Some Less Than Astute Judgement Calls.

Well, it seems as if Nick Clegg was caught with his pants down yesterday, doesn't it? (Must be a peculiarly Liberal thing, mentioning no Irish names.)

He and Dave reminded me of how Connie and Josh used to behave when they were little, and had been caught in the act - swaying from side to side, and looking at the floor, while swearing black was white. Or that the IFS* was wrong, in Nick's case. Hardly an astute position to take, I'd have thought.

Talking of astute, Greg and I nearly wet ourselves when we hear that that's the name of the submarine that ran aground this morning. It seems Sam's not the only person who has found Skye to be a strangely hazardous environment. (I probably talked it up, what with mentioning Sam's Scottish SOS - but I'm trying not to feel too bad about that. Guilt-induced hiccups are so exhausting.)

Anyway - back to the point. Given the controversy of recent days, today's surgery isn't too bad - probably because all the appointments had already been booked before the Spending Review.

The phones were busy, though. I kept dropping mine because my hands were so bloody cold. It is no fun being skinny in cold weather, as last night's events proved only too clearly.

When I got home from work, I was freezing cold, and dying for a cup of tea, so I wrapped myself in a blanket and then went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Bad, bad move. Flames and blankets do not mix. The house still stinks of melted fleece, and so does my hair.

It's a good job The Boss seems to have taken up smoking a pipe again, as otherwise I'm sure he'd have noticed the funny smell. If he was capable of noticing anything other than Vicky's legs, that is.

I'm getting very tired of her being here now - there's hair everywhere from all that pseudo-casual flicking. Probably enough to knit myself a new blanket. It is a time of austerity, after all. Not that that should encourage Monsieur Clegg to be economical with the truth.

*IFS - Institute for Fiscal Studies, much lauded by Nick Clegg for its impartiality and accuracy during the election campaign, but now apparently incompetent.

An SOS From Skye, And Some Biscuits Whose Provenance I'd Prefer Not To Consider.

Sam's not having a very good time on his sex trip to Skye. Just after breakfast, Max gets a text from him. It says,

"Help! Incompatible in bed and nothing to talk about. Supposed to be here another two days :-S"

So much for sexy underwear, I want to say - but then I remember my new pants and decide against it. Max looks vaguely disappointed. I think he quite fancied Shona too.

"What should he do?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "He's your friend, and anyway, he always ignores my advice. I told him to start reading the women's bloody profiles instead of just looking at their pictures on the websites."

"And to ignore the shared interests," says Max. "Bearing in mind the Park Warden and the Tall Enigma."

"Anyway, I'm leaving him to you," I say. "I've got to go for coffee at Ellen's. Are you okay?"

Max looks awfully pale. "Ellen's?" he says. "I thought you hated her after the bin incident and, well, you know - "

"When you snogged her at the party?" I say. Amazing how much of your sense of humour you can get back when you have been sent hundreds of red roses. 'Oh well, I've taken your word for it that there's nothing going on. Is there?"

Now I've said this, I feel guilty about the roses, so I don't make Max answer and instead take pity on him. Or on Sam, anyway.

"Send him a text saying his cousin's in hospital and he needs to come home immediately in case he needs to give blood," I say. "Then she'll think he's a good guy with a rare blood group, and she won't feel rejected either."

"God, you're cunning," says Max. "Sometimes I forget you work for a politician."

I tap my nose and wink at him, then head to Ellen's. I have no idea why she's invited me round, unless it's to apologise for the exhibitionism with the bins the other night. I'm in a forgiving mood, so I shall wait and see what she says.

Ellen's fully-clothed, I'm pleased to report and, although she still looks like a blonde James Blunt who's been shot full of Botox, she makes me welcome and doesn't do any of that one-upmanship thing that she usually does. Or at least, she doesn't do it for at least ten minutes.

She makes the tea, then sits down and says, "How's Max?"

"Um, oh, he's okay, thanks."

"Oh, good,"  says Ellen. Her tone's a bit funny, so I raise my eyebrows and say, "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," she says, and then, "Well, it's just -"

"Just what?" I say.

"He's always so friendly whenever I see him. So friendly. Know what I mean?" She giggles. (God, I hate gigglers.)

"Not really," I say. "Not to Mormons, anyway. These biscuits are great, by the way. What are they?"

"Lebkuchen," says Ellen. "I got them on my trip to Germany a couple of months ago."

Ouf. I can't say I recommend them, after all - they suddenly taste like sawdust in my mouth. Or maybe that's just all the questions I'm biting down on, like: "When were you in Germany? Who were you with? Was it my husband and is that why he claimed he didn't know the name of his hotel?"

I am bloody well not going to make a fool of myself. I am not, or not yet, anyway. Not 'til I find out exactly what is going on. But I am wondering if it's time to wake up and smell the roses. Low cunning may not be the sole preserve of those of us who work for politicians, after all.

Sex Tourism Becomes De Rigueur. Regardless of Destination.

Sam's here for the weekend again. Well, he's here in person, but I'm not at all sure where his head is at. Somewhere in the Isle of Skye, I think - home to his latest internet dating conquest. She has four children. Four - imagine that! I didn't think Sam even liked kids, but he seems pretty determined to try to like hers.

He spends the afternoon making us look at all the photos she's sent him. I can't see most of them as I seem to have picked the one spot where I can't see the computer screen properly, probably because Max has elbowed me out of the way.

He's only supposed to be faking interest out of politeness, but then I catch a glimpse of Shona and realise why he's paying such close attention. I wouldn't have thought you could buy underwear like that out in the wilds of Scotland.

"I'll be seeing that in the flesh next weekend," says Sam.

"Huh," I say. "Not if she's got four children, you won't." Does he know nothing about teenagers?

"They're going to their dad's," says Sam, "So we all know what that means, eh?"

How on earth does Sam think a love affair with someone who lives on Skye is going to last? It'll be almost as daft as Johnny's idea that he and I can carry on a "relationship" while he's still living in Russia. There must be a nice girl nearer to home, who would suit Sam just as well.

Ha! I realise that, if we leave "nice" out of the equation, I have the perfect solution.

"Well, if you don't mind kids part-time," I say, 'why don't you ask Ellen out on a date? Northwick's a hell of a lot nearer to where you live than the bloody Isle of Skye."

This is a cunning plan - devised on the spur of the moment - to kill two birds with one stone. I am such a creative thinker when under pressure. Sometimes.

"I don't like Ellen," says Sam.

"Bugger," I say, at the same time as Max says, "Why on earth not?" The answer to that should be obvious, as far as I'm concerned.

"You said she makes a lot of noise during sex," says Sam. "I can't be doing with all that. Whatever would my lodgers think?"

"Same as me, probably" I say. "That she protests too much."

"Are you questioning my sexual capabilities?" says Sam. Oh, for goodness' sake, now he sounds like Dad, who - coincidentally - phones shortly afterwards.

"I'm thinking of selling the bungalow, Molly," he says. "So I wanted to take your advice first."

"What?" I say. "Why?"

"It's getting too big for me," says Dad. "It's okay at the moment, but when I get older, it's going to become a struggle."

Phew. So he can't be planning on bringing the Thai bride here after all. Dinah's going to be thrilled.

"And I'm a bit short of money with all these trips abroad," says Dad. "By the way, did I tell you I'm going to Thailand again next month?"

"No. How long for this time?"

"Three months, to see how I like living there," says Dad. Christ. I'm not telling Dinah.

"Well, make sure you let Dinah know," I say. "I'm not sure I'm can face it. I'm already worried about my blood pressure."

"You need a holiday," says Dad. "And some excitement in your life. I feel twenty years younger these days."

Good God - is it becoming unacceptable to have a sex life with someone who lives in the same town or city these days? Maybe I should redecorate our bedroom to resemble a hotel room, and buy a mini-bar and some headed stationery if I want to rejuvenate my marriage.

Or perhaps I could persuade Max to drive twenty times round the ring road before he heads for home. Then he could pretend he's off to a secret assignation in a far-flung location, and I could greet him either in a Scottish accent, or by saying "jiggy, jiggy" and swooshing my sarong. I'd have to buy a sarong first, but that's a minor detail.

It seems as if everyone thinks it's normal to travel to find sex, whether to Skye or Pattaya. At this rate, Northwick could even become the top sex tourism destination for International Directors of Global Oil Companies, who knows? Perhaps I count as exotic too - to someone with very short sight, or who has never seen a bearded lady before.