An All-Too-Brief Absence Of Lunacy, And Josh Discovers That Not Everything Is As Funny As He Thinks It Is.

Talk about tempting fate. I've finally caught up with the backlog - at last - and have just congratulated myself that I won't have to deal with any more nutters until next Tuesday, when Josh decides to send me a text:

"Mum, I'm at the Rajah Curry House. Can you come and pick me up? Now? I think I might be about to die."

"Why?" I text back. "What's wrong with you?"

They say a picture is worth a thousand words but, as for the the one that Josh sends me in reply, well - oh, my God. I have never seen a face as red as that in my life. And I'm positive that no-one's eyeballs should stick out that far.

I dial his number, while grabbing my coat, and hunting for the car keys in my bag.

"Umpf," says Josh, when he finally answers. He pauses for what feels like an hour, and then adds: "Inaloo."

The latter turns out to be a dual-purpose comment, designed for economy of effort, though I don't discover this until I arrive at the Rajah, having probably earned a million penalty points for speeding past every single camera along the way.

Once there, I find Robbie and two of Josh's other mates, all sitting comfortably at a table, laughing like fools, and incapable of explaining anything, except that Josh is "in the loo" due to the consumption of a "Vindaloo."

They think the whole thing is much funnier than I do, that's all I can say. And much, much funnier than does Josh, who still looks distinctly unamused when I finally get him out of the Rajah, and into the car.

"What the hell possessed you to order one of those?" I ask him, once I've managed to manoeuvre out of my parking space, without hitting the inconsiderate BMW that has boxed me in.

Josh doesn't answer - probably because his head is stuck so far out of the window that he can't hear a thing I'm saying over the sound of the air that's rushing past. He's gasping at it, like a panting dog, albeit one with unusually bright red ears.

"Josh!" I say again, much louder. "Why a Vindaloo - of all the bloody stupid things to have?"

Josh turns his face towards me. Despite the cool night air, it still has a very definite glow.

"I thought it was a joke curry. Kind of like a Korma," he says.

So much for an absence of nutters until I return to work. Though I suppose I should be grateful that Josh picked the Rajah, and not the Star of India instead. I'd never have been allowed back in there, teenage Vindaloo emergency or not.

The Necessity to Pass a Psychological Fitness Test Before Using the Phone.

God, the nutters are out in force today. Or on the phone, anyway. All the usual suspects call first thing - I think they store up all their bile over the weekend and are just bursting to vent it at someone by Monday morning. And I always seem to be the recipient of choice.

Miss Chambers is in full flood about her neighbours, who she still thinks are stealing her electricity. She claims they've rigged up some sort of Heath Robinson-style construction between her attic and theirs, and wants me to get the Police to take her seriously. This would be an impossible task, as she is completely barking mad.

Then Mr Beales phones. The conversation is the usual surreal experience, though this time it's not about his lousy photographs, which makes a change.

"Bloody speed cameras," he says, without preamble.

"Oh, yes?" I am bored already.

"I've been done for speeding!"

"And were you?" I stare out of the window and wonder what the hell I am doing with my life. "Speeding, I mean?"

"Well, yeah - but I wouldn't have been. That bloody policeman was hiding in a bush!"

Oh, for Godsake. I have absolutely no patience with people who complain about being caught speeding. As far as I'm concerned, it's simple - if you don't want to be caught, then don't bloody well do it.

"I should just pay the fine and have done with it, if I was you," I say. "Was that all?"

"No - of course it isn't all. He wasn't wearing his luminous jacket!"

"What's that got to do with it?" Now he's going to tell me that, if he'd seen the policeman, he'd have been able to slow down, and wouldn't have got a speeding ticket. I could make a living from predicting the future.

"Well, I wouldn't have hit him if I'd seen him, would I?" says Mr Beales, as if that was obvious.

At lunchtime, Johnny replies to the email I sent him after Max's stunt at the party. He's booked us rooms  - rooms, plural - at the Marriott County Hall for the week after next. Our dirty mid-week "weekend" suddenly seems a horribly real prospect, and I want to change my mind, until I recall Max moving in on Annoying Ellen's neck like a predatory, if semi-conscious, slug - at which point I reply,  saying only, "Send details and see you then."

I still can't decide where Max's offence rates on the scale of marital infidelity. How much does something count when you're so drunk that you probably don't know where your feet are, let alone whether you're married?

I don't have time to analyse the situation further, as the phones just won't stop ringing. Now everyone wants to know why they are personally paying for Ian Huntley to sue for damages, not to mention having to fund any payout he may eventually receive in compensation.

Of course, the daily PLP briefing* is no help on this. In fact, it's never any help on anything as far as I can tell. Not if you would actually like to be able to answer a constituent's question, rather than side-stepping it and boasting instead about the Party's achievements. I always assume the briefings are written by policy wonks in Millbank, and only with MPs and SpAds* in mind.

By the time I get home, I never want to answer a phone again - so of course, the landline rings as soon as Josh has let me into the house.

"Are you Bonjour Freight Shippers?" What is this man talking about?

"Um, no - "

"Well, this was the number I got from 1471. I checked the last caller after I got your answer-phone message, as your man forgot to leave a number."

"Er, sorry - who is speaking, please?" I have had enough of surrealism for one day, thank you very much.

"Mr O'Nyons."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you are talking about. There must be some mistake."

"No," says Mr O'Nyons, speaking very slowly as if I am a halfwit. "The man who left the message said that you had a large shipment of onions that you had been asked to deliver to me, and that you wanted to confirm my address. "

Oh, Christ. Onions. O'Nyons. Bloody hell, do I need this?

"I'm very sorry, but I have never heard of Bonjour Freight Shippers, and I can only assume that there must have been an error at the exchange." My MP's office voice does come in useful sometimes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a family emergency to attend to."

I put the phone down, take a deep breath, and go upstairs. Josh is lying on his bed, laughing his head off.

"You are grounded," I say. "For the next ten years. And don't you dare touch that phone again while I am at work."

"You've got to admit it was funny, Mum," says Josh. "O'Nyons! What a muppet. Didn't mean to forget to put 141 in first, though."

I don't reply. I am married to a Botox Queen-snogger, I have Gary Glitter as a father, and I am raising a juvenile delinquent. I see nothing whatsoever to laugh about.



*SpAds - Special Advisors. Basically the same as me, but earning six times as much, and with better perks, and higher status. (And probably longer legs, too.)

*PLP briefings - daily email briefings from the Parliamentary Labour Party. Suffice to say that they are less than helpful to constituency caseworkers, as they provide "key messages" with which MPs and SpAds* can respond to media enquiries, but are little use in caseworkers' non-political role. We're expected to actually answer real questions! PLP briefings are also top secret - each page has the following warning attached: PLP briefings are the property of the Labour party. They are confidential and are for the use of registered members only. Any publishing or dissemination of PLP political briefing is prohibited and may be unlawful.