Josh Finds a Real-Life Use for Film Studies.

Greg answers the phone first thing, and then imparts some wonderful news: The Boss has decided to take today and tomorrow off. Oh, the relief! Greg does some celebratory sit-ups, and I even attempt a few. Well, one - but it's a start. (I need to build up quite quickly though - there's only just over a week to go, until I meet Johnny.)

Even though this probably represents the shortest summer holiday ever known to man - apart from mine and Greg's, of course - Recess ends on Friday, so who cares? And, even though it is short notice, we don't need to re-schedule most of Andrew's appointments, as we only made them to give him something to do - so it'll hardly be a disaster if they never take place.

We're so elated that we zoom through today's work. There are none of The Boss' usual pointless interruptions, and my concentration is much improved by the absence of the cloud of his recent disapproval. I'm actually in quite a good mood by the time I get home.

Josh isn't. He's had to sign on for the first time today, and when I ask how he got on, he starts ranting like Mr Meeurghn.

"Why don't they tell you not to join the bloody queue in the entrance to the Jobcentre?" he yells. "Standing there like a muppet made me late to sign on, and then I got in trouble, even though I'd been in the building for ages."

"What happened?" I say. (Honestly, sometimes my home life resembles my working day in a very depressing manner.)

"The woman said that she was showing me a yellow card," says Josh.

"What?" I find this hard to believe. "Did she actually say that?"

"Yes," says Josh. "She seemed to think she was Alec Bloody Ferguson. And would it kill the staff to call people by their full names?"

"What do you mean?"

"When it's your turn to sign on, they only call you by your surname," says Josh. "It was worse then being at school. She just shouted, 'Bennett!' Talk about dehumanising."

I am amazed that my son knows the word, let alone uses it in normal conversation. Maybe I am not such a bad mother after all.

If I get a chance, I shall speak to the manager of the Jobcentre tomorrow, and check whether his staff are supposed to be talking to claimants like that. There's no call for it. After all, if they weren't lucky enough to have lots of unemployed people to deal with, they'd be out of work themselves. And if I can manage to be civil to the usual suspects - when they're all completely bonkers and abusive - then it doesn't seem too much to expect Jobcentre staff to bloody well be polite to sane, pleasant people. (Not to mention that I don't take well to people picking on my children, as Mr Thumb almost learned to his cost.)

Josh is so annoyed about the whole experience that he says he never wants to sign on again, and I start wondering whether the Jobcentre have a deliberate policy of being thoroughly unpleasant to people, in order to deter them from making claims? I don't mention this to Josh, as there's no point in winding him up, and anyway, it turns out that today's visit wasn't a complete waste of time. He must have compensated for the yellow card somehow, as he has been approved to apply for a job for which the Jobcentre are pre-selecting candidates. It's at the cinema.

"I told you Film Studies would come in handy," he says.

I think he's being a bit over-optimistic, but wisely keep quiet. You have to allow your kids to retain some comforting illusions, after all. And anyway, at least the job is full-time, so I am going to keep my fingers crossed Josh gets it. Maybe he'll even be moving out soon, once he has saved up enough money for the deposit on a rented flat. Then Max and I will be able to have rampant sex all over the house, hopefully before we get osteoporosis and can't take the risk, despite finally having the opportunity.

This thought makes me almost as keen to get things moving as Josh is, so I spend all evening helping him write a CV. This involves making a mountain out of the veritable molehill that is Josh's meagre work experience, and proves very challenging. Honestly, what chance do school-leavers have of finding work in this economic climate, when listing their skills and experience barely fills half a side of A4?

In the end, I agree to pad the CV out by trying to make Josh's hobbies sound far more productive than they actually are - though I refuse to add "National Skateboarding Champion" to his list of achievements.  You never know, he might be asked to give a demonstration at interview, and then where would he be? Though I suppose he could always use his (un)broken arm as an excuse. He'd probably claim it was a skateboarding accident, now I come to think of it - which occurred during a world record attempt. I do hope that he'll find a job where he can put all that imagination to good use.

Bigger Is Not Always Better

Mum rings me at work. Her preamble is not promising.

"Sorry to bother you at work, dear. I just wanted to ask you whether you'd noticed my eyelid last time you saw me?"

"What eyelid?"

I am trying to scroll through my in-box, which already contains 227 emails received overnight. I have no idea why the House of Commons spam filter picked up an email in which I described a local councillor as "disappearing up the arse of a certain MP," when it seems incapable of removing the 48 adverts for Viagra I receive daily, not to mention those for fake watches and penis enlargements.

"My right eyelid. I've been looking at it in the mirror, and it looks a bit droopy," continues Mum.

"Was that the 25-times magnifying mirror like mine?"

"Well, ye-es. But it definitely looks a bit odd."

"I think the best thing you can do is to stop looking in the mirror, Mum - especially that one. 25-times magnification is not good for the self-esteem. I'm sure it's fine and you just need to find another interest."

"Oh, well - if you didn't notice anything, maybe it's okay," says Mum, and rings off.

I'm as blind as a bat, but Mum just doesn't get that the whole purpose of your sight deteriorating as you age is so that you have no idea of how truly hideous you're becoming. Those mirrors should be banned - but then they are so useful for those stray hairs. I'd be lost without mine - though I'm not quite sure how many supposedly stray hairs it takes to merit classification as a beard. The one plus of receiving phone calls from my mother whilst at work is that I am more inclined than usual to be tolerant, as she doesn't seem half so mad when in the virtual company of most constituents.


Unlike me, Connie is loving her job and talks about it without pausing for breath - at all - for the first two hours after I get home. This fills the void left by Josh's continuing silence. I'm dying to know what he told Mr Thumb about his performance in the Skateboarding Championship when he had to go and hand in his skateboard yesterday, but I lose my nerve when Josh reacts to my attempt to give him a hug by shaking me off as if I had worse B.O. than Edmund Beales. Josh is my baby!


When Connie finally goes out with her boyfriend, and the house is quiet again, Max says,

"Talking about work - "

"Yes?" I don't like the sound of this already.

"I have to go abroad again - next week." Max busies himself in the depths of his briefcase.

"What? Why?" I am amazed. No business trips at all - ever - and then two. In a month? This is surely pushing credibility.

"Business," says Max.

"But I thought the company was struggling," I say. "I'm always reading that furniture sales are down. Massively."

"They are," says Max. "So, if the company want me to go on a course, what bloody choice have I got?"

Outmanoeuvred. Again. Why does my bullshit detector desert me the moment I get home? If I listen very carefully, though, I'm sure I can hear a faint, though familiar, sound.