Hacking, Paranoia And A New Use For Green Ink

God, I wish this phone hacking story would go away. It only encourages The Boss's paranoia. Now he's convinced that his calls are being tapped again.

He mentions his theory to a local journalist this morning, despite my frantic head-shaking - but, luckily, the journo doesn't even bother to write it down. Maybe he's already tried listening in to Andrew's calls and only narrowly escaped being bored to death.

It's not as if anyone in their right mind would ever want to listen to an MP's voicemail. Or not to a backbench MP's, anyway. I can hardly bear to do it myself, given the number of demented messages that get left overnight. Usually a combination of incoherent screeching, alien sightings and death threats.

Mind you, I'd be quite happy for The News Of The World to hack into my telephone conversations - if their reporters made themselves useful by speaking to constituents while they were at it. I'd love to see how they'd cope with Miss Chambers, Mr Meeeurghn or even Mr Beales.

Talking of Mr Beales, I have a very nasty shock at lunchtime, when someone calls from the lobby on the intercom.

"I need to speak to my MP," says the man. "It's an emergency."

When I ask for further details, he doesn't reply, so there's no choice but for me to go downstairs and investigate. Well, I suppose there would be a choice if the MP in question didn't have a mouthful of my sandwich and apparently no intention of moving until he's eaten the whole thing. The end of Recess can't come soon enough to stop me starving to death.

When I reach the lobby, there is Mr Beales, pacing round and round in circles and muttering to himself.

"Oh," I say. "I didn't realise it was you. Your voice didn't sound familiar."

"That's because we haven't met," says the man, extending a clammy hand. "Reg Beales. My brother told me to come and see you. Said you'd be able to help."

Oh, dear God. There are two of them? Is there no end to life's cruel jokes?

I stand there like a complete idiot, with my mouth hanging open in disbelief, while Reg continues:

"It's the penalty points system. It's bloody unfair, that's what it is, and it needs changing. Sharpish."

"I've already explained to your brother that there's nothing I can do about his speeding ticket - because he was speeding," I say. "And as for the charge of dangerous driving, he admits himself that he did hit the policeman - "

"I'm not talking about our Edmund," says Reg. "It's me. I've just got another three points for speeding, so now I'm up to twelve. So I'm going to lose my HGV licence and my business if nothing's done. And it's not my fault."

Honestly, it must run in the family. Probably some weird form of ADHD or something. A total inability to learn from experience, or to take responsibility for one's actions. But Reg seems to be expecting a reply, so I try to be patient. (That was another of my stupid New Year's resolutions.)

"So what do you think should be done about it, then?" I say.

"They need to change the rules," says Reg. "HGV drivers should be allowed to get twice as many points as ordinary drivers before they lose their licences, because they have to drive more miles. And it's their livelihoods on the line."

"Not to mention the lives of the general public," I say, under my breath. I can't think of anything more acceptable to add out loud, so I'm quite relieved when Greg walks through the door, and saves me the bother.

He looks at Reg, does a double-take, and then says,

"Molly, we're late for that meeting."

Sometimes, Greg isn't half as daft as he looks. His timely intervention enables me to make a quick escape, although I do have to promise to write to Mike Penning at the DfT to put forward Reg's suggestion about doubling the penalty points allowance for HGV drivers.

I'm just hoping the Minister won't think it's a good idea and decide to implement it. You never can tell with the Coalition, which is a bit unnerving to say the least.

"We need a code," says Greg, when I tell him all about it.

"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Not you as well. No-one cares what The Boss says when he's on the phone. Half of it's unintelligible anyway."

"No, not to stop hacking, Molly, you loon. To indicate to the Minister that we know that what we've just written is ridiculous, and that the constituent in question is barking mad."

Now that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we should start printing our own letters in green ink. I wonder if it's more expensive than black?

Bloody Men, Again - And The Dangers Of Apple-Bobbing.

Is it any wonder I occasionally have a less than favourable opinion of men? As if it's not bad enough having to put up with The Boss and a grumpy, James Blunt-adoring husband on a daily basis, then there are the constituents as well.

Today's surgery is ghastly. First Mr Beales turns up bearing more photos of the policeman who gave him his speeding ticket.

"See?" he says. "He's not wearing his luminous jacket again."

"Ah," says Andrew. "Yes, I do see." He passes the pictures to me.

"He's also not wearing his uniform," I say. "And is that a pub garden?"

"Might've been. Can't quite recall now." Mr Beales shuffles about a bit as he says this - always a dead giveaway that he's up to something.

"Well, was the policeman even on duty when you photographed him? I don't think they're required to wear high-vis clothing in their leisure time, you know."

"Molly does have a point there," says Andrew. "Good photos, though."

"Well, the policeman has a head," I say. "Which is always a bonus. Though I do think Mr Beales should check the anti-stalking legislation, don't you?"

"Hmm," says Andrew, while Mr Beales glares at me through his paedophile glasses. I will keep forgetting about his shotgun licence. And that bloody dog.

Next up is Angie Osman. I haven't seen her since early May, when she brought me a bunch of flowers for sorting out her husband Mehmet's Indefinite Leave to Remain.

This case was a small triumph, actually, as the couple's marriage had initially been treated as being a marriage of convenience, purely because Angie was ten years older than Mehmet.

It's funny how that's so rarely claimed when a male British pensioner marries a twenty-five year old Thai girl. Or it would be funny, if I wasn't expecting Dad to do much the same thing any time soon.

Angie doesn't look very happy today, though.

"Are you okay?" I ask. Bad move - as she promptly bursts into tears.

Andrew looks horribly uncomfortable but does produce some (cleanish) tissues from one of his many pockets, while I try to calm Angie down. Finally she's capable of speech.

"Mehmet's left me," she says, in between sporadic sobs.

Neither Andrew or I can believe it, and we don't really know how to handle the situation - though we blunder our way through various expressions of sympathy. Both of us are unprepared for what Angie says next, though:

"So I want you to do something about him. Urgently."

"Well, have you tried Relate?" I say. We can hardly kidnap Mehmet and drag him back, after all.

"No, that's no good," she says. "I want you to write to the Border Agency and get his Leave to Remain revoked. That'll teach the bastard to play me for a fool."

Andrew finally manages to persuade Angie to go home and think about it, on the basis that retaliation of this sort might not be the best thing for her, though I think it'd do her a power of good - if it were feasible.

I suppose there's no hurry, anyway - revenge is a dish best eaten cold, or so Greg says when I ask him if he's come up with a way of dealing with Vicky yet. As soon as surgery is over, Andrew takes her for lunch and we don't see either of them for the rest of the day.

I'm not sure if they'll even deign to turn up to this evening's Labour Party Bonfire Night do. Somehow I can't quite see toffee apples and pints of beer being Vicky's thing, and The Boss still seems to think that everyone in the Party's ready to oust him at the first opportunity, so it might be better if they both stay away.

I just wish I could get out of it, too - but Josh is so determined to win the apple bobbing this year, that I've got no choice but to go - especially as Max isn't coming with us.

He's not yet confident enough of his recent conversion to a non-smoker to risk attending a social occasion, or that's what he claims, anyway. He's going to pick Connie up from the station instead, and take her straight home as she says she'll be too tired to be sociable.

At least Greg has promised to help me pull Josh's head out of the bucket if it gets stuck again. After the day I've had, a repeat of that is the last thing I need. Though I can think of someone Turkish whose head I'd gladly shove under water at the drop of a hat.

Collective Male Madness. An Under-Reported Problem.

God knows what's going on this week. The more I dither about meeting up with Johnny again, the keener he gets. It's most peculiar. I can't help thinking that both of us should be making more effort to sort out our marriages - if we don't want our kids having to deal with sort of parental nonsense that Dinah and I face on a regular basis.

Dad didn't even mention the Thai bride during his last phone call, but I have a horrible feeling that that doesn't mean she's out of the picture, and Dinah agrees. She says that the rule of thumb with Dad is that, the less he tells you, the worse whatever he's up to really is. A bit like Josh.

Mind you, I might be well-advised to keep Johnny happy. Not for more roses - the Joan Collins debacle was far too bad for my blood pressure - but because my attempt to sort things out with Max isn't exactly going well.

It would help if he didn't keep being so late home from work. I can't believe that one old lady can need so many out-of-hours visits. It's not as if Max is responsible for Care in the Community, which usually seems to be my bloody job. In fact, I'm not even sure that I believe in this Mrs Bloom at all.

It's as if all the men I know are caught up in some sort of collective madness. It's probably George Osborne's fault. Everyone who calls today seems to be freaking about about how bad the news is going to be in tomorrow's Comprehensive Spending Review.

Everyone except for Mr Beales, that is. He has much more important things on his mind when he comes to the office this afternoon. He wants a progress report on what I've managed to get done about his speeding ticket.

"Well, nothing," I say. "You already told me you were speeding. Just pay the fine."

"But what about this charge of dangerous driving?" he says.

"Well, you need to talk to your solicitor about that," I say. "I'm not qualified to give you legal advice."

"Doesn't seem like you're much good at anything. It's simple." He sighs, as if I am a complete half-wit, and then continues, speaking very slowly - just to make his point.

"I. Only. Hit. The Policeman. Because. He wasn't. Wearing. A Luminous. Jacket."

Gah. Does he never give up? I'm sure I'm hyperventilating.

Mr Beales waits for me to finish coughing, and then says, triumphantly,

"And he still isn't wearing the bloody thing either - another accident just waiting to happen."

"How do you know that?" I say.

"I'm a photographer," he says. "We are used to working undercover. I'll send you the evidence as soon as I get it, and then we can talk about what to do next."

For God's sake. What we should do next is to get Mr Beales committed, though maybe I could ask him to check out Mrs Bloom first, if he really is any good at stake-outs. And he could find out who Ellen was with when she bought those Lebkuchen, while he's at it - if that doesn't make me sound completely paranoid. Maybe this week's madness isn't exclusively male, after all.