A Seat At The Best Table.

Things don't get any better this morning. Max stubs his toe while trying to get past Josh in the queue for the bathroom, and almost faints. I think he may have broken it, but there's no time to do anything about it as we're almost late for the vow ceremony as it is. Josh is sulking because he has to wear a suit, and Connie has refused to wear anything formal, and is dressed as if for a night out in her university's LCR.*

The ceremony passes off okay - unsurprisingly, as it's only five years since the original, so David and Susie are hardly out of practice. It's actually quite moving, and I find myself wondering whether something similar would work for Max and I. He's looking rather attractive today - and he really does have a firmer chin than most of the men present. I probably would marry him again. If he asked.

As usual, nothing good lasts, though. The "wedding breakfast" is a farce. When we find our names on the seating plan outside the function room, we discover we might as well have been seated in Siberia. We are quite obviously on the Payback table. On my right is the headmaster of David's old school - the one who expelled David on the grounds that he "saw every school rule as a deliberate infringement of his personal liberty." On Max's left is the man who sacked David from his first job. The numbers are made up by various ex-wives and husbands of those more successful individuals who are seated next to the top table, along with their new trophy partners.

And how could I forget to mention the photographer? God knows where David and Susie found him, but they've dumped him on our table too. He holds forth  - throughout the entire meal - about his last job taking pictures of a greyhound racing stadium. This is about as interesting as you would imagine. On the odd occasion that he pauses for breath, he pokes at each course as if he has never seen food before, and doesn't trust it. Then he pounces and suddenly hurls a vast quantity of it into his mouth, which he kindly leaves open while he chews. He eats everything - including a whole load of mussels which have remained closed, but which he determinedly prises open. I can't be bothered to advise him not to, as I think he'd probably stab his fork into my hand and accuse me of trying to shaft him.

By the time the band arrive for the evening's entertainment, the photographer is nowhere to be seen. As Max and I approach to say our goodbyes, David is shouting into his mobile phone.

"What d'you mean you think you've got food poisoning? You ate the same as everyone else!" He pauses and then says, "Well, if I don't have a record of this evening, you'll be hearing from my solicitor."

"Problems?" I ask, trying to resist giving way to schadenfreude.

"Muppet photographer says he's got food poisoning. Reckons he can't stop throwing up. So now I've got to find someone else to take pictures of the dancing. I'm not flying in a ten-piece band from Cuba to end up with no bloody record of it." David's eyes are scanning the room as he speaks. Then he spots Max's digital camera.

"Max, my old mate -"

"Sorry, David - can't." Max hides his pleasure well. "We've just come to say goodbye. Got to head back now."

'Oh, that's right. Our Molly can't have a day off from saving the world from capitalists."

I smile sweetly, and say,

"Don't worry. I'm sure one of your entrepreneurial mates can rig you up a pinhole camera."

David laughs, so I forgive him. As usual. He is my oldest friend, after all - though I bet I'd have been much further up the bloody table hierarchy if I'd married Johnny. In fact, Johnny probably wouldn't be seen dead in the company of someone as poor as David. But Johnny's not here, and anyway, I'm really looking forward to getting home, snuggling up to Max on the couch, and listening to him snore. I'm not cut out for a glittering social life. My best underwear is from Primark, after all.

*LCR - Lower Common Room.

The Ballad Of Mr Thumb, And Why Schools Have CCTV When We Don't

God, I'm so glad Connie's coming home from uni today for the summer vacation. I have had about as much testosterone-related craziness this week as I can take.

I have to ask Greg to take over for the second half of this afternoon's surgery, as Max and I have been called into school to see Josh's tutor, Mr Bowen. Josh is furious that we've been contacted, and he doesn't even calm down during the lengthy period we spend waiting outside the tutor's office. He spends the entire time ranting, just like a constituent.

"That bloody man's got it in for me. He just picks on me - all the time. It doesn't matter what anyone else is doing, it's always, 'Joshua Bennett. My office - now!' He's just jealous 'cause I haven't got a disability," announces Josh, with venom.

"Disability?" I ask.

"We call him Mr Thumb," says Josh. "'Cause his thumb's five times the size it should be."

Josh draws various illustrations of Mr Bowen's affected appendage to support his claims. His outrage seems so genuine that Max and I are feeling really hostile by the time we enter the office. I will not have someone picking on my youngest child, just because his digits are undamaged.

I put on my best MP's Office voice and walk to the desk, my hand outstretched.

"Mr Thumb? I'm Molly Bennett. Pleased to meet you."

Max and Josh collapse in hysterics, while Mr Bowen looks at me in disbelief. I realise what I've done and have to excuse myself. I clutch at my forehead and say,

"I am so sorry, I'm unwell. I think I may be going to be -" and then I run for the door, making (very convincing) retching noises.

Max tells me later that things didn't get any better after my departure. Apparently, when he complained that Mr Bowen was picking on Josh, Mr Bowen replied that Josh was in the sixth-form common room all morning - and all afternoon - of every day, playing poker. Max didn't believe this, so Mr Bowen made him watch a CCTV recording of Josh in action.

Max then tried to argue that Josh was probably only relaxing during free periods but, again, Mr Bowen's response wasn't exactly helpful. Josh was ordered to hand over his homework diary, to enable Mr Bowen to show Max the lesson timetable. The entire cover was decorated with extremely realistic outsized thumbs.

Max says there's nothing for it but to kill Josh. Connie's (unsurprisingly) in favour, and even I agree to think about it.

The Gap Between Rich And Poor, Or The Difference Between Me And Johnny Hunter's Wife

I'm almost too depressed to write. Primark has no vacancies. And all that discount out of the window as well! So it looks as if I'm stuck with The Boss for the foreseeable future, or at least until IPSA's cuts cost me my job.

To make things worse, Mr Beales writes in with yet another problem - the third one in the last ten days. One of his clients won't pay for her wedding photographs, and he encloses copies. I'm not surprised the poor woman won't pay: a number of the guests are headless, including the groom.

I am surprised by one new development, however - Greg and I have always thought that Mr Beales was a school photographer. He seemed well-suited for this, in that he most closely resembles a paedophile or, at best, a serial killer. (Greg says that all paedophiles are easily identified by the double bar across the bridge of their metal-framed glasses.)

Anyway, whatever he is, I really can't be bothered with Mr Beales today, so I just dump his letter and photos into the otherwise-empty filing tray marked, Show to the Boss.

In the evening, I get another email from Johnny Hunter. A long one. His tone is very friendly, if a little boastful. He's only an International Director for a global oil company! Married, with two children - much younger than mine, which is presumably why he and his wife have managed to have rather more impressive careers than I have.

Johnny goes on to say that it is "the help" that enables him and his wife to keep flying across the globe with their demanding jobs, by ensuring that their children are well-cared for at the same time. He also says that he can't afford to downsize to spend more time with his family as "you know what school fees are like."

I am a gutless hypocrite. I do not say in my reply that of course I do not know, because I am politically (and financially) opposed to private schools; work for a Labour MP, and have put both my kids through the wringer of the state school system because it teaches them important life skills. (Well, that's what Max and I always tell our posh friends anyway - we don't mention Josh's gang lord credentials.)

No, in response to Johnny, I just wimp out and sympathise with his difficulty, as if I understand it all too well. What on earth is wrong with me? I have about as much idea of what his life is like, as he probably has of mine. And I bet his wife doesn't shop in Primark.

I still can't remember what he looks like, but am hoping he was that nice one with the dark hair and really blue eyes who used to catch the school bus with me. I must check whether he wears glasses, though. You can't be too careful in this day and age.