The Battle Of Balaclava, Mafioso-Style.

I know it's pathetic to moan about this, given the terrible things that are happening in Libya and New Zealand, but, bloody hell, shopping's such a hazard when you work for an MP. Poor old Greg looks as if he's seen a ghost when he comes back from lunch.

"Christ," he says, before throwing himself onto the sofa in the Oprah Room and closing his eyes as if he's in pain.

"What on earth's the matter?" I say. "And get off there before The Boss and Vicky come back and decide you've been sleeping on the job."

"I shall just tell them that I have had a relapse of *PTSD," says Greg. "Caused by the trauma of encountering Steve Ellington at the pharmacy counter in Boots. Is it too much to expect constituents to keep their bloody distance when you're on your lunch-break and engaged in a sensitive transaction? "

I know exactly what Greg means. MPs' staff should be like teachers and live anywhere other than the town in which we work. You never know who is going to pop up and start demanding to know what the point of the United Nations is, right at the moment when you're trying to read the instructions on a bottle of Durex Play Gel - not that that's ever happened to me, of course. It's just an example I thought up off the top of my head.

"What were you buying?" I ask. "Anything embarrassing?"

"Imodium," says Greg. "I can't tell you how much fun Steve E had with that, but suffice it to say that it involved lots of increasingly-tedious references to politicians' tendency to verbal diarrhoea. So I've come up with a cunning plan to camouflage ourselves while we shop in future, and I've bought you something to help achieve that aim. Pass me that carrier bag."

I do as I'm told, and then wait while Greg rummages through endless packets of Imodium, two cans of Red Bull and three bags of Haribo Starmix. After what feels like hours, he finally says, "Got it!" and chucks something at me.

I'd be lethal in a riot as I can't help catching anything that anyone throws at me. It's automatic after years of parenting Josh, who went through a rather lengthy and dangerous stage of saying, "Catch!" at the same time as throwing hard objects straight at Connie's head.

So of course I obey Greg's instruction, and then stare in disbelief at the shapeless black thing that's landed in my hand, and which seems to be knitted from thick black wool.

"Um, thanks," I say. "It's very nice. But why are there holes in it, and what is it for?"

"It's a balaclava, you fool," says Greg. "I bought myself one, too. We just put them on whenever we leave the office - and then we can stay incognito wherever we go. Brilliant, eh? Let's try them on, and see how we look."

Which may have been a mistake, in retrospect - judging by how Andrew and Vicky react to the sight of us when they walk back into the office. Vicky starts screaming, and The Boss pulls her in front of him as if she were a riot shield.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he says.

"Whapf?" says Greg, which is a significant achievement with a mouthful of Haribos. My teeth are so firmly stuck together that I'm incapable of making any sound at all.

The Boss drops his voice and pulls Vicky closer to him, before continuing:

"Are you the Russian Mafia? If so, I'm not the man you're looking for - but I do know where he lives."

"Nompf, youfoof - s'mee," says Greg - twice, before he gives up and removes his balaclava, and gestures at me to do the same.

Some people have no sense of humour at all. Even after Greg's pointed out that terrorists and mafioso don't usually fill the time spent lying in wait for their victims by typing letters, The Boss still can't see the funny side of the whole thing. He doesn't speak to us for the rest of the afternoon, and Vicky doesn't speak to him, either.

"Why's Vicky giving The Boss the silent treatment?" I say to Greg, when we sneak off to the Labour Party office to get away from the chilly atmosphere pervading ours.

"Didn't you hear what she said when he finally released his grip on her?" says Greg.

"No," I say. "I was still trying to pull my balaclava off, so I couldn't hear anything at all. It's a bit tight and I couldn't get it over my ears."

"Yeah, I spotted that," says Greg. "You looked a bit like Colonel Gaddafi crossed with a Meerkat who'd joined the Special Forces. Anyway, Vicky called Andrew a spineless coward for hiding behind her - so maybe she's not as daft as she looks."

Which is a lot more than can be said for  me and Greg when we're wearing our new shopping kit.


*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. What Greg claims to be suffering from whenever he wants a day off to recover from a hangover.

Multiculturalism In Action: Coming To A Car Park Near You.

God, what a day. Who'd have thought a car boot sale could turn out to be so hazardous? I could kill Max for suggesting it, though he blames me. No change there, then.

"If you hadn't got so drunk on Friday, and given yourself a two-day hangover, we wouldn't have to do a car boot to get the money to buy you Paracetamol," he says.

"Well, if Josh hadn't refused to go back to Ellen's to borrow some more, it wouldn't be an issue," I say. "I don't know why she only gave him two tablets when he asked her yesterday. She should understand a hangover better than anyone, after all."

Max rolls his eyes, as if I have no reason to dislike Ellen. Honestly - talk about a short memory!

"I'll go and ask her, then," he says, but I'm not encouraging that. The less Max sees of Ellen the better, as far as I'm concerned. Even when she is wearing clothes.

"Josh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you went back for more," I say. "Go and ask her. Please. I can't face a car boot at this time in the morning."

"No, I won't," says Josh. "I am not your drugs mule, and Ellen scares the pants off me. She's got a thing for toy-boys, remember? And I meet the criteria, unlike some people."

Josh looks pointedly at Max, who scowls in response and then sulks until we've finished loading the car with all the rubbish we could find during a hasty search of the loft last night.

His mood doesn't improve when we arrive at Northwick Park'n'Ride, and realise that we haven't got enough money to pay for the pitch. I have to negotiate with the man at the gate to let us in, and to come and collect our fee in an hour's time.

"Christ knows if we'll have managed to raise £7:00 by then," says Max. "Or ever, given the crap we've brought - and all the stalls that are already here. Too much competition for limited customers, by the look of it."

"Well, we'd better unpack as fast as we can, then, hadn't we?" I say. "As soon as we get set up, you can go into super salesman mode, make some money and I can finally get rid of this bloody headache."

Things never go according to plan, though - do they? The minute we open the boot of the car, four or five Eastern European guys appear from nowhere, and start rummaging through the boxes. It's like a swarm of black leather jackets and jeans worn with proper shoes.

"What are you looking for?" Max asks the apparent leader of the pack, in a weak attempt to regain control of the situation.

"Mobile phones?" says the man. "You got mobiles in here?"

As soon as I say that we don't, the men disappear - as quickly as they arrived. In fact, it's almost as if they were never there at all and, for one very disconcerting moment, I wonder if I imagined them. Maybe I've got alcohol-induced hallucinations, or something?

"For God's sake, Mol. Stop standing there and help me with this," says Max. "You look like a Guppy with your mouth open like that."

I rise above the insult and do as I'm told, but only because I can't think of a cutting rejoinder. And because I don't have a choice - though I bet a certain International Director of a Global Oil Company isn't spending his Sunday morning wrestling with a folding table and a mound of boxes in a car park.

As soon as we've got the table set up and we begin to unpack, we start arguing again. Why don't men appreciate the importance of arranging things to their best possible advantage? That's probably why they can't see the point in make-up, now I come to think of it.

"Do you have to just chuck everything on the table willy-nilly?" I say. "I'm trying to make our stock look attractive."

"It's a car boot, Molly," says Max. "At 6:00am on a Sunday morning in a car park. So I don't think window dressing is really necessary."

I decide to prove him wrong by virtue of a controlled experiment - which involves an artistic arrangement of the things on the left-hand side of the table while leaving those on the right-hand side in a total mess, to see which of us is right; but my scientific approach is ruined by the inconvenient arrival of some more customers. Honestly, why can't people ever put things back where they found them?

Now I know how the staff in Benetton used to feel when I kept unfolding jumpers and then making a crappy job of folding them back up again - back in the days when all my clothes didn't come from Primark. Not that folding's much of an issue there, is it? Maybe customers chucking everything on the floor is just a reflection of their bargain hunting mentality.

I really must get this telekinesis thing under control. No sooner have I begun thinking about bargain hunters, than our stall is suddenly surrounded by a large group of dark-haired men, again all wearing jeans but this time with trainers on their feet. They're pulling suitcases with wheels on, and their burka-clad wives follow behind, watching closely as the men pick up various items and ask us, "How much for this?"

"A pound," says Max, as one of them inspects a brand new wireless router we bought by mistake on eBay last year.

"No, no, no," says the man. "Too much. I give you ten pence."

He throws a coin onto the table and makes as if to move away, though he's still holding the router.

Max starts to say something, when he's interrupted by a booming voice from very close by. It's the guy manning the stall next door to ours.

"Tell 'em to fuck right off," he says. "Bloody load of f*cking vultures."

"Too right, George," says another man, in a horribly-familar voice. "Don't know who these people think they are. Coming over here and trying to rip off hard-working Brits like us."

Oh, dear God, what the hell is going on? And how on earth have we been caught up in a potential race riot? Max and I look at each other and squirm, but luckily everyone's forgotten about us anyway.

Our customer abandons the router as he and his friends leave our stall and head next door, where they square up to the stall-holder and his partner-in-crime. Who, incredibly, turns out to be Reg Bloody Beales. Is nowhere safe?

There follows a lot of pushing and shouting, while I take the opportunity to open the car door and to throw myself face down onto the back seat.

"What on earth d'you think you're doing?" says Max. "You can't go to sleep now. I'm not dealing with this mob by myself, even if you have still got a bloody hangover."

"Ssh," I say. "Mad constituent. Got to hide."

I'll say this for Max, he doesn't ask for details during an emergency. Instead, he walks back to the stall and carries on without me, while I lie very still and try to become invisible. I may have dozed off for a while, actually, as I nearly jump out of my skin when Max knocks on the window.

"You can come out now," he says. "They've all gone, and even the stall-holder's packed up and is about to leave."

"Oh, thank God for that," I say. "I thought there was going to be a fight. It certainly sounded like it."

"There was," says Max. "But after the guy with the blue suitcase landed the first punch, his mates pulled him away and the bloke that you know did a runner. Well, not a runner, exactly: am I imagining it, or did he ride off on a horse?"

Oh God, so Reg has replaced his lorry with a horse and cart, though I'm not sure the roads will be any safer for that. Or any public spaces, actually. And why can't I ever escape the usual suspects - even on a Sunday - no matter where I go?

Mind you, things could be worse, I suppose. I could be a diplomat. It's been like the United Nations here in Northwick Park'n'Ride today, and no-one seems to understand each other at all. Not even me and Max.

"How much money have you taken?" I say. "Can we go home yet?"

"Enough to pay for the pitch and some painkillers," he says. "As well as food for the next couple of days. So we won't starve just yet, no thanks to you."

I feel suitably guilty until Max drops me off at Sainsburys to buy some Paracetamol, but then I'm still so puzzled by how we ran out of money so quickly, that I get a mini-statement from the cash machine. Now I wish I hadn't.

It shows that the last person to make a withdrawal from the account was not me - the unjustly accused - but Max. At a petrol station somewhere miles away; and on Friday night, while I was at the Party social and I thought he was at home.

It's going to take all my diplomatic skills to avoid mentioning it until I've had some time to assess the situation. At which point I bet Max will wish that he was the one who travelled by horse. At least they don't leave a paper trail.

Talking To Salvador Dali While Watching A Leprechaun. Effectively.

God, Saturdays are thrilling. Whatever happened to the teenage excitement of getting ready for a big night out? (Admittedly I don't miss the bit where you had to drink half a bottle of sherry and burn your ears off with heated rollers, but that's beside the point.)

Now there's only X-Factor and Strictly* to look forward to. I'd completely forgotten how enormous Ann Widdecombe's bosoms are. I once got in to a lift at the same time as she did, and remember thinking she'd been given my share in the mammary stakes as well as her own. And maybe some other people's too.

Anyway, now I'm wittering, which is what leisure time does to my thought processes. Especially when combined with an encounter with Ellen. I'm sitting outside this afternoon when she appears in her garden - to hang more underwear on the line. (How do people afford matching sets?)

"Still smoking, then, Molly?" she says. (And why do people think it's necessary to state the bleeding obvious?)

"Um, yes," I say.

I want to add, "D'you want to make something of it?" but decide that would make me sound like a mad constituent, so I don't. I am a master of restraint. I'd say mistress but, in the presence of Annoying Ellen, this would provoke uncomfortable thoughts.

"You really should give up. It's a filthy habit," she says.

I have no idea why some people's filthy habits are deemed disgusting, while certain other people's are considered worth bragging about - mentioning no names beginning with E. I light another cigarette from the butt of the previous one, just to show Ellen who's the boss.

The effectiveness of this is somewhat undermined by an immediate coughing fit, but I think I manage to disguise it by pretending that I have choked.

"Want to pop round for another coffee?" she says. "Now that you've spilled that one?"

"No, thanks," I say. "I've got to go and organise Max's birthday party."

"Oh, I'll look forward to that," says Ellen.

Oh, shit! I wasn't going to invite Ellen, was I? Bloody, bloody hell. Why don't I ever think before I open my mouth when I'm not at work? I'm worse than The Boss at weekends. Though even I can't manage to botch the invitations for Max's party, which is proving surprisingly easy to arrange.

It's amazing being able to ask both his parents to come, for one thing. And all his siblings. This would never happen with my family. Any big celebration requires meticulous planning, detailed risk assessments and the intervention of the United Nations. All to ensure that there is never a full house of parents and step-parents in the same location at the same time.

Max has no idea how lucky he is. And nor do Josh and Connie, now I come to think of it. If Max and I ever split up, we'd have to take it in turns to attend family gatherings. I'd miss out on half of my (admittedly-putative) grandchildren's (equally-putative) Christenings, "big" birthdays and probably even Josh or Connie's wedding.

Mind you, it seems as if there's going to be one less parent for me to consider next time I have a birthday. Dinah phones in the evening.

"Bloody hell, Mol," she says. "You won't believe this!"

"Oh, I probably will," I say. "And, Dinah, don't you ever watch X-Factor?"

"Nah, I hate Louis Walsh. He'd put a potato through if it was Irish. Now listen, sis. He's done a runner."

"Who, Louis Walsh? He's on TV right now. That's what I was trying to watch."

Honestly, sometimes Dinah is the Salvador Dali of telephone conversation.

"Dad, you idiot. I've just been to visit him."

"Oh. And?"

"He's not there. I told you he was up to something again!"

"He's always up to something. " (Whatever is the matter with Cher's eyebrows?)

"Molly. Turn the sound down and pay attention, for once! There's a 'For Sale' sign outside Dad's house. And he's back in bloody Thailand - yet again. His neighbours told me."

Dinah rants uninterrupted for another five minutes, while I try to marshal my thoughts. Then she suddenly makes a funny choking sound. (It must be contagious.)

"You okay, Dinah?" I say.

"No-o-o," she says, hiccuping between each syllable. "We've lost him all over again, Mol. How many bloody times do we have to readjust to another sodding step-mother?"

I haven't heard Dinah cry since she was little. It's very disconcerting.

"Well, maybe it won't come to that," I say. "He may not marry Porn-Poon and, anyway, we're hardly likely to have to interact with her when she's in Thailand, are we?"

"Only when I go to bring back the body," says Dinah. "After I've had a holiday, of course. I'd forgotten about that. Thanks, Mol - you've cheered me up. Now you can get back to watching the Leprechaun."

Funnily enough, I don't much feel like it after that.


*Strictly - Strictly Come Dancing. I have such an enormously exciting social life.