenty minutes. Don't worry about my lunch. Will cook something when I get back."

I know the queue thing is a lie, but I do work for an MP, don't forget. Sometimes, telling the truth is highly inadvisable.

I drive back to Dad's house as quickly as I can, but it's almost 1:40pm by the time I arrive. And Dad is really not amused.

"Where the hell have you been?" he says. "Your egg on toast is nearly ruined."

He and I obviously do not define the word "nearly" in the same way. I have never eaten anything like that, in my life.

"I told you not to cook me anything," I say, chewing and chewing, but unable to swallow. "In the text I sent you earlier."

"No, you didn't," says Dad. "You just said you were in a queue."

No-one likes to be accused of lying about the thing they weren't lying about. I get out my phone, to show Dad what my message actually said.

He reads it, but doesn't give in.

"I only got the first sentence of that," he says, passing me his phone as evidence. "Look!"

I open the message, and there are all my sentences, as clear as day.

"Huh?" says Dad, when I point them out. "Where did all those come from?"

"I just scrolled down," I say.

"Scrolled down?"

Dad's unimpressed when I can't stop laughing - even after I've explained what scrolling is.

"I don't like using a mobile," he says. "Not to you, anyway."

"Why?" I say.

"Because journalists will be able to read everything I write," he says. "Seeing as you're bound to have been hacked, what with who you work for."

He'll never understand the relative unimportance of an opposition back-bencher, no matter how many times I try to explain. He's got even more in common with The Boss than I thought.

The Smell Of Sacred Cows Burning, Or Why You Should Always Look On The Bright Side Of (Public Sector) Life.

I feel positively geriatric. Not only is the final landing of the Discovery space shuttle shown on tonight's news, but I recall watching its first-ever launch. And why does everyone keep talking about retirement?

"What's your pension like?" says Max this morning, as we leave the house. Late, because we've overslept again.

"God knows," I say. "Probably rubbish, seeing as the House of Commons have changed their minds about the provider at least three times since I started work."

"Well, it could be worse," says Max. "You could work in the Private Sector - like me."

Aargh. I've spent hours over the last few weeks listening to constituents complaining about their pensions, from every possible angle. Those who have got Public Sector pensions are furious at proposals to make them less generous; while those who haven't are enraged by the notion of the former's entitlement to final salary pay-outs. Not to mention by the statistics on relative pay across both groups.

Honestly, casework has such a nasty habit of making you question sacred cows, not that this is the moment to start having yet another existential crisis about my political beliefs. Better just to carry on as if Max hadn't even mentioned the Private Sector. 

"Well, never mind about that," I say. "Seeing as you were really asking about my pension. Let's just say that the definition of 'actively managed' means different things to different people."

In the olden days when I first started working for The Boss, the House of Commons gave MPs a list of 'approved providers' that their staff's pensions contributions could be paid into. All pretty simple, except that, almost as soon as my pension was set up, the company running it was bought out.

My scheme was closed to new entrants, and a crash and burn approach was adopted towards those of us who were stuck in the damn thing; so the only benefit to arise from that experience was an increased ability to empathise with all the constituents who've been affected by the Equitable Life debacle. Not that empathy has proved to be of much comfort to anyone so far.

After that, the *HOC had the bright idea of allowing staff to choose their own stakeholder pensions - so I took advice from the union, who organised for me to join a new scheme. It was a bit of a pain having two pensions statements to try to decipher - seeing as I am clueless about anything financial - but at least the new provider didn't seem quite as determined to lose all my money as the original one was.

Problem therefore neatly solved - for all of a year - until those idiots in the *Fees Office decided that too many MPs' staff were still not bothering to set up their pensions. This was blamed, not on the terminal apathy of the staff involved, but on the system being too demanding for them to cope with. (Which rather begs the question of whether they were fit to work for MPs in the first place, but I suppose that's a different story.)

Anyway, the result was the creation of the Portcullis Pension Plan, which meant I had to move my contributions yet again - a nightmare that took absolutely months. (Though it presumably wasn't considered as demanding a process as simply getting off your arse and signing up for one of the earlier pension plans would have been - unless I'm just bitter. Which I might be.)

And I bet this won't be the end of it, either - but I do wish they'd just leave our pensions well alone. By now I have absolutely no idea where I'll stand when I retire, because I can't make head nor tail of all the letters I get from different pension providers, except that the word 'growth' seems to be conspicuous by its absence from all of them. I bet George Osborne knows exactly how I feel.

So I'm not feeling too guilty about my supposedly fool-proof public sector pension by the time I get around to explaining it to Max. Who'll probably have left me by the time I can claim it, anyway - due to the beard, if nothing else.

"All I know is that the original pension is now worth less than a tenth of what it was at the end of my first year in the job," I say. "So I wouldn't exactly count on it to fund any trips to Thailand. Or even to Sainsbury's, for that matter."

Max looks horrified - which is a particularly unflattering facial expression that I'm starting to get used to, ever since his boss sent out the redundancy notices.

"Well, what on earth are we going to do if I don't get a job in one of the other stores, then?" he says. "If I end up unemployed at my age, I might never work again. I'll probably be featured in a Panorama programme in ten years' time, hugely obese and eating a McDonalds while watching The Jeremy Kyle Show."

Now there's something to look forward to. Honestly, it's getting harder and harder to follow Mum's edict to always look on the bright side of life. Especially when Max and I seem to have spent the last two days talking about nothing but pensions. Where the hell's the romance in that?

I'm actually quite relieved when I arrive at work, for once - even though the first caller is Richard Bloody Levinson. At least he provides a change of subject.

"Did you see that bloke from the Police on TV last night - moaning about bonuses being cut?' he says. "Why do people get bonuses just for doing their bloody jobs? And they're paid more than firemen! These people make me sick. Join the real world, that's what I say."

By which he means the world of The Daily Telegraph, but never mind. I can cope with anything today, as long as it doesn't involve the dreaded P word.

I make a non-committal grunt, partly so as not to interrupt Richard's train of thought, and partly to allow me to swallow the Haribos Greg's just given me for breakfast.

"And as for these other public sector workers demanding no change to their ruddy gold-plated pensions, don't even get me started on them," he says. "Which includes you and your lot, I suppose. What's the matter with you all? Don't you even know how lucky you are?"

"Um, yes," I say. Which Mum would be very pleased about. I can almost hear her humming the tune.



*HOC - House of Commons, as usual.
*Fees Office - House of Commons Department of Finance & Administration. Used to be responsible for payment of salaries and allowances etc, which functions are now the role of IPSA

I Needed That Like A Hole In The Head. Despite Claims To The Contrary.

Oh, my God. Well, that gold star-induced sense of well-being was short-lived. I have just seen inside someone's head! Not telepathically, by virtue of The Twilight Zone theme, but literally! (This over-use of exclamation marks is perfectly justifiable, as will become only too clear.)

Honestly, if I'd wanted to be a brain surgeon, I'd have made far more effort to pass Biology when I was at school, instead of just concentrating during sex education. But does my disinterest stop Mr Lawson? No, it does not. I have never met such a nutter in my life. And that is really saying something.

Surgery's going quite well today, changes to Child Benefit and public sector pensions notwithstanding - until he comes in. He's never contacted us before, so this is the first time I've met him. I bloody well hope it's the last, as well.

"I want to talk to you about mental health," he says, as he sits down.

"Ah," says The Boss. "And what about mental health, exactly?"

"The professionals' unwillingness to use tried and tested methods to alleviate people's misery."

This sounds interesting. Maybe there's something in it for me? I could occasionally do with some cheering up, so I start paying attention.

"Did you have anything specific in mind?" I ask.

This proves to be absolutely the worst thing I could have said. Mr Lawson smiles - a bit like a crocodile, slowly and with definite menace - then he pulls off his hat, leans forward so that his head is almost touching my notepad, and says,

"This!"

"What?" I say. I can only see greying hair and a smattering of dandruff.

"This," he says again, parting his hair to reveal what looks like a small hole.

Now Andrew's the one who's interested, while I have lost all desire to find out anything more, thank you very much.

"Is that a hole?" he says.

Mr Lawson nods, which makes me flinch - Christ, bits of his brain will probably fly out and spatter me if he doesn't stop doing that. This is horrible.

"Have you had brain surgery, then?" says Andrew.

Honestly, can't he tell Mr Lawson to put his bloody hat back on, instead of encouraging him? I am starting to feel sick - the same as I did when I was made to dissect a cow's eyeball in class. (The damned thing definitely jumped when I cut through the optic nerve, no matter what Miss Rosen claimed at the time. It nearly gave me a heart attack.)

"In a manner of speaking," says Mr Lawson. "Ever heard of trepanning*?"

"Good God," says The Boss. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely,"  says Mr Lawson. "Can't recommend it highly enough."

So now I am supposed to write a letter on his behalf, asking why the NHS doesn't offer trepanning to those suffering from mental health conditions. Honestly, the world is going mad. Which is not a recommendation for Mr Lawson's bloody solution.

I'm starting to wonder if he didn't have completely the wrong idea about the purpose of a constituency surgery. I'm probably lucky my head's still hole-free, though I really can't vouch for Andrew's.


*Trepanning - explanation here. I think. I couldn't bear to read it all, and am definitely not recommending it.