*Turning Japanese, Oh Yes, I'm Turning Japanese, I Really Think So.

Honestly, no wonder Max says I've got a memory like an elephant. I'm still in a foul mood about the monkey business when I wake up this morning, and things don't get any better when I arrive at work.

"Nice outfit, Molly," says Vicky, in a very sarcastic tone.

Greg looks up from his desk, winces and looks back down again.

"Oversleep, did you?" he says.

"No," I say, although I did. "I am trying to look more Danish. Sarah Lund takes no shit."

I glare at both of them in what I hope is a suitably-intimidating fashion, storm into my office and slam the door behind me. I don't get any further forward, though, as I seem to have trapped the belt of my coat in the process.

I've got a feeling Greg notices my attempt to open the door again as quietly as I can, but I fall back on my political skills and act as if nothing at all has happened. Which I suppose it hasn't - if you don't count Connie getting sick, my being officially a monkey, and Max losing his job.

I can't even bear to think about that - not since Max added up all our bills last night while I was dozing on the sofa, just before I made an idiot of myself in front of the boys. I finally lost the will to live when he showed me how he'd set the bills against my salary, and had factored in the Budget changes, too. He's turning into a one-man IFS.

"We'll have to turn the heating off altogether," he said. "These fuel bills are way too high."

"We can't, " I said. "Not with Connie here all day, and sick in bed."

"Well, then," he said. "In that case, you'd better write to Ofgem, and persuade them to kick the power companies' arses a little bit harder."

I don't think they're likely to take any notice of me, but I didn't get the chance to say so. Max was on a roll. His next step was to inform me that we won't starve - until four weeks after his final pay cheque arrives at the end of this month.

"But there'll be nothing left in our budget for food every single month after that," he said. "Not once all the bills have been paid."

"Oh, well," I said. "I'm sure you'll find a new job before then, and everything will be all right again."

I don't believe this for a second, considering the state of the furniture retail sector - but I'm also trying to improve my acting skills. And anyway, I've still got a few job applications I'm waiting to hear about myself. In exotic places like Easemount and Silverhill. I can hardly wait.

Nor can Johnny, who emails me this lunchtime to say that he's just heard where his next posting is to be. He's off to Dubai in May, and sends photos of the houses that he and his wife are intending to view. I don't know what to say to those - apart from "Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!"

"Never mind about me - how are things with you?" he says.

No-one ever asks me that, so he catches me by surprise. Before I know it, I've told him everything that is happening in my life; and then immediately wish I hadn't. Talk about sounding like a usual suspect: I'm feeling far more sorry for myself than should be allowed.

"Christ," he says, in his reply. "You can't live hand to mouth like that, Molly. It's ridiculous, especially when I could take you away from it all."

"I think your wife might have something to say about that," I say. "And my husband certainly would. Anyway, you don't marry someone on the basis of what they can provide you with. Not materially, anyway."

Johnny sends a very brief reply:

"LOL."

I wish he'd never learned that bloody awful acronym, and anyway, I am being serious. In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer - I'm pretty sure that those are still the rules. And, if they're not, then they bloody well should be.

"I don't think my wife would agree with you," he says, when I point this out. "She'd be off like a shot if I were to become poor overnight."

"Well, I'm not her," I say.

Profound, I know, but nonetheless undeniably true.

I bet she is being massaged in a luxury spa right this minute, before going to Chanel to pick out a new dress for tonight's Charity Fundraising event. (I live a far more interesting fantasy life as her, than I do as myself. Though do they actually have a Chanel shop in Moscow? And do you call it a shop - or an atelier?)

I'm still mulling over this important question when Johnny signs off for the day:

"Think what our lives could be like together," he says. "Neither of us is getting any younger, and that husband of yours is never going to amount to anything, after all."

What a horrible thing to say! And it's all my fault. I've been such a pathetic whinger that now Johnny's feeling sorry for me. And criticising Max, when no-one but me is allowed to do that.

I need to get a grip, somehow. And start making up for being so bloody self-indulgent.

"Do you guys want a coffee?" I say, to Vicky and Greg.

I might as well start as I mean to go on, even if I still don't feel very charitable towards a certain intern.

"Ja, Kaffe," says Greg, staring hard at Google Translate. "Tak."

"I'm not being Danish any more," I say. "I think being Japanese is the thing to aim for, don't you? They could teach us all a thing or two about being uncomplaining. In the face of such adversity that we can't even begin to imagine it."

That's better - isn't it? I'm getting my sense of proportion back.

"But you speak even less Japanese than you do Danish," says Greg.

That may be true, but it's hardly an obstacle that can't be overcome with a bit of effort. Honour and dignity, that's what counts - and I'll aim to chuck in some stoicism too.

"I'm going to pop home during my lunch-break," I say. "I'll have a Pot Noodle and see how Connie is. Oh, and I think I might change out of this jumper, too."

"Tak and double tak for that," says Greg. "You were beginning to hurt my eyes."

I bet Johnny would think that too - though Max just says I look nice and snuggly.



*Turning Japanese - which would be no bad thing, if it taught me (and some others I could mention) to behave like the people of Japan.

How Daddies' Sauce Can Lead To Murderous Rage, Or Probably Should, Anyway..

I'm starting to think that Dad might have been safer if I'd left him where he was - at home, by himself. Max is looking murderous.

Not that I blame him one bit. Dad's even worse than The Boss for shouting at people from another room, and expecting them to go to him.

The whole thing starts almost as soon as we get up this morning, and find Dad reclining on the sofa, remote control already in his hand.

He's watching a cartoon, The Politics Show, and an old action movie - not simultaneously, obviously - but in strict rotation. He allows two minutes of each before turning over to the next one, and then repeats the whole cycle all over again. And again, ad infinitum. *ADHD doesn't even begin to describe it.

"I suppose you'd like some cereal, would you?" Max says to Dad. "What with your heart bypass and all that? I saw you brought your *Shredded Wheat with you."

"Good God, no - I don't want that," says Dad. "That's no meal for a real man. And you do a pretty good cooked breakfast, if I remember rightly - don't you, Max?"

Max rolls his eyes at me, but doesn't say anything in response. I'm probably supposed to step in to fill the breach but, after Dad talked all the way through The Killing last night, I don't much care if he survives 'til next Saturday or not, so he can eat all the sausages, eggs and bacon he wants, as far as I'm concerned. He ruined the highlight of my week!

"She doesn't make much effort, that Lund woman, does she?" said Dad. "Look at the state of that jumper. Is she a lesbian?"

"No," I say. "As you'd work out if you'd only concentrate on the programme for five minutes, and stop moaning about the subtitles. And there's nothing wrong with her jumper, anyway. It's bloody cold in Denmark."

"What's the excuse for your get-up, then, Molly?" said Dad, looking at my TV-watching fleece.

Luckily for him, he fell asleep shortly after that, which probably explains why he's still alive this morning. Not that he's any less annoying. Why the hell didn't I let Josh hide the remote control?

I keep Dad company for a few minutes, in the hope that he'll put the damn thing down, but when it becomes clear that he's hanging on to it for dear life, I give up and go to join Max in the kitchen - which is not my natural habitat, but it seems a better option than staying where I am. It would only have been a matter of time before I'd snapped and turned the TV off, snatched the remote out of Dad's hand and thrown it out of the window.

Making a pot of tea seems a less inflammatory option. For as long as it takes for it to brew, that is.

"Not as good a cuppa as usual," says Dad, when I take his mug through to the living room, where he continues to lie in state. "Max make this?"

"No," I say. "I did."

"That explains that, then," says Dad, which Max appears to find very funny indeed, and I don't.

Max stops smiling pretty sharpish, though, when, almost as soon as he starts cooking, Dad starts that bloody shouting thing he does.

"Max!" he calls. "Ma-ax!"

"What?" shouts Max, trying to cut the rind off the bacon and prick the sausages.

There's silence for a few seconds and then Dad shouts again:

"Ma-ax!"

I give in and walk to the living room.

"What do you want, Dad?" I say. "Max is trying to cook."

"Tell him to come here, quick," says Dad, who looks a bit red in the face, which is rather worrying. I make a silent vow never to moan about his television commentaries ever again, as long as he doesn't drop dead right this minute; and then I rush back to the kitchen to get Max.

"Dad needs you," I say. "I think there's something wrong."

Max slams the oven door shut, races down the hallway, and opens the door to the living room.

"Ah, Max!" says Dad. "Look at this car chase! Hang on, I'll just rewind."

I can't hear what Max replies as, by now, I've worked out that breakfast is going to take hours to prepare, unless I help. Or that's my intention anyway. I have no idea what always causes frozen hash browns to skid off the counter and fall on to the floor, whenever I try to prise them apart. Or why I always cut my hand on the knife.

"Let me take over," says Max. "This is the second car crash I've seen in the last thirty seconds."

I give him an icy smile, and then go off to the bathroom in search of a plaster. I'm on my way back downstairs when the cycle starts all over again.

"Ma-ax!"

This time, Dad apparently wants "a decent cup of tea" - which Max opts to make, though I am deemed competent to deliver it to His Master's Voice. I try to obscure the television screen for as long as possible before handing Dad the mug. Then I spill a bit accidentally on purpose onto his knee.

This seems to shut him up, and peace reigns for another couple of minutes, but then his dulcet tones ring out again. This time Dad tells Max that he has to watch and appreciate what "bloody idiots" Politicians are.

I know that only too well already and, anyway, I've completely given up by now, so I go outside and smoke what may well be the first of many cigarettes today. I can still hear Dad shouting, though I lose count of how many more trips back and forth Max makes - until he opens the back door to inform me that the food is finally cooked.

"I'm going to plate your dad's meal up first," he says. "Then his mouth might be too full of food to shout any more."

"Don't count on it," I say. "He's had a lot of practice. Why d'you think I've already got three step-mothers?"

"Hmm," says Max. "I may be starting to see your point."

He's still not angry, though. Honestly, Max is so much more tolerant than me. Despite all the provocation, he appears relatively calm when he delivers a full English Breakfast to Dad's waiting lap, before returning to the kitchen to serve up everyone else's food.

I decide it may now be safe to come back indoors but, as soon as I do, there's a familiar sound:

"Max! Ma-ax!"

"What?" shouts Max, who is still trying to put everyone else's food on to plates.

He's not looking half as calm now. In fact, I haven't heard him shout quite that loud for years. Not since Connie dropped her new stereo on the floor  and smashed it, five minutes after being given it for her sixteenth birthday. It's quite unnerving, and both Josh and I fall silent - unlike a certain person I could mention.

"Ma-ax!"

Dad's shout is a bit muffled this time - presumably because his mouth is full of food - but it's still loud enough to hear. Unfortunately.

"For God's sake, Max - tell Dad to come to you," I say. "You don't have to run after him all the time. It only encourages him."

"He sounds as if he's choking, Mol," he says, heading back down the hall.

Josh looks at me, and I look back at him, then we both shrug and follow in Max's footsteps. We're just in time to hear Max ask Dad what's wrong - this time.

"Got any Daddies' Sauce?" says Dad.

"I thought you already had that," says Max, in an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone. Which is probably what a camel's back sounds like when it breaks.




*ADHD - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or "Bad Parenting Syndrome", according to Greg. I'm not quite sure what it's called when it's one's parent who suffers from it, though.

*Shredded Wheat - also known as "Shredded Doormats" by Josh and Connie.