The New Cold War And Strategies To Deal With It.

God, I had a terrible dream last night. I was standing outside the old Labour Party HQ in Millbank trying to hold the line against the massed troops of North Korea, who all looked like mini-Ellens. By myself, so this turned out about as well as you'd expect.

Those marching clones scare the shit out of me. I get the shivers every time I see them on the news, even when it isn't as freezing cold as it is today. They're much more frightening than the Russian soldiers who used to parade in front of Brezhnev* - probably because they look so much more focused. Like a demented band of pre-teen baton twirlers.

Anyway, my encounter with them leaves me with a sense of dread that lingers for most of the day. Mr Warner seems to be having the same problem. He comes to the office to tell me that TV Licensing still won't believe that he doesn't own a TV, and that things seems to be getting worse.

"Things are coming to a head," he says. "Everyone's out to get me now - including the bloody Council."

"Why do you think that?" I say.

"They haven't collected my rubbish for the last two months. Not since I wrote to TV Licensing and said I'd shoot anyone who tried to break into my flat. They must share information."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case. It's probably just a coincidence."

I make a note of the last date upon which he remembers his bin being emptied, and promise to see what I can do. Then I stand up and wait for Mr W to take the hint, but he just stays in his chair, fidgeting, and plucking at his clothing.

"Was there anything else?" I say.

Talk about a very bad move. Mr W stands up.

"Do you want to see my ulcer?" he says, as he drops his trousers.

Mr W's legs put me right off my lunch, so I donate my sandwich to the Greg winter stomach fuel fund and send Johnny an email instead. I attach a photo of my new haircut to give him a laugh.

"Wow. You look great," he says. "I'd be really proud to walk into a room with a woman who looked like that on my arm."

"Are you taking the piss?" I say. "I am already having a very bad day, so it's inadvisable."

"No. For Christ's sake, woman, can't you ever take a compliment? Thank you is the appropriate response."

Honestly - whatever must Johnny's wife look like if he thinks my haircut is okay? I apologise, anyway, and blame my grumpiness on the fact that, not only did I spend last night protecting the Labour Party from the North Koreans - singlehandedly -  but I am also freezing to death.

"What the hell are you talking about? North Koreans? And have you forgotten that I live in Russia?" he says. "Generally considered to be somewhat chillier than the UK?"

I have the last laugh on that one, though - as it turns out that it's colder here today than it is in bloody Moscow, although Johnny is quick to point out that it's much worse there in the depths of winter.

"Minus 10 is common," he says.

"Good job I don't live with you then," I say. "How on earth does your wife manage?"

"Oh, she has a mink coat."

The phones start ringing again then, so I don't manage to send my anti-fur response until after the office has closed. Johnny is completely undeterred.

"Yes, yes, PETA* and nasty fur coats - sometimes, darling, you are so predictable," he says. "But just wait until you've tried a winter here without one. You'll do a Naomi Campbell within days."

I'm not at all sure about this last comment. What's with the use of "you will" instead of "you would"? Mind you, with the Cold War that's raging at home at the moment, it's a very tempting thought.

Just imagine: instead of being Molly Bennett, overlooked wife and under-rated MP's caseworker, I could be Molly Hunter, wife of an adoring (if bossy) oil baron. I'd spend my life dancing at embassy parties and swanning around Moscow in designer clothes.

Including a fur coat which, even if I didn't object to it on moral grounds, would make me look like a Ewok. I suppose I'd better don my Primark jacket and head for home.


*Brezhnev, Leonid Ilyich. For those of you too young to remember him.
*PETA - People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, for whom Naomi Campbell was a spokesperson. Until she started wearing fur again.

Josh Bennett - A Jack Bauer For Our Times, Plus How To Keep TV Licensing At Bay

It turns out that Josh and Robbie have become film-makers. They are making a series - a whole series - of films called, "24........Minutes." These are all to feature Josh Bennett as the Jack Bauer of Northwick. The weightlifting video was just the first of what is to come!

This is too horrible a thought to contemplate, especially if I want to retain any professional credibility at multi-agency meetings about anti-social behaviour, so I going to decide what to do about it as soon as I get some free time. At the moment, I've got too many other things to do, what with Greg still away at conference.

The usual suspects are still on Red Ed-fuelled form, and then there is Mr Warner. He is having a major problem with TV Licensing who, he says, refuse to accept that he does not own a television and have been "persecuting" him for the last two years.

I am initially inclined to take this with a pinch of salt, but he does sound exceptionally stressed about it, and says he is becoming fearful that officials will raid his home late at night. Apparently they just won't listen when he tells them that he has never owned a TV set in his life.

He's going to send me all the threatening correspondence he has received, so that I can work out what to do to help him. Once he's rung off, it occurs to me that it will be very difficult to show conclusively that he doesn't own a TV, so this case may end up being much more challenging than I first thought.

How do you prove a negative? Maybe I should suggest Mr Warner buys a cheap portable, then gets someone to film him chucking it into a bin. Then he'd have compelling evidence of his distaste for television. But wouldn't it be ridiculous to have to go to such lengths when your only crime is to choose not to own a TV set?

I used to fantasise about getting rid of ours, and God knows how often I threatened to throw it out of the window when the kids were younger and wouldn't do their homework.

I never dared go through with it, though - unlike Kishanda Fulford.* Mind you, she did own a lake, which made the whole process rather more spectacular than anything I could have hoped to achieve with only a tiny pond to aim for.

This whole thing just proves that you should have the courage to act upon your convictions. If I had followed Kishanda's lead, I probably would have avoided the need to deal with the consequences of being the mother of an anarchist film-maker with delusions of stardom. I shall advise Mr Warner accordingly.

*Kishanda Fulford, wife of Francis Fulford, whose family was featured in the 2004 Channel 4 documentary series, The F***ing Fulfords.