Freewheeling Through Conflict, Or How To Fall Out With Everyone In Less Than One Day.

Honestly, family life is so over-rated. It's only tea-time, and already no-one's speaking to anyone else.

"I've bought Robbie's old bike," says Josh, wheeling it into the house at lunchtime. "So now I've got wheels again."

"Oh, God," says Max, presumably envisaging further trips to A&E.

Josh glares at him, but is immediately distracted by Connie, who's still flushed with the success of her first driving lesson, which took place yesterday.

"You'll only be on two wheels," she says, "while I shall be driving around on four in no time at all. My instructor says that I'm a natural."

The rest of us glance at each other, but Josh is the only person unwise enough to actually mention Connie's surprising ability to ride a bike straight into any hedge she happens to pass.

"Ah, yes," she says. "But that was only when I rode an ordinary bike."

"With stabilisers," says Josh.

"Yeah, well," says Connie, moving swiftly on. "What about when I rode that quad bike when we went to Wales?"

That's a memory I'd prefer to forget, especially now that she's learning to drive a car. Connie rode the damn thing as if she was a possum sitting astride a charging rhino. Calling her a speed freak would be to understate the case.

"Hope I never meet her driving along the M4 when she's grown up," said the owner, and the rest of us agreed, though Connie took it as a compliment. You can't say she's not capable of positive thinking, even though she hasn't even read any self-help books as far as I know.

"I got to third gear yesterday," she says. "And I used my windscreen wipers. So who's the best driver in the family now?"

"Me," says Max.

I may be the only adult in the room who has never driven into the back of anyone at a roundabout - and definitely not twice - but I'm already regretting pointing this out.

Now Max isn't talking to me; Connie's ignoring Max and Josh; and Josh is furious with all of us: Connie because she reminded him that he didn't manage to graduate to a proper quad bike in Wales, and was only deemed safe to drive a children's go-kart; and Max and me because we've locked Robbie's old bike and won't unlock it until it has some brakes.

Apparently, we're stupid because no-one uses brakes these days.

"You should appreciate that, Dad," Josh says to Max. "Seeing as you reckon you only hit those people at the roundabouts because they hesitated, and then slammed their anchors on without any warning."

Josh seems to think that that clinches it. Judging by Max's expression, it probably does.

In Which Max Is Frozen Out Of The Jobs Market, And Designates Me As Curator Of His Past.

"Can you help me with these job applications?" says Max, as soon as I get home from work.

I'm so pleased that he's found something to apply for, that I overlook what "helping" really means. You'd think I'd learn, wouldn't you?

I seem to be surrounded by exponents of the well-disguised method of persuading others to do stuff that one doesn't feel like doing oneself - by telling idiots like me that we're "so good" at whatever unpleasant task needs to be done.

I fall for it, every time - which is why, three hours later, I'm still wrestling with online application forms, while Max is sound asleep on the sofa.

I can't understand why the hell these forms don't allow you to cut and paste information into them. It's such a waste of time, typing the same stuff over and over again, and I'm getting pretty fed up by the time I decide to wake Max up and force him to participate.

"When did you leave your last-but-one job?" I ask.

"Oh. Um. I'm not sure," he says. "When do you think I did?"

"I don't know," I say. "It was your job, not mine."

"There's no need to be like that," says Max. "I'll check tomorrow. I'm too tired now."

Huh. Random tiredness must be a sign of depression. Max is always knackered on the days when he signs on.

He gets really angry with the Jobcentre staff (who still seem to be calling people by their surname only, despite my having written to them to complain after Josh's experience); and he gets even more infuriated by the total irrelevance of the jobs that they suggest he should complete applications for.

"They wanted me to apply to run a frozen food factory today," he says, as we're getting ready for bed.

"What? Why?" I say. "What possible skills or experience did they think you had to do that?"

"That I occasionally eat it, I should imagine," he says. "I'm not entirely sure what skills some of them bring to their jobs."

He falls asleep again, almost as soon as he says this, while I lie awake and fret. So much for my early night.

Now I'm back downstairs, eating gherkins, and wondering what on earth I could do if I didn't work for The Boss. I don't even know what box to tick for "occupation"on surveys, seeing as MP's dogsbody is never listed on any of them.

I usually opt for "psychiatric nurse." That seems to be the closest I can get.

Self-Help - A Highway To Madness, Especially When Coupled With Two Noses.

God, self-help books are rubbish - no wonder everyone who reads them is barking mad. I've only read half of mine, and I'm going round the bend already.

I'm standing in the hallway this morning, staring into the full-length mirror, and saying my affirmations, when I notice that I've got a huge spot on the end of my nose.

It's so big, it almost eclipses the nose itself, and makes a complete nonsense of positive statements. Especially this one:

"I still look sexy, and attractive."

Honestly, what good does lying to yourself do? I do not look sexy, or attractive. I look as if I have two noses - and I've got toothpaste down the front of my top. But dogged is my middle name, so I take a deep breath, then carry on:

"I still look sexy and attractive."

I say it a bit louder this time, but still not loud enough to drown out the voice that's laughing like a drain somewhere in my consciousness.

According to the wretched book, this is just my inner critic, whose advice is apparently best ignored. (I suspect it's the book's advice that's best ignored, but I suppose I'd better give it the benefit of the doubt.)

"I still look sexy, and - "

"You actually look a prat," says the voice - so loud that I nearly jump out of my skin.

This must be what it's like for Mr Humphries, contending with all these competing voices. If I'm not careful, I'll end up attacking myself next time I can't resist touching my spot just to check how big it is.

"What the hell are you doing, Mum?" says Josh, appearing behind me and peering at my reflection in the mirror.

"Did you just say I looked a prat?" I say.

"Yes," he says. "Because you do."

"Oh, thank God," I say, which I don't think is the response that Josh is expecting, given how quickly he ducks out of the way.

When he straightens up, having not been slapped around the head, he looks at me as if I am mad, while I breathe a sigh of relief that I am definitely not.

Not that that belief lasts long, thanks to Greg, who's lying on the floor laughing as I type. He wasn't supposed to hear my other affirmation:

"I am highly-valued at my place of work."

Sulking, And The Law Of Its Diminishing Returns.

Thank you to everyone who has emailed me to ask where the hell my blog has got to, and whether it's been subject to a Blogger-related implosion.

It hasn't. For once, the fault is all mine - or, rather, it's my birthday's fault; coupled with the realisation that I have achieved precisely nothing of any value to the human race whatsoever, over the whole of the last year, and despite my (second) best efforts.

Greg says that I am having an existential crisis, but Max says that I have just been sulking about getting old. Both of them may be right - but, anyway, there's only so much navel gazing that a person can do, before the whole thing becomes tediously boring for all concerned.

So, my belated birthday resolution is to pull myself together, think positive, and get a grip. (As well as over-using a host of cliches in the process - anyone would think I'd taken a self-help book out of the library at lunchtime today.)

I probably need to allow a few days to practise my affirmations before they start to work, so I shall be back next week, uncharacteristically dynamic and full of optimism for the coming year - which is when I shall achieve something really noteworthy. I just haven't quite worked out what.

How To Make Conversation Across A Cultural Divide, And Disinherit Yourself In The Process.

I'm off to Dorset to take Dad home - which is going to be fun, seeing as he isn't speaking to me.

Instead of occupying his usual position on the sofa and wielding the remote control as if it were a weapon of mass destruction, he's upstairs, throwing the last of his belongings into a suitcase. He's refusing my help, and is muttering to Max about the complete lack of support he gets from his kids. I'm assuming that he means me by that.

It all starts while I'm getting dressed this morning. I'm hopping about on one foot, trying to get the other one into the leg of my tights, when the bloody phone starts to ring. Max is no help as he's still in bed -   preparing for unemployment and Jeremy Kyle.

"Let it go to the answer-phone," he says, which seems a sensible suggestion to me.

The caller's bound to be yet another of those bloody marketing firms, so it's not as if I'll be missing anything and, anyway, I hate the phone. Unlike a certain other person who just can't resist it. Honestly - why can't the older generation let a ringing phone ring? I don't know what's the matter with them.

Dad's still on the line when I eventually make it down the stairs, even though this feat takes quite a while - I'm positive these tights are the wrong way round.

"Is that bloody Northwick Eezi Home Finance again?" I say. "Tell them to sod off and remove our number from their calling sheets. We're registered with the TPS!"

Dad scowls, while gesturing for me to leave the room - so I comply without complaint. It can't be healthy to be so mindlessly obedient. I'm already in the hallway before I remember that I don't have to do as he says, and could always listen in instead.

I overcome a rogue twinge of guilt by telling myself that he'll thank me for invading his privacy when I save him from buying something that he doesn't need. These marketing people have no scruples, and Dad's a vulnerable, lonely pensioner like Mr Edmonds - or so he'd have us all believe.

No call-centre version of Darren is going to get away with ripping my father off, so I rush back into the sitting room and take control. It's quite a buzz, for all of the five seconds it lasts.

"Give it to me," I mouth at Dad.

He shakes his head and hangs onto the phone for dear life, even though I try really hard to wrestle it from him. He's got an awfully strong grip for a man who's just had a triple bypass and is supposedly a convalescent. (I blame all the high reps he's been doing with the remote for that.)

Anyway, we're still embroiled in a tug of war when Dad suddenly changes his line of attack. He gives me a sneaky push when I'm least expecting it, and I fall backwards on to a chair. It's not the most dignified landing, but there's no need for him to look so smug. He'd do no better if he was wearing these tights.

Like Chumbawumba, I may get knocked down, but I get up again - and Dad's not the only one who can try a different approach. I shall give up this unequal physical struggle and rely on disapproval instead. It worked for Gandhi, after all.

I cross my legs into the Lotus Position - slightly modified to allow for the tights - and then I hold my hand out for the phone, while trying very hard not to blink. Dad takes absolutely no notice, beyond turning his back on me, but then it took a few years in India, too.

"My daughter," he says, into the receiver. "No, dau-ghter. Door- terr. My daughter. I think she wants to speak to you."

"Damn right I do," I say, as I attack from behind and grab the phone while I have the chance. Now I'll show Dad who's the boss.

"Molly, my dear - meet my new love," he says. "All the way from sunny Thailand."

"Hurro," says Porn-Poon. Or something like that. I'm far too traumatised for my ears to work. Or my brain.

"Hurro. Hu-rro!" she says, again.

God, she even sounds about twelve years old. And why can't I think of a thing to say? Now I know how The Boss feels during tricky surgery appointments - especially when I refuse to help him out.

"Um, hello," I say - nothing better having come to mind. "So I guess you're a fan of Gary Glitter, then?"

Why did I say that? Why? Why? It's as if I've suddenly developed Tourettes. And all I can think of to add to that exceptional opening gambit is something about the leader of the gang. Lateral thinking, I suppose.

After I've finished singing the tune, there's silence at the other end of the phone, and Dad's face has gone a very funny colour indeed. I'm going to kill him by accident if I don't get a grip. And I have to make nice, anyway - seeing as this could be Stepmother Mark IV I'm talking to. (God forbid.)

"Nice to meet you, Porn-Poon," I say.

Shit! Is that actually her name - or is it just what Dinah calls her behind Dad's back? I can't remember, and Dad's no help. He's just glaring at me as if he'd like to kill me. Which he'll probably attempt, as soon as I get off the phone - and it's not as if I don't already know which one of us would win that fight.

I need to calm down, right now, and then make normal conversation. How hard can it be? I do it all the time with mad constituents, so it's not as if I lack experience - except that they're not usually shagging my Dad.

Oh, dear God, what an image. Now I'm making it so much worse. I know - I'll ask Porn-Poon about her hobbies. I'm sure that's what self-help books for the socially-inept would suggest.

"So," I say. "Dad tells me that you like old men."

According to Dad - before he stops speaking to me altogether - this last effort isn't my worst offence. I better it with my follow up:

"Can you just explain to me why?"

Disappointment And Delusional Co-Dependency (Whatever That Means)

Mr Meeurghn has been convicted of murder. To add insult to my injured faith in human nature, it transpires that he can't have his passport back because he is on bail and, anyway, he doesn't need it to go home - because he can't go home. His country of origin won't let him back in. God knows what he did there. My faith in the public has taken yet another blow. 


I email Greg and tell him that I don't care if he is still traumatised, I need him back at work tomorrow to save me from plunging into a suicidal depression. 


There is some good news, though. The Boss has approved a new security measure! Just the one, mind you - and that's a replacement door for the one Steve Ellington broke on his way out this morning. 


The viewing panel's shattered, and the frame is all bent out of shape - even though there wasn't a mark on Steve's forehead. I'm pushing for toughened glass to be fitted in the replacement but, if it's more expensive than the ordinary stuff, I'll be out of luck.


Steve's clash with the door isn't the only shock of the day. Johnny sends me an email in which he says that he loves my photo, but that I look tired and "in need of a massage." What on earth? Maybe the oil spill and Obama are messing with his mind, and he and I are locked in a delusional co-dependency. 


I have no idea what any of that last sentence means, but I quite like the sound of it. Sam told me that one of his internet dates said it to him, immediately before dumping him. (I have warned him over and over again to rule out any woman who lists "self-help books" in the Preferred Reading category of their dating profile, but he won't listen.)


Max certainly isn't co-dependent this evening, or not with me, anyway. He barely says anything and looks very tired, so I leave him in front of the TV and catch up on personal correspondence at the computer instead. This doesn't include Johnny, as I still haven't decided how to respond to him yet, but Greg replies to my earlier suicidal email thus:


"What about drinky-boos and a little outing after work tomorrow night? To include pizza and gin, then gin, gin and gin? I have a pent-up rage that needs dealing with, and minority groups will no doubt suffer. "


I ask Greg where we're going, but he won't say. He just tells me to put together a list of all our craziest constituents. (He defines these as the people in whose company I hear The Twilight Zone theme.) No doubt I'll find out tomorrow why he needs it - mine is not to reason why.


When I tell Max that I have a date with another man, he seems unbothered, presumably on the basis that he thinks I wouldn't be tempted by an American Psycho lookalike half my age. Maybe he'd think the same thing about Johnny, the oil-rich Putin lookalike, too - but Max doesn't know about him. 


Even so, I don't know whether to find his faith in me touching, or arrogant. Maybe he thinks that it's irrelevant whether I'd be tempted or not, as no-one would be tempted by me?