Updated Out Of Office - Molly Bennett, Constituency Office of Andrew Sinclair MP.

Thank you for your email addressed to Molly Bennett, Senior Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

Molly remains on leave, and will respond to your email upon her return to the office on Monday 21 February 2011. However, should your enquiry be urgent, please telephone her colleague, Gregory Duke, who will continue to pretend to be happy to help you.

Mr Duke wishes to re-emphasise that being short-staffed is leading to a delay in this office's usual ability to respond swiftly to enquiries, and therefore asks - yet again - that constituents take simple steps to minimise those problems which may lead them to feel that they have no option but to contact their MP.

The list below should hopefully serve as a reminder as to how this might be achieved, and includes some new suggestions:

1. Avoid reading newspapers, particularly The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mail and The Sun. 
2. Avoid watching Question Time; *PMQs, Panorama and Dispatches. 
3. Avoid reading LibDem campaign materials from the General Election 2010, especially those containing the word, "pledge".
4. Avoid unnecessary criminal activity.
5. If you are on prescribed medication, please take it - for once.
6. If you believe that your neighbours are stealing your electricity, please contact your supplier.
7. If you have replaced your vehicle with a horse and cart, remember to feed your horse and do not beat it in public.
8. Do not speed past the scenes of accidents, and keep a close eye out for policemen attending the scene, whether or not they are wearing high-visibility clothing.
9. If you wish to send us details showing how the world can be run using only water, please bear in mind that we already hold a large archive of such plans, none of which have yet been put into production.



*PMQs - Prime Ministers Questions. 

Out Of Office - Molly Bennett, Constituency Office of Andrew Sinclair MP.

Thank you for your email addressed to Molly Bennett, Senior Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

Molly is currently on leave, and will respond to your email upon her return to the office on Monday 14 February 2011. However, should your enquiry be urgent, please telephone her colleague, Gregory Duke, who will be less than happy to help you.

Mr Duke wishes to point out that being short-staffed may lead to a delay in this office's usual ability to respond swiftly to enquiries, and therefore asks that constituents take simple steps to minimise those problems which may lead them to feel that they have no option but to contact their MP.

The list below gives several suggestions as to how this might be achieved, but is by no means exhaustive:

1. Avoid reading newspapers, particularly The Daily Telegraph, The Daily Mail and The Sun. 
2. Avoid watching Question Time; *PMQs, Panorama and Dispatches.
3. Avoid reading LibDem campaign materials from the General Election 2010, especially those containing the word, "pledge."
4. Avoid unnecessary criminal activity.
5. If you are on prescribed medication, please take it - for once.

*PMQs - Prime Ministers Questions. 

Sleep Deprivation Due To Electoral Success. Not To Mention Michael Gove & Norman Lamb.

"Comrades - the fightback has begun!" says The Boss when he arrives this morning.

"Hrmph," says Greg who, like me, stayed up too late last night watching the election result from Oldham East and Saddleworth.

Andrew glares at him, so then Greg tries a bit harder. He punches the air, but so feebly that it comes across as camp, rather than triumphalist.

"You look like shit," says Andrew. Who doesn't look any better himself, but appears not to own a mirror.

I do, and I can confirm that I look the worst of all of us, which I ascribe not only to being knackered, but to the as-yet unresolved trauma of finding myself agreeing with Michael Gove during part of last night's Question Time.

I don't quite know what happened but, one minute he was spouting the usual pompous rubbish in that ghastly voice of his, and the next he'd turned into Pob the Evangelist. For a man who looks like a very cold fish indeed - probably because his adoptive father was something to do with them - I wasn't expecting such passion and intensity.

I suddenly found that I wished Josh's education had reflected Gove's vision, rather than what he actually got: an A-Level in Film Studies and a job at the cinema shovelling popcorn. Then I spent the next hour worrying that I was having a breakdown or some sort of secular crisis of faith, and I couldn't concentrate at all by the time the TV coverage of the election result finally started.

When it did, I couldn't believe who was on the panel. Nor could Max, who took one look and then said what he always says in these circumstances:

"Oh, God. Norman Bloody Lamb."

It's like Groundhog Day. The same series of questions always follow this initial statement. Every single time Norman appears on TV.

"Why the hell doesn't that man even have a house in his constituency?" Max says. "Does he think he's too good to live in the same place as the people he serves?"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" I say. "I don't know. I've never met the man, and I only heard about it from someone else - so don't shout at me."

Mind you, if I think Max's shouting is bad, I'd better keep my Michael Gove epiphany to myself, and hope it wears off when I've had a good night's sleep. The Boss would kill me if he heard about it - even though he's a product of the sort of education to which Gove was referring.

And I'm not likely to get much sleep again tonight. Unless it's due to a drunken coma.

"Drinks this evening to celebrate," says Andrew, once surgery finishes. "Seeing as we couldn't be there in Oldham last night. I'll meet you in the George at 7:00pm. Go and invite everyone in the Party office too, Molly. Make sure you include everyone who's in there."

Then he wanders off to a meeting with the local Patient Liaison group, taking Vicky with him. I don't bother to ask why, as I'm so glad to see the back of her. It's pretty obvious that she didn't stay up too late last night. Dewy skin and bright eyes are occasionally very annoying to behold.

Greg puts his head down on his desk as soon as the door closes behind them. Then he pretends to snore.

"Oh, God," I say. "I know how you feel. I really want an early night tonight. I had no idea what anyone was talking about during surgery, as I kept starting to doze off and then jerking awake just as my head dropped forward."

"I bet that was attractive," says Greg. "But we haven't got a choice, anyway. His Master's Voice has spoken so we've got to go to the pub."

He's right, of course. And just because we're tired doesn't mean that winning the election isn't very good news. As is Andrew's unusual behaviour.

"The Boss even said to invite everyone," I say. "Maybe that means he's finally stopped thinking that everyone in the Party's out to get him?"

"Oh, I don't think that's his motivation," says Greg. "Haven't you been into their office this week?"

"No," I say. "Why?"

"Go and see for yourself."

I haven't got time, though - so I make Greg go and deliver Andrew's message while I try to finish today's surgery letters. By the time I've finally posted them, he's asleep on the sofa in the Oprah Room, though I shall have to go and wake him up soon. It's almost 6:40pm now, and we'll have to leave for the pub in a minute.

I'll just see if concealer will hide the bags under my eyes a bit first, while Greg's not looking. And laughing. There's nothing worse than someone who thinks he's a comedian watching you try to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, after all. Except finding yourself agreeing with a very odd Tory by accident, of course.

Stress-Related Dyspraxia And A New-Found Empathy For Camilla.

God, I'm knackered, and I look like shit. I got so distracted by Question Time and then by reports of the attack on Charles and Camilla's car last night, that I forgot I'd left the entire contents of my wardrobe strewn all over the bed earlier in the evening.

At bedtime, Max took one look at the state of our room, and decided to sleep in Connie's. Again. Even after I'd stopped worrying about what that signified, I couldn't go to bed until I'd tried everything on, and put it away again, and I still didn't find anything I didn't look bloody awful in anyway.

Things don't get any better this morning when I oversleep as, by the time I get to work, The Boss is already there.

This is really bad news, as I like to prepare myself for our Friday encounters with plenty of coffee and some deep breathing, so I'm already feeling quite agitated as I tiptoe towards the Oprah Room, where he's sitting on the sofa and talking to someone on the phone.

Andrew's back is turned, and he doesn't seem to have heard me come in, so I stand in the doorway, waiting for him to finish.

"Well, I just think it would be easier to handle if you weren't here," he says. "I reckon she'll drop in again today."

Then he glances up at the window, spots my reflection in it, and almost drops the receiver. It's not very flattering, as he looks absolutely horrified to see me - though it is pretty much the same reaction as I get when I look in a mirror.

"Got to go," he says, to whoever he's talking to. "I'll call you later."

Then he hangs up, turns round, and glares at me.

"Problem?" I say. "Do you need me?"

"No," he says. "Haven't you got any work to be getting on with, instead of sneaking up on people?"

I pretend not to have heard him, and then stay out of his way for the rest of the morning. Greg doesn't follow my lead, but wishes he had when he takes Andrew a cup of coffee and gets no thanks for it.

"Ungrateful sod," he says. "Hope he burns his tongue. He's sulking because bloody Vicky's working from home, I suppose."

"Oh, so that's where she is," I say. "I did wonder. Every cloud has a silver lining, then."

Mind you, Vicky couldn't have been any less helpful than Greg is, when I ask him what he thinks I should wear to Max's works "do" this evening.

"You always look okay, Mol," he says. "And, anyway, the restaurant won't be brightly-lit. Just hide in the shadows and then you won't put people off their food."

"Very funny," I say, though I don't mean it.

God knows what has happened to me. I used to look forward to social occasions, but now they make me so anxious that I'm a mess for days beforehand. Today, I can't concentrate at all, and seem to have completely lost my ability to open the mail without shredding it with the letter-opener.

The incompetence doesn't end there and, by late afternoon, I'm covered in paper cuts, have managed to jam the printer three times, and shut my fingers in the filing cabinet. I'm still swearing about that when Trish comes into the office.

"Hi, Molly. Oh, and hello Greg," she says. "Isn't Victoria here?" I notice that her hands are clenched into fists.

I shake my head, but there's no time to explain as, at the sound of Trish's distinctive voice, Andrew comes hurtling out of the Oprah Room, and does a very exaggerated double-take at the sight of his wife.

"Trish!" he says."What a lovely surprise. Wasn't expecting to see you here."

Honestly, if there was an Oscar for hamming it up, he'd win hands down. Trish looks almost as unconvinced by it as I do, but neither of us says anything.

She perches on my desk while she waits for Andrew to get ready to leave.

"You okay, Molly?" she says. "You look awfully pale."

"Yes," I say. "It's just that I've got to go to Max's work Christmas dinner this evening, and I haven't got a clue what to wear."

Greg rolls his eyes in disgust, but Trish gets it straight away.

"Oh, God," she says, sympathetically. "I know exactly how you feel. Max works with almost as many young women as Andrew, doesn't he?"

"Yes," I say. " More. Though I've never thought about it like that before."

I'm still trying to stop thinking about the similarities when I get home from work, and now I've got less than half an hour to shower and get ready. Aargh. Can it be normal to be dreading a night out as much as this?

At the risk of sounding like Camilla before she quit, I think I need a quick gin and a cigarette. Especially as Max has just asked me what I think he should wear.

Animal Magic & The Unseen Postcode Lottery: An Impression of a Mad Constituent.

Thank God today is fairly quiet. The usual stuff about dog poo, violence on television and rejected lovers wanting their exes reported for tax or benefit fraud. The highlight is Miss Emms, who writes in to say this:

Dear Mr Sinclair,
I am writing to you to complain about my irresponsible and inconsiderate neighbours, who live in the flat beneath mine. They are always smoking cannabis, and the smoke seeps into my flat and is causing serious problems. I have eight guinea pigs, and exposure to this drug is affecting them psychologically. I don't know where else to turn, as my Housing Officer doesn't seem to be taking any notice, and the RSPCA aren't interested either.
Can you please do something to help my poor, defenceless animals?
Yours hopefully,
Janice Emms (Miss)

Greg spends an inordinate amount of time trying to emulate a psychotic guinea pig, and then tries to persuade me to write back and ask Miss Emms for further details. I don't want to encourage the poor woman, but he says he has decided to re-train as a guinea pig whisperer if The Boss ever sacks him, or fails to get re-elected next time around. I hand him Miss Emms' letter and tell him to do whatever he thinks best.

Apart from that, there are quite a few calls about Nick Clegg's series of ill-advised comments at PMQs* yesterday, including one person who wants to get PMQs repeated, this time "with someone who is authorised to speak on behalf of the Government at the dispatch box." No-one is more pleased about the Deputy PM's cock-ups than The Boss, who prefaces every call he makes to us today with "I'm speaking in a personal capacity." This quickly ceases to be amusing, and eventually I give up bothering to even pretend to be laughing. Not that that ever bothers him. He's just like Dad.

In the afternoon, Jen phones. It's the first time I've spoken to her in weeks, as she's been busy winding up*  her MP's office, as he lost his seat at the General Election. She sounds pretty low, and says that when she went to sign on for the first time, she was confronted by one of her office's usual suspects as soon as she walked into the Jobcentre. He was working there - as a security guard, for God's sake. She says he was one of their most violent and unpredictable constituents.

Jen's MP was replaced by a young guy with no experience of anything much, and she's already absolutely sick to death of receiving letters from constituents whose cases she used to handle, saying that they wrote to their new MP months ago and haven't had anything other than a holding reply since. It turns out that he hasn't even interviewed any prospective staff for his constituency office yet, and so the casework has just been piling up since May. Some of the cases are really urgent too - with pressing deadlines - and Jen says she can't help wondering if constituents would have been half so keen to elect a fresh face if they'd realised that this might mean that they had no effective advocate for the next few months. Meanwhile, there's nothing she can to do to help the people who'd come to depend on her and her old boss.

This starts me thinking about what the public expect from their MPs. It seems to me that the quality and type of service that constituents get is far more varied than they probably realise. If you went to any other agency operating in the public sector, you could at least be fairly sure that they they were all required to aim to deliver a broadly similar service - but, in the case of MPs, there really is a postcode lottery in operation. I've dealt with loads of different constituency offices over the years, whenever I've had to hand over or take up a case of a constituent who has moved area, and I've met a large number of staff at training courses too. I'm always amazed by the wide variations, both in the calibre of MPs' staff, and in what their MPs expect of them.

Some MPs' offices still seem to be staffed by their spouses, or other family members, or even their election agents - regardless of whether any of them have the necessary skills and experience to be effective as caseworkers. Other MPs provide as many highly-qualified staff as their staffing budget will allow.

There are the MPs who don't even bother to have a constituency office, but instead expect their constituents to phone them long-distance whenever they wish to raise an issue. Others won't even stoop to having a residence in their constituencies. And then there are those "caseworkers" who aren't anything of the sort, but are instead activists, illicitly being paid by the unwitting taxpayer to do party political work under cover of a non-political job title.

Even when an MP agrees to take up a constituent's case, the variations continue. How hard your MP fights on your behalf isn't only down to whether your case is perceived as valid or bonkers, but is also affected by what each MP has decided is an appropriate level of service to provide to his or her constituents. For example, if you live in X, you'll receive a copy of any letter your MP has written on your behalf, so that you can check what has been said about you and your case, and correct any errors. If you live in Y, you'll just be told that your MP has "raised the matter on your behalf." You'll have no idea whether he summarised your case accurately, or whether he even indicated that it was urgent.

Then, when the reply eventually arrives from the ministerial department, or the relevant agency, it's often quite dismissive in the first instance. If you live in Y, you'll probably just get sent a copy with a compliment slip, and that'll be the end of your MP's caseworker's efforts on your behalf. If you live in X, though, your caseworker will have taken the time to study the details of your case at the outset, will have decided what is achievable and will immediately recognise an unsatisfactory response. He or she will continue to argue your case for as long as it takes to reach a successful outcome. I am one of the X types - not that you'd know it from my pay packet - and so is Greg, even though he can be such a f*ckwit. I am quite sure that our X status has something to do with The Boss' otherwise mysterious ability to keep bucking electoral predictions and getting re-elected.

As if all that inconsistency isn't quite bad enough, there is no set frequency for surgeries, no standard time for dealing with constituents' enquiries, and the chaos in some offices has to be seen to be believed. One MP's office manager told me recently - and with apparent pride - that her office deals with all correspondence in "strict date order." She seemed to think this was praiseworthy in its egalitarian idealism, and had no idea how to respond when I asked her how on earth this affected constituents whose problems were urgent or subject to deadlines. God knows how often the worst is already happening to some constituents while she and her staff are still sorting out dog poo and psychologically-damaged guinea pigs for the others. I have a recurring vision of letters bearing the HOC* crest dropping onto the doormats of empty houses whose occupants have been deported, evicted or murdered by their dangerous spouses, all because of smug dingbats like her.

I rant about this for so long this afternoon that first Greg says that I have officially turned into a mad constituent, and then he suggests that I contact Working For An MP to suggest that they employ me to tour the country training all the new MPs and their staff. He's joking, but I think it's a pretty good idea - especially if I could go on tour during Recess.

I am so distracted by this very attractive notion that, before I know it, it's time to go home - before I've even replied to Johnny's latest email, which offers a virtual massage amongst other equally-pleasant suggestions. Having just woken up from a drool-inducing snooze on the sofa, I plan to watch Question Time, and then to take him up on his offer - if Max doesn't offer a real-world alternative, of course.

*PMQs - Prime Minister's Questions, as usual - except that this one was taken by the Deputy Prime Minister, Nick "Calamity" Clegg.
*HOC - House of Commons, also as usual.
*Winding Up - Period allowed for the business of closing down an MP's office after he or she has failed to be returned at a General Election.

The Dangers of Reading the Telegraph and Other Cautionary Tales.

I wish Richard Bloody Levinson would stop reading The Telegraph. It just encourages him. No wonder his Housing Officer has gone off on long-term sick leave. She emailed me minutes before she left her desk in despair, to tell me that just the sight of his name in the sender line of yet another email had become sufficient to give her severe palpitations.

This afternoon, he sends me seventeen emails, all with this link attached. In the first one, he wants to know why he can't get a housing transfer when "these bloody Somalis can get away with a million pound house on benefits, just because they've got so many children?" He obviously hasn't even registered that the Somalis in question are apparently housed in private accommodation. Dingbat. Northwick Council's own HQ probably isn't worth a million pounds!

Then he reiterates his long-standing complaint about why he and his girlfriend can't be expected to stay in their lovely two-bedroomed council flat in East Cross, because of the stress caused by "living amidst the common herd." He says that his girlfriend has now developed "a nasty skin condition" as a result. The other sixteen emails have no text, but simply a series of photos attached, all showing evidence of said nasty skin condition. On every part of the body you can imagine. And probably parts you can't - all in unrelenting close-up. Repulsive. The man must have a ten-pixel camera at the very least. I wonder if Richard's girlfriend realises that it's more likely to be the stress of living with someone as pompous as he is that's causing her rash?

I have hundreds of genuinely-needy constituents on the waiting list for housing who would kill to have his flat, but Richard claims he needs "a three-bedroomed house in the country, to avoid the need to live close to uncouth neighbours." Up 'til now, I've always relied upon the argument that, as Richard doesn't have any kids, he doesn't actually need a three bedroomed council house but, thanks to the bloody Telegraph, any such comment is now likely to infuriate him even further. I am sorely tempted to fake an out-of-office reply, referring enquiries to Greg - who is even more annoyed by this story than is Richard. But that would only lead to disaster. I end up replying that I will forward his enquiry to the Housing Department, but that I regret that his attachments were too large to open. Hopefully that'll stop him sending me any more vile skinflicks.

In the evening, I have nothing whatsoever to do, after I have cooked and eaten beans on burnt toast. I have no company either, as both Connie and Josh are out. I am at such a loose end that I decide to phone Dad. I haven't spoken to him for a while anyway.

"Ah, Molly. Glad I caught you," he says. Does he really not know that I phoned him?

"Why?" I say.

"Well, I'm off tomorrow morning," he says, as if I should have known.

"Off where?"

"Thailand."

There is a long silence, and then Dad steps in to fill it.

"I told you," he says.

"Er, no - you didn't."

"Well, I don't really want to go," says Dad.

"Oh, yeah?" Does he really think I am that stupid?

"No. It's my mate, see. He booked it, and he doesn't want to go by himself. I can't really afford it, but I don't like to let him down."

The trouble with Dad is that he's like The Boss. He actually believes the stuff he says. This renders arguing with him entirely pointless, even when you can prove he's talking out of his arse.

"Got to go," says Dad. "Haven't finished packing yet. Take care of yourself. Byee!"

Before I know it, I am listening to a dialling tone. Good God. Wonder if Dinah knows? I'm not telling her. More to the point, does Mum know? Thank God Question Time's on in a minute. Politics seems more appealing than real life, all of a sudden.

Families for Dummies

Good God. When I was watching Tv last night, there was a clip of Ed Balls before he got contact lenses. He was unrecognisable. Maybe I should get some?

I wonder how many other candidates there'll be for the Leadership by the end of the week, all pretending that they're part of one big happy family and will support whoever wins. I like Andy Burnham's eyelashes, but I'm not sure they qualify him to lead the Party.

Not that I'll get a vote anyway since I refused to renew my membership over the stupid Iraq dossier debacle. When I wrote to Millbank to express my disgust, I received a Direct Debit form in response, telling me that this was the most effective way to pay.

In the same envelope was a flyer describing the new policy of "listening." Obviously this does not include reading letters from disgruntled constituency staff - or even the general public, hence the election result.

Talking of happy families, the Press keep bemoaning the death of the extended family, but what they don't say is that it's just become over-extended due to divorce, so that people like me have to spend all their time phoning various parental figures.

You feel guilty for not phoning them, then you phone one and immediately feel guilty that you haven't phoned the other. Before you know it, that's the whole evening gone. I sometimes think it would be much easier to be an orphan. Then that makes me feel guilty too.

When your job involves spending all day taking calls from a collection of often-abusive nutcases and whingers, you don't perceive having a "nice long chat on the phone" in your leisure time as a good thing, no matter who it's with. However, today's been a bit quieter than usual - mainly due to a cunning plan I cooked up with Marie-Louise, The Boss's Diary Secretary.

She's crammed his diary chock-full of (largely pointless) meetings for the rest of this week. So Greg and I get a much-needed break from Andrew's phone calls today. We're all sick to death of listening to him moaning about why it is that no-one has approached him to stand for the leadership.

So, by the time I get home from work, I am less horrified by the sight of a phone than usual, so I decide I'd better call Mum and capitalise on this rare state of affairs. Then I remember it's Dad's turn, so I try him first.

"I went to B&Q today," he says. "Never going there again on a Thursday. Bloody awful."

"Why?' I say, somewhat bemused.

"Full of bloody wrinklies," he says. He is seventy-five, for God's sake.

After he has explained to me exactly what is wrong with the country - and asked me a hundred incomprehensible questions about the apparent foibles of his new computer - I finally manage to get him off the phone. One hour and forty-five minutes exactly.

I need three consecutive cigarettes before I can handle phoning Mum. She is unavailable - something to do with the painful buttock - so Ted chats to me for 5 minutes exactly and that's it. Result!

It's only 10:45pm. If I put off calling Stepmother Mark I until tomorrow night, I might catch the end of Question Time and be able to vent the day's aggression by shouting at the TV.

Best-laid plans and all that. I miss QT, when Dad phones back with "a quick computer question." Two hours later, I go onto Amazon and buy a copy of PCs for Dummies. I arrange for it to be sent directly to Dad, labelled: a gift from a well-wisher.