A Lovelorn Intern's Innovative Approach To Population Control, Or Why Special Cases Aren't Always Special.

Blimey, does everyone watch Newsnight these days? It certainly seems like it, if all the constituents who saw last night's programme are anything to go by.

Maybe their interest was caused by the fact that 71% of us now describe ourselves as middle class, if Deborah Mattinson's to be believed. I missed the percentage of those who also consider themselves to be squeezed, but I'd hazard a guess it's 100%.

I'd be a bit better-informed if the former statistic hadn't been the only thing that I managed to pick up while the programme was on - but I couldn't hear a bloody thing. First Max went ballistic when John Denham talked about public sector job cuts, and then Dad started bellowing about why no-one was mentioning pensioners and fixed incomes.

In the end, I got so tired of them both looking at me as if I had all the answers, that I gave up and went to bed with a book. I probably should have replied to some of Johnny's most recent emails instead, but the last thing I wanted was to get into a discussion with him about what constitutes the middle class.

He'd probably have claimed that he fell into that category, too, and then I'd have lost my temper and ruined all chance of romance. Not that I'm feeling very amorous today, anyway - especially not towards an International Director of a Global Oil Company who earns more in a day than I do in a month. Or even a year.

To be honest, I still can't work out at what point the "working poor" segue into the "squeezed middle" - not that the distinction seems to bother any of the usual suspects. As far as each one of them is concerned, they're the only one to suffer.

And, God, don't they go on about it? You'd think they'd feel embarrassed to complain so much in the light of what's happening in Japan, but there's absolutely no sign of that. It's really irritating and, to make matters worse, I'm the only one having to listen to them.

Greg claims he's busy working on something "top secret" for The Boss - which doesn't seem to have anything to do with casework and is probably party political - so I end up answering the phones by myself for most of the day.

Vicky's in the office, too, but she's still in a filthy mood and spends most of her time lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room, texting her friends and reading, "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus."

"If you're looking for guidance on The Boss, I reckon you'll need to go beyond our solar system for that," says Greg. "I'd give Stephen Hawking a call, if I were you."

Vicky turns a page, while pretending she hasn't heard a thing. Which is the same approach she takes to the phone that's ringing on the table right next to where she's sitting.

"For Christ's sake," I say, when I finally manage to end yet another call complaining about the effects of the cuts on the holiday plans of someone earning £40,000 a year. "Couldn't one of you answer the phone for a change? I've had just about enough of this."

"Well, you know what the problem is, Mol," says Greg. "Everyone thinks they're a special case these days."

I nod in recognition of what is undoubtedly a universal truth, and head for the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It's thirsty work listening to constituents complain, but at least my colleagues don't moan as well. Or Greg doesn't, anyway. Interns are a different matter.

"Well, some people are special cases," says Vicky, putting her book down, and clenching her fists as if preparing to square up to anyone unwise enough to disagree. "Those of us who are childless, for a start. I hate bloody people with kids."

"What?" I say, in disbelief. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Good job your parents didn't feel like that," says Greg, who always loves a fight. As long as it doesn't involve anything physical, of course.

Vicky glares at both of us, before launching into a sustained attack on people with children who "get all the perks", and who shouldn't expect society to help them bear the burden of their own "selfish desire to reproduce".

Greg and I listen in silence, which is usually the best tactic with a ranting constituent, and eventually she seems to run out of steam.

I'm not sure if she's worked out that the world wouldn't have lasted very long if everyone felt as she does, or whether she's simply given up trying to provoke. I don't really care, as long as she stops.

"Finished?" I say, as she looks down at her hands, then picks up her handbag and grabs her coat.

"For now," she says. "I've got to pop out. I've just broken a nail."

"Lucky for you someone else gave birth to a manicurist, then," says Greg. "Seeing as you can't fix it yourself."

"She's not a manicurist, you idiot," says Vicky. "She's a fully-qualified nail technician."

I don't know about that, but it's a joiner we'll be needing if Vicky keeps slamming the door so hard.

I go to check if it's still in its frame, while Greg waits for her to re-appear in the street below his window. Then he sticks out his tongue, puts his fingers to his ears and waggles them. He might not complain much, but I didn't say he was mature in every way.

"What the hell's got into her?" I say. "I thought she always wanted kids."

"She did," says Greg. "But maybe Andrew doesn't. He's already got some, if you recall?"

"Yes," I say. "But with his wife. Oh! Now I see what you mean."

Greg gives me an unnecessarily ironic round of applause, which I try my best to ignore by counting to ten. Out loud, or there'd be no point.

When I reach nine, he leans back in his chair and says:

"I knew you'd get there - in the end. As usual, we're not talking special case, we are talking fruit and nut."

Squeezed Until The Pips Hurt, As Well As The Teeth.

"Christ's sake," says Max this morning, while we're watching the breakfast news. "I'm getting a bit sick of this 'Squeezed Middle' thing. Have you seen what the people at the top of the band are earning? We should bloody well be so lucky."

"Funnily enough, you're not the first person to say that to me," I say. Which is a subtle hint that Max doesn't seem to pick up.

"And it'll be even worse when I lose my job," he says. "Our pips'll be squeaking all over the place."

"If you lose your job, not when," I say. "Think positive."

"At least you two are of working age," says Dad. "Whereas we poor pensioners are on a fixed income, you know."

God knows how Max and I refrain from squeezing a certain part of Dad's anatomy at that point - or from making sarcastic remarks about the terrible poverty he must be suffering if he can only afford half a dozen trips to Thailand a year, but we manage it somehow. Mainly by opting to leave for work earlier than usual - which proves to be a mistake, if by doing so I was hoping to escape discussion of people being metaphorically squeezed.

"That bloody phrase is already starting to become as annoying as 'hard-working people'," says Greg. "And far more meaningless, if the complaints we're getting are anything to go by. Listen to this."

I've got a horrible feeling that Greg may be considering a new career as a poet, if all the reading aloud he's been doing lately is anything to go by, but I keep quiet so as not to tempt fate.

Instead, I sit and fidget while he reads a very long letter from Philip Jervis, who's almost incandescent with rage at politicians' and the media's insistence on including people earning up to £44,000 in the category of those who are suffering the squeezing effect.

"I'm on £17,000 a year, and I'd happily swap any of those people," he writes. "Especially as I live in a rented house, and both my twins have had to come back home after university. Neither of them have managed to get jobs yet, and their food alone costs almost as much as they get in Jobseeker's Allowance, yet I can't claim anything for them now that they're adults - not even a share of the rent, which is going up in April. And the household bills have gone through the roof  as well - what with the kids both stuck at home all day. Ed Miliband needs to think of a new phrase that separates me from people earning almost three times as much."

Now I'm really anxious about how Max and I will cope once - I mean, if - our income drops, especially while Josh is still working so few hours at the cinema. And what if Connie can't get a job after she graduates? It doesn't bear thinking about.

"What are you going to reply to that, then?" I say to Greg, while counting myself lucky that I wasn't the one who opened the letter.

"God knows," he says. "Though I'll probably refer Mr Jervis to the CAB and ask them to do a Better Off Calculation. And check if there really aren't any benefits he's entitled to."

That's a good idea, but I'm already pretty sure that Mr J is going to turn out to be earning just over the threshold for benefit, like loads of other constituents who are equally upset about this. And like Max and I will be, too - when he loses his job. If, I mean. Bloody hell, I need to get a grip.

"What are you looking so stressy about, Mol?" says Greg. "At least you're not in that situation."

"Not yet I'm not," I say. "But Max is probably going to lose his job before the end of the month. Or might, anyway."

I'm hoping Greg will tell me not to worry, and take over on the positive thinking front, seeing as I'm not doing too well at it - but he doesn't.

He just stares at me in horror, and then says, "How the hell will you manage then, Mol?" - which doesn't make me feel any better at all.

Nor does his decision to remind me that, if you're just over the benefit threshold, you're also excluded from "hidden extras" like free dental treatment and free prescriptions.

"Have you had your tooth fixed yet?" he says. "Since you broke it when you freaked out about that email you'd sent to Johnny?"

"No," I say. "Oh, God. Do you think I could claim it was an industrial injury? It was partly caused by the stress of the job, after all - and I bet you tooth-grinding's an occupational hazard amongst MPs' staff."

He nods in agreement, and is about to say something when the phone starts ringing, and I automatically pick up the receiver. Pavlov's Dogs had nothing on me.

Greg rolls his eyes in exasperation, and decides to make his point by resorting to mime instead - which seems to involve baring his teeth as much as he can, while pointing at them at the same time. He obviously thinks he's very funny, but he's not the only Marcel Marceau in this office. I make an effective gesture using two fingers and some extravagant wrist movements before I begin to speak into the receiver.

"Good afternoon, Andrew Sinclair's Office," I say. "Can I help you?"

See - a perfectly trained animal. Whose teeth are already beginning to clench with anticipation.

"Edmund Beales here," says Mr Beales Number One. "What about those stupid Special Forces people, then? Talk about a total shambles. And what were they wearing when they landed in Libya, anyway? High-visibility jackets, or something?"

I know exactly where this is going, even before he adds:

"That's probably why there were none left over for that Policeman I ran over to wear."

I bite down on yet another reply, and immediately wish I hadn't. Ow, ow, ow.

Honestly, my family might not be better off if I gave up work, but my teeth definitely would. I shall be a toothless old crone if this keeps up.