The Unexpected Consequences Of Aversion Therapy, Age Gaps, And Marriage.

Oh, bloody, bloody hell. Now Dad's in hospital and I'm sure it's all Dinah's fault. (I told her her supposedly-salutary lessons never worked.)

I've just got off the phone to Richard Levinson, who's complaining about how overpaid some Council officers are, when my mobile starts ringing.

"Shit, Mol," says Dinah. "You won't believe what's happened."

"Oh, I probably will," I say. "I work for an MP, remember. Nothing much surprises me any more."

"Yeah, well," she says. "You won't have seen this one coming. Dad's got to have a heart bypass operation. First thing tomorrow morning."

Oh, dear God. I bet that's because Dinah told him that lie about Connie having a sixty-five-year-old boyfriend. The shock was obviously far too much - not that Dinah's taking any responsibility for what has happened.

"Coincidence," she says, when I ask whether she thinks her attempt at aversion therapy may have backfired. "More likely to be the effect of trying to keep up with the Thai bride that's done it. So what are we going to do? Someone'll have to go down to Dorset tonight."

Why is it that when someone says "someone", they usually mean, "you"?

"Well, who?" I say. "I've got to work."

"Yes, I know," she says, "But your kids are much older than mine, and Max will be there to keep an eye on things anyway. I am a single parent, don't forget."

Honestly, it's like a game of top trumps, which I am always doomed to lose. Maybe that's what Cameron's tax allowance proposals were designed to compensate married people for? There must be some benefits in return for all that hard labour at the coalface of marriage, but getting out of things definitely isn't one of them.

"All right," I say. "You win. I'll ask The Boss if I can take unpaid leave. That's bound to make me even more popular with him than I already am."

"But he's a socialist," says Dinah. "So he'll believe in treating his employees well."

I can't think of anything to say to that ridiculous statement, so I content myself with drawing loops of barbed wire on my notepad instead. Then I create cages around the loops. God knows what Freud would say if he ever saw my doodles.

"Maybe we were too harsh about the Thai bride," says Dinah. "Just think, if she'd been in the UK, you wouldn't have needed to go."

"If you hadn't freaked Dad out and nearly given him a heart attack, I wouldn't have had any reason to," I say, but Dinah pretends she hasn't heard, tells me to call her back when I've sorted everything out, and hangs up.

Once I've done a bit of swearing, I realise that, not only am I patently rubbish at guilt-tripping people, but I've also lost any sense of what's important. What on earth am I doing, trying to score points against Dinah and fretting about work, when I should be worrying about Dad? I need to get a grip, request emergency leave and go home to pack.

After all - it's not as if anyone ever puts "esteemed workaholic" on a headstone, is it? And, if Greg's right about the general uselessness of what we do at work, I doubt anyone will notice my absence anyway.

Why Being The Pack Leader Means Different Things In Thailand And Russia

This Wikileaks thing just goes on and on, doesn't it? And everyone seems so surprised by what's coming out. Greg and I just don't get it - what did people think happened behind the scenes?

"One minute everyone's a conspiracy theorist," he says," and the next they're shocked at what governments get up to. You'd think people never watched Spooks."

"I know," I say. "But at least these leaked cables make The Boss' faux-pas look pretty minor."

"Oh, I reckon Andrew'd give his princely namesake a run for his money in the tactless stakes," says Greg.

Maybe The Boss has got more in common than he thought with the monarchy he claims to despise, though I bet he'd rather be like Putin. Talking of whom, Johnny emails me after lunch and says,

"You can call me Alpha Dog from now on. And I'm ordering you to have virtual sex with me right now."

It's odd how Johnny's bossiness is so sexy when Max's isn't. At least, it's not when it involves him making unilateral decisions to lend nymphomaniacs our car. I'm still stewing about that, when Johnny gets impatient, and sends another email:

"Tell me what you're wearing."

"Jacket, cardigan, woolly dress, t-shirt, and four - no five - thermal vests," I say. "Oh, and gloves and my coat. The boiler's still broken."

"Ah, well, I've got a conference call in five minutes," he says. "There probably isn't time for you to take all that off, let alone get down and dirty. Not with the speed you're typing at."

Honestly, I'm doing the best I can under difficult circumstances.

"Yes, well, Mr International Director of a Global Oil Company," I say. "I bet you have no idea what it's like to be cold. You just pocket the profits extracted from chilly mortals like me, while expecting virtual sex acts in sub-zero temperatures."

"Oh, don't start going all socialist on me again, woman," says Johnny. "We've got better things to do. And we're short of time, as I keep trying to impress upon you."

He's right, so I try to get into the spirit of the thing, but his odd language is bothering me.

"Since when do you say things like 'down and dirty'?" I say.

"Since I became the leader of the pack," he says.

This kills all desire stone dead. Has Johnny forgotten the ongoing trauma of my Dad's recent transformation into the Gary Glitter of Dorset? I wait ten minutes and then reply:

"Sorry, had to take an urgent call from Julian Assange. He's investigating leaks from oil companies."

That'll teach Johnny, though the usual suspects must be telepathic as they immediately start phoning and wanting to discuss what Assange is up to, and I'm bored stiff with the whole thing by the time I get home from work. It's just a pity that the rest of my family aren't.

First Mum phones to ask me whether I think the stories are true, and then Connie calls to ask the same thing.

"Yes," I say. "Probably. Now change the subject and tell me all your news."

"Well, I had an email from Grandad earlier today," says Connie. "He says he's homesick but he can't come home."

"Why?" I say. "Has Porn-Poon cleaned him out? Can't he even afford a plane ticket back from Thailand now?"

"No," says Connie. " I don't think it's that. He misses Dorset, but says that all the women in this UK are too old for him."

I am trying very hard not to think about Gary Glitter - for the second time today - but I can't help myself.

"What - all of them?" I say.

"Apparently," says Connie.

Oh, for Goodness' sake. The entire female population of this country is too old for a man of seventy-five? I despair. And I bet Stepmothers Mark I, II and III would too, not to mention Mum.

"Anyway," says Connie. "I spoke to one of the neurologists at work about it this afternoon. Described how Grandad's behaving and all that."

"And what did this neurologist say?" I ask.

"That it sounded a bit like frontal lobe dementia," says Connie. "It can cause complete disinhibition. But don't worry, I don't think it's hereditary."

Funnily enough, that thought hadn't occurred to me. Unless it doesn't just apply to a fetish for young Thai girls, and Putin lookalikes are included. I'd better phone Connie back and check.

A Depressing Tale of the Shambles that is Housing Benefit.

Today's surgery seems to be all about Housing Benefit. The whole system is a shambles. For every Somali family living in million-pound luxury in the West End, there are God knows how many other people struggling to keep even the most modest roof over their heads.

Today we have two such enquiries. The first is from Mr & Mrs Farrow, a nice couple in their late fifties. Mrs Farrow is chronically sick and can't work, and Mr Farrow recently got made redundant. They have been forced to claim Housing Benefit for their two-bedroomed council bungalow. So what, you might say - their housing costs are being covered, aren't they? Well, yes, except that the Farrow children are grown up and have moved away. So the Council have decided that they are under-occupying their house, and will only pay a proportion of their rent as Housing Benefit.

Mr & Mrs Farrow have no income with which to make up the shortfall and with her health problems and his age and lack of IT skills, I can't see this being resolved by either of them finding employment any time soon. They are terrified that they will fall into arrears with their rent, and end up being evicted. They've been told that they could always seek an exchange to a one-bedroomed house - but they haven't got the money to pay removal expenses, even if they could find someone to swap with.

Not only that, but they've already had to bail out one of their sons by allowing him to move back home on more than one occasion, and this wouldn't even have been posible had they not had the other bedroom. There seems to be no option but for them to try to "find" the additional rent from Mr Farrow's Jobseeeker's Allowance. The Boss agrees to write to the Council and beg them to use their discretion, but I'm not optimistic about the result.

The business about the Farrow's son is thrown into sharp relief later on in surgery, when Gemma McKeown comes in to see The Boss. It's unusual for someone as young as Gemma to even visit their MP - she's only twenty-three, but has been self-supporting for some five years after a breakdown in relations with her family. She's also recently lost her job, and it looks as if she will soon be homeless too.

I am shocked to hear that young people under the age of 25 are only entitled to approximately 50% of the Housing Benefit payable to people over that age. How stupid is that? Their landlords don't charge them less just because they are younger. The amount of Housing Benefit Gemma receives isn't even enough to cover the cost of her room in a shared house in one of Northwick's grottiest areas, and homelessness is a very real threat if something isn't done. She doesn't have parents like Mr & Mrs Farrow who will take her in.

Her chances of employment don't seem much better than the Farrows' either, as the only jobs she's been qualified to apply for so far have all been on contracts which guarantee only between zero and four hours a week. Nothing like enough hours to reassure her that she will be able to earn enough to pay her rent, even if she succeeds in getting one of the jobs. God knows what we can do to help her, but I'm going to try bloody hard to think of something.

My head hurts by the end of surgery, and even Andrew is uncharacteristically quiet. I think it's dawned on him that he can't blame this Housing Benefit fiasco on the coalition, and he was even sensitive enough  - for once - to avoid adding to the constituents' misery by scare-mongering as to what the ConDems' proposed changes to Housing Benefit might do to make matters worse.

All I can think of is that Connie and Josh could find themselves in Gemma's situation, if Max and I were ever to split up, and become unable to provide a roof over their heads in an emergency. I am going to turn Johnny down. Any transient pleasure he might be able to provide would be as nothing compared to how shitty I would feel if I contributed to making my children homeless. I might be capable of low cunning in the face of the long Recess, but I am fundamentally a good person. At least, I hope I am. Who knows - I might even still be a socialist at heart?

Unexpected Generosity, and its Unfortunate Consequences.

At the risk of sounding even more like Victor Meldrew than I usually do, I don't believe it! The perfect end to a perfect day, I don't think. Honestly, why do the rich have all the luck?

I left it far too late to pack last night, so am tired and grumpy when I wake up after only a few hours' sleep. If Max and I didn't have to spend all our money on this stupid hotel room for David and Susie's renewal of their wedding vows, we could have had a bloody mini-break or something, and that might have renewed our relationship. We couldn't even afford to book a room with breakfast thrown in, and Connie and Josh are furious that they will have to share our family room. I'm not any keener on the idea than they are. Bang goes any chance of marital relations. No pun intended.

The journey to the Midlands is bloody awful too. Gone are the days when we could distract the kids with nursery rhyme tapes, or by playing I-Spy. No, now we have to listen to Josh's horrendous Screamo music, in an attempt to drown out the constant bickering between him and Connie. When we finally drive up to the restored priory, it looks like an episode of Footballer's Wives on the forecourt, and a press pack is crowded round a couple whose weekly dentistry bill is probably more than my yearly salary. Josh informs me that the groom plays for a premiership team, and that his new bride is a "Z-list celebrity."

I'm feeling very Z-list myself, and am so humiliated when we have to sneak through the crowd, while trying to hide the Tescos carrier bag containing our breakfast supplies.

"You could've at least gone to Waitrose," I say to Max, but he's too busy gawking at an Aston Martin that has just pulled up.

Things don't improve when we get to our room. I've just finished stashing the milk and orange juice in the mini-bar, and hiding the Tupperware container of cereal at the back of the wardrobe, when David phones from his room.

"I've booked a table for 8:00pm in the restaurant downstairs," he says. "We're all meeting there, as everyone should have arrived by then."

Oh God. I gesture frantically at Max, who is staring out of the window at the Aston Martin and doesn't notice.

"Um, David - can I call you back in a minute?" I say. "I've just got out of the shower."

Max, to his credit, realises the seriousness of the situation immediately, once I explain. He's uncharacteristically decisive.

"Phone him back and tell him Connie and Josh are fussy eaters," he says. "Say we've promised them a takeaway and we'll join everyone for drinks after they've finished their meal."

So at 7:30pm, we are still hunting for a takeaway in an unknown town miles from the rural idyll of the priory. In fact, we'd still be searching now, if it wasn't for one of Josh's more useful iPhone apps which finds us the nearest fish and chip shop. We gobble down pale, sweaty chips - with the added luxury of fishcakes for the kids - and then race back to the hotel, where Max and I try to make Primark look convincingly like Prada. I doubt it works, plus I'm sure I still smell of vinegar when we finally make it downstairs and into the restaurant.

All the other guests are already well-oiled. They've wiped out four courses and are still eating pudding. There are empty wine bottles everywhere, and I have a sudden panic that, at the end of the evening, Max and I will get caught up in that nightmare scenario where the richest person in the room - who has inevitably eaten and drunk the most - decides it would be a good idea to "split the bill," and won't remember that we haven't even eaten anything.

Max seems to be enjoying himself despite this, and is attracting rather too much attention from the wife of David's business partner. She looks rather like a horse clad in Boden. Admittedly, her husband is a chinless wonder, and I'd turn him down despite his millions, but I still think she's going too far when she tries to sit on Max's lap. Maybe she thinks he's a "bit of rough." Not rough enough, in my opinion, as he doesn't throw her off, but just puts up with it, looking bemused but also a bit flattered.

I get my own back by paying close attention to a gorgeous man on my left, who resembles the Milk Tray Man, but with the benefit of conversational skills. I have no idea what he does for a living beyond "working in the City," but I must be holding my end up pretty well as, during a lull in the general conversation, he says in a rather carrying voice,

"God, Molly. You are so articulate. What d'you do for a living?"

Quick as a flash, David's in there.

"She one of those socialists, Miles. Never grew out of it. Takes pride in abject failure."

I will not rise to it. I will not. Who needs enemies with friends like David? Has he forgotten that we used to share a flat, back in the days when he was also broke?

"Aren't you going to call me a fascist, Mol, and defend what you believe in?" Honestly, he never gives up.

"After the week I've had, I have no idea what I believe in," I say, but luckily he's asking for the bill and isn't listening to me. I breathe a sigh of relief, but as usual, nothing good lasts for long.

David delivers the coup de grace. As all the rich kids start scrabbling for their platinum cards, he says,

"Don't worry, this one's on me, guys."

I cannot believe it. I can't. David has never picked up a tab in a restaurant in all the years I've known him - and my family ate chips in the car because we couldn't afford to join them all for dinner! I didn't even get a bloody fishcake. David is right: my life really is a walking bloody disaster.

Max just keeps repeating, "This one's on me, guys," all the way back to our room. The only good thing is that Connie and Josh seem to have bonded over the general uselessness of their parents, and so there is no bickering as we all get ready for bed - but I think I'd feel better if there was. Sometimes silence can be far louder than words.

Where Are The Unions When You Need Them?

God, I'm depressed. Not only is it Friday, which means The Boss is here almost all day for his surgery and a seemingly-endless series of largely pointless meetings; but I have just worked out that, if I am one of the lowest-paid members of staff on the whole HOC* payroll, than that must mean that Greg is being paid more than me.

He's half my age, and a f*ckwit - a loveable one, admittedly, but I still have to open all his supposedly-finished letters when he's not looking and vet them before I take them to the post.

This is a precautionary measure, brought in after last year's debacle when Greg libelled the LibDem councillor, and then gave the poor man's home address to our most violent constituent. And yet Greg is worth more than me? I think I may have to go on strike.

I'm a little reluctant to risk direct action, given that there is a recession on - but that doesn't seem to be stopping the BA staff and Unite, so I phone Martin, and ask him if the union will support me with a mass walk-out if I do strike for a decent wage.

The answer's not exactly good news. While he'll apparently be behind me "100% in spirit," Martin asks if I realise that the union has no authority over individual MPs as they are, in effect, all separate small businesses? I say that I have obviously been had under the Trades Descriptions Act, and ask him exactly what I've been paying my subs all these years for.

He seems oddly reluctant to answer this question and, when he says that, as The Boss is a left-wing socialist, I surely don't need the union to persuade him to do the right thing anyway, I admit defeat. Honestly - how can a union rep be so bloody naive?

The only highlight of the day is another email from Johnny Hunter, even though he sounds very unimpressed with my job. So am I at the moment, but I would like him to pretend that my working life is slightly more significant in the scheme of things.

I suppose working for an MP isn't ever likely to sound very impressive to an International Director of a Global Oil Company - I do like that phrase, hence the capital letters. Johnny probably has hundreds of MPs in his pocket, metaphorically-speaking of course.

It's just a shame that The Boss is unlikely to be powerful enough to merit being one of them, otherwise maybe Johnny might be able to use his influence to get me a pay-rise. After all, it doesn't exactly look as if the union's going to be any bloody help.


*HOC - House of Commons.