Annoying Ellen's Birthday Party. May She Rot In Hell.

Gah. It's Annoying Ellen's birthday party tonight. I don't know why I don't just find the courage to tell her that I can't stand her, and then refuse to go. I guess I'm probably afraid of falling out with her because I seem to spend half of my working life trying to stop the suffering caused by neighbour disputes. I don't want to find her kicking the side of our car in, or throwing dog poo over the garden wall.

So, as usual, I keep the peace, and now I'm in a state of total panic as to what to wear to compete with Ellen. Unless I wear a balaclava, this is an entirely unrealistic aim, as Ellen's blindingly high-shine forehead is a testament to what can only be achieved via repeated injections of Botox. I decide that I will just have to rely on finding something flattering to wear.

I feel as if I have hit the jackpot when Max spots me posing in front of the mirror in a dress that could be described as body-con - had it not been from the early 80s, before that phrase was even thought of.

"You still have a great body for a woman of your age," he says.

Wow. Wow! Did my husband really just say that? I am lost in transports of joy for all of five minutes, until I realise that he was being rather specific. Why didn't he just say, "You look great for a woman of your age?" Or even, "You look great?" I'll tell you why. Because my body might look good, but my face doesn't. Aargh. I need Botox, right now. Maybe if I put a bag over my head and blunder around the house wearing that, Max might actually fancy me enough to consider having sex with me more than twice a year.

So I am already feeling very low-spirited by the time we walk round to Ellen's, with Connie in tow. I have decided to take her with us, in the hope that she can poach one of Ellen's toyboys to fill the less than yawning gap left by Russ's departure. It doesn't really help. Connie thinks all the toyboys present look dead from the neck up, and insists on staying close to me instead. I almost mention that Russ was hardly a rocket scientist, but am distracted by trying to see what Max is up to.

Connie sticking to me like an Elastoplast has freed him to wander off unsupervised, which is never a good thing. He still hasn't accepted that he cannot keep up with Ellen and her friends' drinking habits. It doesn't matter how many times I tell him not to even bother trying - he always ignores that the reason that they can each drink a whole case of beer is because of the vast quantities of coke they are shoving up their noses. I'm sure Max has already had about six beers and a whole bottle of wine, and he's found a second bottle that he's carrying around with him. This is not going to end well.

I seem to be the only married woman Ellen knows. All the others here are divorced. They are highly-vocal about their sex-starved status - huh! - and are all wearing very shiny tops to match their shiny foreheads. What is it with women of our age? They seem to have a uniform for parties, which basically involves wearing jeans, paired with strappy tops which reveal too much low-slung cleavage. I bet all that bloody beaded decoration was stitched on by starving children in sweatshops. I feel like a visitor from another planet in my little black dress, and my alienation is not helped by the fact that, every time I spot Max, one or other of the shiny women is staring into his eyes, and giving a very good impression of hanging onto his every word.

Connie and I end up sitting in the garden for most of the evening - where I smoke fit to bust, and Connie nags me about my filthy habit. That's when she's not going on about her amazement at the behaviour of some of Ellen's friends - who turn out to be teachers at Josh's school. No wonder Josh is like he is. Then one of the toyboys suggests a game of poker and, after checking that we're not talking about strip poker, I persuade Connie that we should both join in. I am bored enough to play snap by then, so poker seems a much better option. I suddenly realise that Max is seated at the other end of the long table, next to Ellen. She has obviously just been upstairs for another snort, and is displaying an irritating amount of energy. I do hope she doesn't supply coke to her students. Or Josh, for that matter.

Unfortunately, Max is not displaying anything other than the fact that he is totally obliterated by now. I decide make him a coffee, but get a mouthful of abuse when I take it over to him, so I retire back to my place at the other end of the table, where I then have the dubious pleasure of watching my husband gradually slipping sideways on his chair. I'm just considering whether to ride to his rescue, when I realise that he is slipping towards Ellen, whilst wearing a beatific smile. As if in slow-motion, he moves in towards her neck, upon which he plants a long, slow kiss. Suddenly, the room falls quiet, and I feel as if I have been paralysed.

"What the hell are you doing, Dad?" Connie breaks the spell, thank God.

She stands and goes to pull Max off his chair, pushing past Ellen, who just sits there giggling. I am so angry and humiliated that I can't move, until Connie gestures at me to help her. Even with our combined efforts, we still can't get Max to his feet, so we have to draft in help - in the shape of two of the toyboys, who hoist Max up, and then half-carry, half-drag him back to our house. Connie walks behind, carrying Max's jacket, while I storm ahead wielding my keys as if they were a weapon.

In the hallway, Max shakes off the toyboys and lurches into the living room, laughing like a lunatic. Connie throws a blanket over him and then looks at me in disbelief. I have no words, which is most unlike me. As soon as Connie's gone to bed, I am going to email Johnny and say that I've changed my mind. Marriott County Hall, here I come. As soon as bloody possible.

Death Threats, Rust and Gynaecologists

More excitement this morning. I find an invitation in my in-box to an event in London - from a rather attractive and well-known journalist/broadcaster - and in my own right, not just representing The Boss!

I think the journo may have confused me with someone else, but I wish I could go anyway. Imagine being the kind of person who gets to hang out with the intelligentsia, instead of wearing Primark and watching TV while contemplating Max snoring on the sofa. That's how my life was supposed to be.

Maybe everyone would be too polite to tell me that I'm not the Molly Bennett they must be expecting? Oh, bugger. I've just remembered it's supermarket surgery at Tesco on Saturday, so I definitely can't go to London. If I do, I'll never get all the stupid surgery follow-up letters done in time to meet The Boss's 24-hour correspondence deadline. Sometimes I hate that section on TheyWorkForYou.com which rates MP's performance in responding to constituents.

The rest of the day is pretty dull, as if to rub in how boring my life is. The Boss is getting death threats, written in red ink. I'm inclined to ignore them as, apart from the distinctive colour, they're not much different to those he gets all the time. (Greg denies any involvement and claims not to own a colour printer, so it's not him.)

However, then someone from Special Branch phones to say that they've infiltrated a group of animal-rights extremists and think we should step up our precautions against attack. The officer wants to know what our security arrangements are. When I tell him we don't have any, he suggests we get some, preferably yesterday.

He doesn't sound at all impressed when I say that The Boss doesn't agree with security arrangements as they are a "threat to democracy." Instead, he asks whether Andrew realises that, while he is protected for most of the week by the security at the House of Commons, Greg and I are "totally vulnerable."

His voice is so sexy that I resist the temptation to sarcasm, and somehow avoid saying "Gosh, officer, we hadn't thought of that!" Instead I surprise myself by flirting a bit - the Boxer dog tails woman must have been contagious - and confiding that The Boss isn't the easiest person to manage.

It works remarkably well, so maybe I haven't completely lost the ability to flirt successfully - although I suppose the officer can't actually see what I look like. Anyway, he agrees to visit tomorrow so that he can carry out a security inspection and make recommendations to The Boss as to what needs to be done. Ha! Perhaps now we'll actually get a panic button or something - maybe even CCTV.

I'd have had the pleasure of Officer Sexy's company sooner, as he really wanted to come out this afternoon, but I have to leave work early for my appointment with the gynaecologist - though I don't tell him that. A woman must protect her dignity, after all.

I have insisted that Max comes to the hospital with me in case I am asked how often we have sex, so that he can share the embarrassment if I tell the truth. He must have thought I was joking, as he's really not amused when I answer the gynaecologist's question about whether I can think of anything that might be causing the problem by saying, "Rust?"

Max is still not talking to me when we get home, and things are frosty until the doorbell rings. It's Annoying Ellen, oh joy. That's three times she's borrowed the damned corkscrew this week. You'd think that, with such a generous divorce settlement, she could afford her own.

After she left last time, Max said, "She's always so cheerful." I said that I'd be bloody cheerful too if I had a huge house, all paid-for; tons of alimony and the kids home for only one week in two - not to mention a succession of toyboys. Max looks even more pained at the mention of toyboys than he did about the rust.