An Excess Of Poisoning Incidents, And The Last Will And Testament Of Molly "Didn't Live Through The War" Bennett.

As if last night's journey to Dorset wasn't bad enough, now someone's trying to poison me again. And this time it's Dad, though I bet he'll deny it when the Police find the note I'm going to hide in my pocket.

He's already disinherited me for yesterday's Gary Glitter disaster, but the punishment isn't over yet. Now I have to eat a meal he's cooked.

I wouldn't be having to risk my life at all if I'd been able to drop him off at his house and drive straight back home - as per the original plan - but once we broke down about half-way there, everything went completely t*ts-up. (Metaphorically-speaking, of course. I do have some dignity left.)

I'll say this for the *RAC, though: at least they employ staff who know why it's important to be indoors by 9:00pm on a Saturday night. As soon as I'd explained that I must reach my destination by then, the operator said,

"Oh, you watching The Killing, are you? Great, isn't it?"

Now there's a woman of taste and discernment - unlike the mechanic she subsequently dispatched to the scene, who looked at the car as if it was a relic from the dark ages, and then sighed heavily and asked me to open the bonnet. He didn't look convinced that I actually could.

I still have no idea what he said the problem was, either, which didn't help. He mumbled so much that I couldn't hear him over Dad, who was still ranting about what I'd said - or rather, sung - to the Thai Bride over the phone. People's sense of humour is much more mutable than previously thought, so it's probably a good thing that the breakdown man didn't hear what Dad and I were arguing about, or not properly, anyway.

"Did you say Thai Bride?" he said to Dad. "You been to Pattaya too? Lovely girls there, aren't they? Feminine - not like women in this country."

"And they like old men, too," I said. (In my head - I still needed the car fixed, don't forget.)

Anyway, once Dad and Mr Pattaya had bonded over the attractions of Bar Girls, the repair of whatever the hell it was that was wrong with the car was completed so quickly that - without any speeding - I managed to pick up a take-away and get to Dad's house in time for The Killing to start.

Even better, Dad decided that he'd missed so much of the rugby by then, that he couldn't be bothered to argue about what we watched.

"I'm tired," he said. "I've recorded the match anyway, so I'll watch it tomorrow."

I didn't argue, so then Dad went to bed, leaving me alone with the gorgeous *Troels - though I'm starting to worry that he may have worms. All that eating, and yet he never gains weight. Unlike Dad, who's probably going to revert to eating nothing but cholesterol as soon as he's left on his own - unless I can find a way to change the habit of a lifetime. Preferably by covert means.

I don't sleep very well for wondering how I'm going to achieve this impossible objective, and am none the wiser when I get up this morning - until I start to make a cup of tea, and find that there's no milk. Dad goes next door to borrow some, and by the time he gets back, I've worked out a plan.

"I'll take you shopping before I leave," I say. "We can get some ready meals in, so you don't have to cook while you're still not well."

"Do you think I'm made of money?" says Dad, opening the freezer door and rummaging around inside. "Don't be so bloody stupid. There's plenty of food in here, and I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. I'll even cook a Sunday lunch before you go."

He pulls out a plastic bag containing something brown that looks pretty dubious to me. We don't need to worry half as much as we do about global warming, not if the thickness of the ice covering both the inside and the outside of the packaging is anything to go by.

I mention this worrying observation to Dad, who just says,

"Global Warming? Doesn't exist. Conspiracy to send us all back to horses and carts."

Then he shakes some of the ice off the freezer bag, and peers at the label that's just been revealed.

"We'll have - um - Chilli con carne - and, um -"

He turns back to the freezer, rummages some more, and then holds up another mysterious find.

"Sprouts!" he says, triumphantly. This meal's becoming more appetising by the second.

I daren't object, though - not after the Gary Glitter incident - so I make myself useful by offering to clean the kitchen up a bit, while Dad chucks the frozen stuff into some pans. Then he turns the gas on and wanders off to watch the match, leaving me staring in horror at what I've just found.

The inside of the fridge looks like a bio-hazard, and I'm tempted to slam the door shut and evacuate the area - but someone has to protect Dad from himself. So I tie a grubby tea-towel around my nose and mouth, and put my winter gloves on my hands, before going back in for a closer look.

Why on earth would anyone keep half a slice of ancient beef - if beef is actually what it was - on a saucer with two fossilised roast potatoes? Or a minute amount of what looks like cherry pie filling, once you scrape the green mould aside?

"What the hell are you doing with that?" says Dad, who really shouldn't sneak up on people who might have inherited his high blood pressure.

He scares me so much that I almost drop the juice carton that I'm holding, while pouring its contents down the sink. Almost-clear liquid runs out, followed by the occasional plop of a fermenting lump.

"Getting rid of this," I say, trying not to breathe in at the same time. "Why?"

"That's the orange juice I have for breakfast."

"It might have been when you first opened it," I say. "But that was at least three weeks ago."

Dad elbows me out of the way, closes the fridge door and leans on it. Then he folds his arms as if to dare me to move him out of the way.

"A bit of fizziness never did anyone any harm," he says. "Now go and watch that last try. I've got the video on pause for you."

Luckily, he follows me into the sitting room, where he quickly becomes so engrossed in yelling abuse at the French that I soon manage to tiptoe back to the kitchen without him noticing. Once there, I complete the fastest cupboard search you've ever seen, and then really, really wish I hadn't.

Every single packet and tin bears a date that's expired - most of them by years, not months. It's a miracle a heart bypass is all he required.

I find a new bin bag in the cupboard underneath the oven and chuck almost everything from the cupboard into it. Then I open the freezer to check on that.

"Come on," says Dad. "Dinner's almost ready - pass me those plates and I'll dish it up."

I turn around to do as he asks, but then he spots the bin bag in my hand.

"What's that?" he says. "What are you throwing away now?"

"Food, " I say. "So out of date that I'm surprised you haven't got botulism, or something much worse."

Dad looks horrified, and snatches the bag out of my hand.

"Good God, woman," he says, as he looks inside it, and then pulls all the jars and tins back out. "Bloody wasteful, your generation. You can see you didn't live through the war."

"I'm amazed you did, if you were eating gone-off food," I say.

"Pfft," says Dad, taking the saucepans off the stove, and spooning the mush onto the plates. The sprouts have now been boiling for at least forty minutes, but that's not the worst of it. I've just had a seriously horrible thought.

While Dad is on his knees, searching in yet another cupboard for a bottle of Thai Chilli Sauce to "spice things up a bit more," I race to the freezer, yank the door open and grab the first bag that I find. Which turns out to be an exact duplicate of the one that originally held the food that I'm about to be forced to consume.

"Chilli?" it says. "June 2003."

If I should die, then I leave everything to Max and the children - except my old video recordings of Yes, Minister and my D:Ream single, both of which I leave to Greg. I request that someone advise him that the former are now much more relevant than the latter. My debts, in full, I bequeath to The Boss, with my most sincere respect and thanks.




*RAC - breakdown cover and roadside assistance - a necessity with a car as old as ours. Though I can take or leave their Thai Bride advice.
*Troels - Troels Hartmann, politician and on-off murder suspect in The Killing. You may look but do not touch. He is mine, unless I should die by my father's hand.

How Daddies' Sauce Can Lead To Murderous Rage, Or Probably Should, Anyway..

I'm starting to think that Dad might have been safer if I'd left him where he was - at home, by himself. Max is looking murderous.

Not that I blame him one bit. Dad's even worse than The Boss for shouting at people from another room, and expecting them to go to him.

The whole thing starts almost as soon as we get up this morning, and find Dad reclining on the sofa, remote control already in his hand.

He's watching a cartoon, The Politics Show, and an old action movie - not simultaneously, obviously - but in strict rotation. He allows two minutes of each before turning over to the next one, and then repeats the whole cycle all over again. And again, ad infinitum. *ADHD doesn't even begin to describe it.

"I suppose you'd like some cereal, would you?" Max says to Dad. "What with your heart bypass and all that? I saw you brought your *Shredded Wheat with you."

"Good God, no - I don't want that," says Dad. "That's no meal for a real man. And you do a pretty good cooked breakfast, if I remember rightly - don't you, Max?"

Max rolls his eyes at me, but doesn't say anything in response. I'm probably supposed to step in to fill the breach but, after Dad talked all the way through The Killing last night, I don't much care if he survives 'til next Saturday or not, so he can eat all the sausages, eggs and bacon he wants, as far as I'm concerned. He ruined the highlight of my week!

"She doesn't make much effort, that Lund woman, does she?" said Dad. "Look at the state of that jumper. Is she a lesbian?"

"No," I say. "As you'd work out if you'd only concentrate on the programme for five minutes, and stop moaning about the subtitles. And there's nothing wrong with her jumper, anyway. It's bloody cold in Denmark."

"What's the excuse for your get-up, then, Molly?" said Dad, looking at my TV-watching fleece.

Luckily for him, he fell asleep shortly after that, which probably explains why he's still alive this morning. Not that he's any less annoying. Why the hell didn't I let Josh hide the remote control?

I keep Dad company for a few minutes, in the hope that he'll put the damn thing down, but when it becomes clear that he's hanging on to it for dear life, I give up and go to join Max in the kitchen - which is not my natural habitat, but it seems a better option than staying where I am. It would only have been a matter of time before I'd snapped and turned the TV off, snatched the remote out of Dad's hand and thrown it out of the window.

Making a pot of tea seems a less inflammatory option. For as long as it takes for it to brew, that is.

"Not as good a cuppa as usual," says Dad, when I take his mug through to the living room, where he continues to lie in state. "Max make this?"

"No," I say. "I did."

"That explains that, then," says Dad, which Max appears to find very funny indeed, and I don't.

Max stops smiling pretty sharpish, though, when, almost as soon as he starts cooking, Dad starts that bloody shouting thing he does.

"Max!" he calls. "Ma-ax!"

"What?" shouts Max, trying to cut the rind off the bacon and prick the sausages.

There's silence for a few seconds and then Dad shouts again:

"Ma-ax!"

I give in and walk to the living room.

"What do you want, Dad?" I say. "Max is trying to cook."

"Tell him to come here, quick," says Dad, who looks a bit red in the face, which is rather worrying. I make a silent vow never to moan about his television commentaries ever again, as long as he doesn't drop dead right this minute; and then I rush back to the kitchen to get Max.

"Dad needs you," I say. "I think there's something wrong."

Max slams the oven door shut, races down the hallway, and opens the door to the living room.

"Ah, Max!" says Dad. "Look at this car chase! Hang on, I'll just rewind."

I can't hear what Max replies as, by now, I've worked out that breakfast is going to take hours to prepare, unless I help. Or that's my intention anyway. I have no idea what always causes frozen hash browns to skid off the counter and fall on to the floor, whenever I try to prise them apart. Or why I always cut my hand on the knife.

"Let me take over," says Max. "This is the second car crash I've seen in the last thirty seconds."

I give him an icy smile, and then go off to the bathroom in search of a plaster. I'm on my way back downstairs when the cycle starts all over again.

"Ma-ax!"

This time, Dad apparently wants "a decent cup of tea" - which Max opts to make, though I am deemed competent to deliver it to His Master's Voice. I try to obscure the television screen for as long as possible before handing Dad the mug. Then I spill a bit accidentally on purpose onto his knee.

This seems to shut him up, and peace reigns for another couple of minutes, but then his dulcet tones ring out again. This time Dad tells Max that he has to watch and appreciate what "bloody idiots" Politicians are.

I know that only too well already and, anyway, I've completely given up by now, so I go outside and smoke what may well be the first of many cigarettes today. I can still hear Dad shouting, though I lose count of how many more trips back and forth Max makes - until he opens the back door to inform me that the food is finally cooked.

"I'm going to plate your dad's meal up first," he says. "Then his mouth might be too full of food to shout any more."

"Don't count on it," I say. "He's had a lot of practice. Why d'you think I've already got three step-mothers?"

"Hmm," says Max. "I may be starting to see your point."

He's still not angry, though. Honestly, Max is so much more tolerant than me. Despite all the provocation, he appears relatively calm when he delivers a full English Breakfast to Dad's waiting lap, before returning to the kitchen to serve up everyone else's food.

I decide it may now be safe to come back indoors but, as soon as I do, there's a familiar sound:

"Max! Ma-ax!"

"What?" shouts Max, who is still trying to put everyone else's food on to plates.

He's not looking half as calm now. In fact, I haven't heard him shout quite that loud for years. Not since Connie dropped her new stereo on the floor  and smashed it, five minutes after being given it for her sixteenth birthday. It's quite unnerving, and both Josh and I fall silent - unlike a certain person I could mention.

"Ma-ax!"

Dad's shout is a bit muffled this time - presumably because his mouth is full of food - but it's still loud enough to hear. Unfortunately.

"For God's sake, Max - tell Dad to come to you," I say. "You don't have to run after him all the time. It only encourages him."

"He sounds as if he's choking, Mol," he says, heading back down the hall.

Josh looks at me, and I look back at him, then we both shrug and follow in Max's footsteps. We're just in time to hear Max ask Dad what's wrong - this time.

"Got any Daddies' Sauce?" says Dad.

"I thought you already had that," says Max, in an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone. Which is probably what a camel's back sounds like when it breaks.




*ADHD - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, or "Bad Parenting Syndrome", according to Greg. I'm not quite sure what it's called when it's one's parent who suffers from it, though.

*Shredded Wheat - also known as "Shredded Doormats" by Josh and Connie.

Playing Catch-Up, Or Why My Family Begins Every Conversation In Media Res.

Honestly, sometimes I'm not at all sure that my family isn't worse than the usual suspects. Talk about barking mad.

I've just joined Max on the sofa, in readiness for catching up with last night's episode of The Killing on iPlayer, when Dinah phones.

"Gah," she says, apropos of nothing.

No reply seems necessary, so I wait for the next instalment, which follows as soon as Dinah's taken a drag on her cigarette. She sounds as if she's turning inside out, she sucks so hard.

"What sort of man describes his Thai bride as a tomboy, for f*ck's sake?" she says.

I assume that this is a rhetorical question, until Dinah repeats it, louder than before. Oh, I see. I am expected to answer, for once.

"Dad?" I say. "When the tomboy in question is five million years younger than him? Or forty-five years, anyway."

"Exactly," says Dinah. "He still has no idea how revolting the whole thing is - so now I've bloody well proved it to him."

There's something about her tone of voice that starts alarm bells ringing, but I'm not sure that I want to know any more, so I stay quiet. Which helps me to concentrate on watching the subtitles, seeing as Max still hasn't taken any notice of my signals to pause the bloody programme.

Max might be oblivious to everything I do, but Dinah isn't - more's the pity. Sometimes I could swear she can see down a telephone line.

"Mol! I can tell you aren't concentrating. Are you even listening? I need to you to back me up on this. It's for his own good."

I doubt Dad will see it that way, whatever it is, Dinah not being known for the efficacy of her lessons in life. Even her so-called "top tips" are notorious for their general uselessness, but I suppose she has got an excuse. The stress of having a seventy-two-year-old Lothario for a father is enough to make anyone go bonkers after a while.

"Back you up on what? " I say. "What exactly have you done?"

"Well, I told Dad a bit of a white lie," says Dinah. "About Connie."

"You brought Connie into it?" I say. Very loudly, so that Max gives me a funny look and turns the TV up. God knows why, as he couldn't speak any Danish the last time I checked. Maybe he thinks it'll make the subtitles get bigger.

I glare at him, while cursing Dinah under my breath. It's one thing to mess with me, but taking my daughter's name in vain is a whole different ball-game. And what on earth has Connie got to do with Porn-Poon, anyway?

"I may have told him Connie has a new boyfriend," says Dinah. "I wanted to see how he'd feel if his grand-daughter started dating someone decades older than her."

"Oh, my God," I say. "That's not a white lie, Dinah - it's a stonking great black one. With knobs on. Oh, hang on, call waiting's beeping me."

I switch to answer the incoming call. Which turns out to be a big mistake.

"Bloody hell, Molly," says Dad, without preamble. (He's probably who Dinah gets it from.) "I've just heard about Connie's new boyfriend. If you can call a sixty-five-year-old man a boyfriend, for God's sake."

"Ah," I say. "Hmm. Yes, I see."

"I don't think you do," says Dad. "Whatever is Connie thinking of? He must be a right dirty old man."

I'm pretty sure that lack of insight is the first sign of psychosis. I just hope that's not hereditary.

Posh Golf, Get-Togethers, And The Sheer Hell Known As Small Talk.

Why do I complain about having no social life? Why? Just be careful what you wish for, that's all I can say.

"Don't forget tonight's fancy dress," says Max, while we're eating breakfast.

"What?" I say. "Fancy dress? Since when?"

Honestly, sometimes I'm sure he's got me well-insured and is trying to kill me off - though I suppose he wouldn't have attempted the Heimlich Manoeuvre if that was really the case. (Note to self: watch paranoia levels.)

Anyway, once I've finished choking on my toast, Max explains that Celia, his colleague, has decided that tonight's "little get-together" is to be themed. For God's sake.

"So what's the theme, then?" I say. "It'd better be something simple, seeing as you've left it until now to tell me about it."

"Um, no," he says. "Which is sort of why I couldn't bring myself to tell you. It's 'posh golf'."

Posh golf? What the hell is that? I suspect I become slightly hysterical at this point but, once I've stopped hyperventilating, Max admits that he has no idea what the stupid theme means either. Then he says that he's just going to to wear his suit, on the grounds that that's as posh as he ever gets.

"Oh, and we have to bring a hamper of food, as well," he says. "So we can have an indoor picnic, apparently."

I look at him as if he has lost his mind, before tearing upstairs and rifling through my wardrobe, which turns out, as expected, to contain no golf-related clothing whatsoever.

When my search area widens to encompass Josh's room, I do find an old fedora hat - which Max decides to appropriate - but, unsurprisingly, there's nothing to indicate that teenage boys have any more of a plus-four fetish than do their parents.

Meanwhile, Max has discovered, after a visit to the loft, that we don't possess anything that could pass for a hamper, either - which I could have told him if he'd asked.

Preparations are thus not going well at all, but Max won't hear of it when I suggest we tell Celia that we've suddenly gone down with the Winter Vomiting bug, not even when I point out that then we could stay in and watch The Killing on BBC4 instead - which would be a lot more fun, as far as I'm concerned. He says we have no option but to go, as this sort of socialising is unofficially required as part of his job.

So, after I've had several nervous breakdowns and have done more than my fair share of swearing, we make our way to Celia's dressed as Coco Chanel and an unidentified gangster - who is carrying a picnic in a Tesco carrier bag and doesn't even have a gun. This last may be a good thing, given that my mood is best described as murderous.

"I think we've missed the golf bit out completely," I say, as the taxi turns into Celia's road, but Max just shrugs as if it's of no consequence, which may be because he already knows we won't be the only ones. I just wish he'd told me about his bloody premonition, before I turned myself into a pearl-clad dog's dinner.

Half the guests haven't bothered to dress up at all, and even the couple who've made the most effort have missed the mark, unless they know something about golfers that I don't. They've come as a cowboy and the owner of the best little whorehouse in Northwick.

"Nice reference to Tiger Woods," says Max, who is scarily good at small talk, and obviously knows more about both golf and men's leisure activities than I do.

"Mmm," I say.

This scintillating comment is about as good as my contribution to the conversation gets. God, chit-chat is boring. And who the hell are these people? I ask Max, who says they're mainly clients, or people who work for companies related to his.

"The Beales brothers seem fascinating conversationalists, all of a sudden," I say. "I'd even be happy to see Steve Ellington walk in."

"Shut up,"  says Max, sotto voce. "This is how the cream of Northwick society amuses itself. Go and have another cigarette if you can't stand it."

I do as he suggests, and don't think anyone notices that I spend the rest of the evening in Celia's back garden but, even so, I'm pretty relieved when there's a beep outside, and Max comes to the back door to tell me that our taxi is here.

I thank Celia, (though I don't think I'm as enthusiastic about her husband's plus-fours as she would have liked), and then I attempt to do some air-kissing. Max is very good at it, and gets round all the female guests at lightning speed, but I really shouldn't have moved in to kiss the woman from the Chicken Ranch while talking at the same time.

"For God's sake, Mol," says Max, as he bundles me into the taxi. "Are you choking again?"

"Feather boa," I say. "Inhaled. Be all right in a minute."

The driver asks if I'm going to be sick, and has to be reassured that I've only had three G&Ts.

"Bit of a poor night, was it, then?" he says.

"Yes," I say. "All posh golf, Pimms, and talking about nothing. How's yours been?"

Max says I never know when to ask questions and when not to - but, honestly, the poor, poor taxi driver. It turns out that he had an awful experience with some students a few weeks ago, when he was driving them home from a night-club.

They were really drunk and made him drive them miles out of Northwick, claiming that they lived in one of the satellite villages.

"Then I felt a gun in my back, and one of them said, 'Give us all your money, now,'" he says. "I thought I was a goner."

"Oh, my God," I say. "What on earth happened then?"

"The guy started laughing, and said it was a joke. That he'd only stuck his finger between my shoulder blades. 'For a laugh,' he said it was."

Now the driver sounds as if he's the one who's choking, so I wait without saying anything. Small talk's not appropriate in every situation, after all. Then he blows his nose, clears his throat and continues as if he hadn't even paused for breath:

"Except it wasn't funny, was it?" he says. "This is the first night I've worked since then and, to be honest, I'm not at all sure I can handle it any more. Not everyone behaves like you people, and the money's not so good that it feels worth the risk of trying to handle the ones who don't."

Max leaves a big tip, which we can't afford, but he doesn't say much when we let ourselves into the house. He just goes straight to bed, leaving me downstairs, sitting on the sofa and thinking. Hard.

Why did I find the taxi driver more interesting, and easier to relate to than any of Max's colleagues? And why can't I do bloody small talk any more? I am obviously drawn to misery, and doomed to stay a caseworker forever.