A Certain Phrase It Would Behove A So-Called Socialist Not To Use, And Why Economists Never Take Any Notice Of Me

"You saw that we voted for our own pay-freeze last night, I assume?" says The Boss, when he phones first thing.

"I should think so, too," I say. "Seeing as we're all supposedly in this together."

"Well, there was some muttering behind the scenes," he says. "About how, if you pay peanuts, you're bound to get monkeys."

There are so many answers just begging to be given to this stupid remark - all of them sarcastic - that I hardly know where to begin.

It's probably safer not say anything at all so, as a precaution, I hang up on Andrew, though I make it look like an accident, of course. Thus disproving the peanuts/monkeys analogy rather neatly, as far as I'm concerned.

The private line rings again straight away, so I signal to Greg that it's his turn to answer it this time. I am otherwise occupied, climbing on to the top of my desk.

"What, Andrew?" says Greg. "Oh, yes - Molly said that you'd been cut off. What can I do for you, anyway?"

He turns his back on me for the rest of the conversation, though I can't for the life of me think why. All I'm doing is jumping up and down while scratching my armpits, after all. Though why does Vicky always arrive at the worst possible moment?

"Molly?" she says, taking a step backwards and raising her eyebrows at me. Which is the look she usually reserves for constituents she hasn't met before, while she waits for me or Greg to whisper, "sane" or "barking" in her ear.

"Sane," I say. "Just underpaid - which apparently automatically renders me rather more closely related to gorillas than even Dian Fossey believed."

"I see," says Vicky, who quite clearly doesn't. Which you wouldn't expect her to, when Mummy and Daddy pay her such a generous allowance.

Oh, yes - allowances. That's where I was meant to be going with this from the start: talking about the bloody, bloody, buggery Budget.

Excuse the language, but half this morning's calls are from constituents worried about what the changes will mean for them. I haven't a clue, as I dozed off when they were giving examples of the Budget's likely effects on the news last night.

Not through boredom, just exhaustion - though why do pundits never mention families with grown-up children who have failed to launch, when they show you what the Budget changes will do to the incomes of different groups? Max and I can't possibly be the only ones in this position. Or I bloody well hope we're not. Where on earth did we go wrong with Josh?

"Bloody hell, Mol," says Greg. "I wonder how many sole traders we're going to have left in this country by the time the recession is over."

"What d'you mean?" I say. "Oh, that late payment thing? Or whether they can pass their increased costs on to their customers without losing them to bigger competitors who can afford to absorb the losses themselves?"

"Both of those, of course," he says. "But I'd also forgotten about the penalties for filing your tax returns late. That last caller said that he can't afford to employ an accountant any longer, and he's really worried about doing it himself."

So would I be, if I were him. It's bad enough dealing with Andrew's expenses, let alone handling tax returns. I really hope Max will decide to reconsider the plan he thought up last night, which was to go self-employed.

I'm about to mention this very bad idea to Greg when the phone rings yet again, and he answers it.

"Who?" he says. "Oh, Connie - sorry, I didn't recognise your voice. Do you want to speak to your Mum?"

Cue instantaneous panic - which I had rather hoped I would have grown out of by now. Do you ever stop worrying about your kids? (I've got a horrible feeling the answer is "no.")

Greg's about to put the call through to my phone, but there's no need. I'm already half-way across the room, so I grab the receiver from his hand.

"What's the matter, Con?" I say. "Why are you calling me at work?"

"Mum," she says, though croaks might be a better word. "You know this bad throat I've had? And how I've been feeling really tired?"

"Yes," I say, wishing she didn't always have to make everything into a question. "Hurry up, Con! Just tell me what on earth is wrong. What did the doctor say? Has he got the blood tests back?"

"Yes," she says. "You were right. It is Glandular Fever, just like you thought. The doctor said he was surprised you'd realised what it was so fast."

Never underestimate the power of the internet, that's all I can say. Even though I try my level best to stop anyone else using it to self-diagnose, I am a researcher, not a hypochondriac, so I have a perfectly legitimate reason to do so - or that's what I say to Greg when he accuses me of hypocrisy, anyway.

"All right, then," he says. "If you reckon you can't be a hypochondriac because you only looked up what might be wrong with someone other than you, check out Munchausen Syndrome by proxy instead."

"I haven't got time," I say. "I have to hurry and finish work - seeing as I've got to go and pick Connie up after that. She's coming home while she's so unwell."

And I am seriously going to have words with the TV economists when I get back. I want to see exactly how much worse off I am going to be with two adult kids back at home, a redundant husband and an employer who thinks I can live on bananas. While paying me legumes.

Of course, if I had any kind of business brain, I'd take the hint my life is giving me and grasp the opportunity offered by the NHS reforms: to set up a money-making convalescent home.

How Not To Cheer Someone Up.

Everyone seems to have decided that I need cheering up. That's where the consensus breaks down. The differing methods by which this might be achieved seem to say rather more about the people making the suggestions than about the causes of my Weltschmerz.

While we're both getting ready for work this morning, Max suggests he meets me in town straight after work. Seeing my expression, he says, "What?" - as if he made that sort of suggestion on a regular basis.

"Um, well - I'm just surprised, that's all. What brought that on?"

"Thought it might cheer you up. Where shall we meet?"

"Well, on past experience, it'd better be somewhere where I won't feel an idiot sitting by myself waiting for you to turn up," I say. Max looks wounded.

"I always turn up," he says.

"Eventually." I never know when to accept an olive branch when it is offered. Though this is not to say that I concede Max's point about my resemblance to an elephant. We arrange to meet at Caffe Nero. Again. You can't say we lack imagination.

I'm in quite a good mood when I arrive at work, but this is short-lived. After Greg has attended this morning's "briefing," which is even briefer than usual, he comes back rolling his eyes, sits down at his desk with an exaggerated sigh, and buries his head in his hands. The Boss bounces in, like an ageing Tigger on speed.

"Greg tell you my idea?" he says.

"Not yet," I say. "What have you thought of now?'

"Something to boost office morale." The Boss's self-satisfaction is almost tangible. He puts his shoulders back, and struts in to the kitchen. "Can't say I'm not sensitive to my staff's needs." He must be still drunk, because his next question is, "Coffee, anyone?"

"Is that his plan?" I ask Greg. "Making us a coffee?"

"No," says Greg. "Worse than that. Much worse." He's about to explain, when there is a crashing noise, some swearing, and then The Boss sticks his head back round the kitchen door.

"Where the hell are all the cups and spoons?" he says. "Can't find anything in here."

The cups and spoons are where they always are, first thing in the morning. In the sink, waiting for me to wash them up. The drawer, however, isn't in its usual place. It's in the middle of the floor.

"What happened to the drawer?"

"Must've pulled it out too far, trying to find a spoon." The Boss steps round it, looks at his watch, then says, "Oh, I'm late for the Easemount Remembering Project. Better go."

So much for that, then. Democracy is never extended to coffee making in our office. Not during Recess, anyway. When I've finished washing up, rebuilding the kitchen cabinet and making the coffees, Greg has recovered enough to tell me what The Boss's great motivational plan actually is. Let's just say it's unlikely to have the desired effect.

Andrew has decided to invite the girls from the London office to come here on Friday, so that we can all have lunch together. This will apparently also give them the chance to "see and appreciate" what we do here in the boring old provinces. Carlotta doesn't sound any more enthusiastic about it than we are, when I call her to make the arrangements. By the time she's given me a list of her dietary requirements, together with far too much information about Marie-Louise's allergies, I can't think of a single restaurant that will fit the bill.

The rest of the day passes quite quickly, mostly with cases linked to constituents having lost their jobs due to the recession: bank charges, benefit claims and one potential eviction. Before I know it, it's time to meet Max. I'm actually quite excited, which is odd, as Caffe Nero is hardly the Marriott. Or even Heathrow, though I am still looking forward to it. I even freshen up my make-up - and squirt Rive Gauche around with gay abandon - before I leave work, to the sound of Greg muttering about the office smelling like a tart's boudoir. I am already ten minutes late by the time I get to the cafe, but there's no sign of Max yet.

By the time I've been there for forty-five minutes, I'm almost the only customer left. And I have drunk so much bloody coffee that I've given myself palpitations. I keep checking my mobile, under cover of the table in case anyone thinks I am a sad git who has been stood up, but there's nothing from Max. No texts, no missed calls, no answer-phone messages. When it's a full hour after we arranged to meet, I give up, pay the annoyingly-sympathetic waitress, and start to walk home. Then my mobile rings.

"I'm really sorry," says Max. "Had an emergency."

"Did you?" I say. "What sort of emergency exactly?"

"The deliverymen missed a customer's coffee table off this week's delivery round. So I had to take it there myself after work."

"Ah," I say. "Well, that is an emergency. Undoubtedly. Unlike the eviction case I nearly killed myself trying to finish so that I could be there to meet you on time." Then I hang up, turn my phone off, and walk the rest of the way home. I can't say that I feel noticeably more cheerful, but maybe Connie or Josh can think of something to improve my mood. They couldn't do any worse than the f*ckwits who've already had a try.

The trials of Mr Meeeeurghn (whose name is bloody hard to spell consistently).

The working day is largely consumed by constituents phoning with their reactions to the Budget, with one notable exception. Mr Meeeurghn phones and starts screaming that he is being mis-treated and that we have to protect him - now - as he is a refugee. Then he puts me onto someone else, who identifies herself as a member of staff at Primark. It turns out that Mr Meeeurghn is trying to claim a refund on a pair of jeans that he insists have never been worn.

The weary-sounding girl says that the jeans are covered in bleach, and that Mr Meeeurghn is threatening to kill them all, or at least most of them - a bit like the Iraqi Information Minister - if they do not give him his money back. He apparently told them that he would phone his MP who would make them do it. Meanwhile, they have a queue of customers that reaches down the stairs and out of the shop, none of whom can be served until Mr Meeeeurghn has been dealt with. (Primark sales obviously aren't suffering due to the recession.)

I tell her to put the screeching Mr Meeeeurghn back on the phone, tell him that I cannot help him, and then go and check that the new office door is double-locked. Primark have security staff. We don't, and nor do we have bullet-proof glass, as Greg is at pains to point out - yet again.