A Particularly Ineffective Game Of Cluedo.

Max was so late home last night that it's a good job I didn't ask Joan to come home with me to do her Medusa act. She'd have been bored to death and would have probably turned me to stone to alleviate the tedium, not that it would have made much difference if she had.

I was fast asleep on the sofa when Max walked in and, then, when I woke up, my thoughts were too muddled to be able to face an argument. (I also didn't want to pick a fight while my hair was looking more capable of standing up for itself than I was, but that's a different issue.)

So the uncertainty's all still there - unresolved - when I wake up this morning. Late, so I have to tackle Max while I'm running around like a headless chicken. He is almost ready to leave, so I don't have much time to prepare.

I take a deep breath, mutter, "Be assertive" to myself, and then demand to know what happened.

"Mrs Bloom again," says Max.

"Oh, really?" I say. "Mrs Bloom. Not Mr Blunt?"

"That sounds like something out of Cluedo," says Max. "And I have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't even got a customer called Mr Blunt."

"I didn't say he was necessarily a customer. Or that she was."

"Too cryptic for this time in the morning, Mol. Got to rush, I'll see you later."

Max pats my head - as if I were a pet dog - then dashes out of the door. So then I have to go and re-build my bloody hairstyle again.

The day doesn't get any better when my hair repair results in me being five minutes late for work. Vicky looks at her watch as I walk in, says, "Tut-tut, Molly," and writes something down in her notebook. I must start reading up on voodoo - there's a wealth of her fallen hair to use for an effigy, after all.

There's no time to do any research today, though, and I just can't seem to catch up on that lost five minutes no matter how hard I try. There's still work left unfinished when I admit defeat at about 5:30pm and go home. Thanks to fretting about Max - and Korea - I can't concentrate anyway, so it's probably safer to start fresh in the morning.

Max makes me a cup of tea when I arrive, and seems in a fairly good mood, so I take a deep breath and say,

"Max, I need to talk to you about something important."

"Hmm?" he says, turning the TV on.

I turn it off again, at which point he looks slightly less good-humoured.

"Talk," I say. "You know, that thing we used to do occasionally. Along with having sex."

"Oh, you've had that sort of day, have you? Is this really a good idea, in that case?"

Max sips his coffee and stares at the blank screen. He must be able to see something that I can't, given how hard he seems to be concentrating.

"I want to know - um, well, I think I want to know - er, what is going on with Ellen."

There, I've said it. Now I feel sick.

"How would I know?" says Max. "Haven't seen her for days. Why?"

Honestly, could he make this any more difficult? I run my fingers through my hair and then regret it. You should probably look your best when questioning your husband about his other woman.

"That's not what I meant," I say. "I want to know what's going on between you and Ellen. I know there's  something."

Max starts laughing, and I glare at him until he stops. It takes a lot longer than if Joan had done it.

"You're serious?" he says. "Oh, for God's sake, Mol. If you don't know me better than that after all these years, what hope is there? Now can you please turn the TV back on?"

There's so much I want to say to that, but for some reason, I can't seem to find the words. I press "On" and go outside for a cigarette instead.

It's probably a good thing I don't have any spare artillery shells lying about, or I might become the Kim Jong-Il of Northwick. I could cheerfully lob one at the sofa right this minute.

A Belated Summary of Josh's Very Bad Day.

It's A-level results day. Josh has been up all night worrying, and he looks very twitchy when I see him before I go to work. I think it's just occurred to him that Robbie and the others may have been being economical with the truth when they told him that they weren't doing any work for their exams, as apparently they weren't half as stressed as he was when he spoke to them late last night. I kept telling him that they were talking bullshit and that of course they were studying at least some of the time, but Josh never listens to me. Idiot.

I make him promise to phone me at work as soon as he gets his results. He nods, but doesn't say anything. I'm not used to Josh not having a witty response at the ready, so it's very unnerving. I really wish it wasn't seen to be so uncool to work hard and to succeed at state schools, especially for boys.

Mind you, Connie had a really hard time at school, too. After her first year, we had to formally request that she not be given any more "Awards for Achievement" in class, just so she wouldn't get bullied every time it happened. It's mad, isn't it? Although I do remember thinking that she might not have got so many certificates, if her spelling hadn't been so vastly superior to that of many of her teachers.

Anyway, I'm so busy fretting about Josh when I get to work that my concentration is shot, so I have to reverse my usual prioritising system and deal with the usual suspects' non-issues first, instead of last as is my usual practice. I figure that, if I screw up before I hear from Josh, at least it won't actually matter much, seeing as US* cases are either imaginary or totally ludicrous anyway.

Greg really isn't helping, though. He keeps winding me up, saying that I am a failure as a parent, and that    Josh is going to end up as a Neet*, who'll still be living off me when he's thirty. Considering that Greg is almost thirty himself, and still lives with his mummy, I'm not amused. Wearing Armani ties does not signify independence in my opinion.

Every time the phone rings, I think it's Josh - when of course it's always Miss Bloody Chambers. She almost breaks the sound barrier today.

"British Gas, " she screams. "I sent you a copy of the bill - what have you done about that overcharge?"

"If you stop shouting at me, I'll be able to tell you," I say.

"I'm not shouting," she says. Not now she isn't, thank God.

"Right, then - look at your copy of the bill," I say. "That £13.48 that you said was an overcharge?"

"It is an overcharge. How many times do I bloody well have to tell you people?" Her volume's increasing again. Godsake. I take a deep breath, then say,

"It is not an overcharge. It is a credit."

"What do you mean?" Up another few decibels. Where are the HSE* when you need them?

"They've given you some money back," I say. "That's why it says 'credit' on the bill. Okay?"

"Well, why the hell didn't they say so?" she shrieks, and slams the phone down.

If I had the time, I'd learn voodoo and spend every evening sticking pins into effigies of that bloody woman. But it seems she hasn't even finished yet - the phone rings again.

"Yes?" I say, cautiously.

"Hurrm."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Is Miss Chambers playing sound games now? Full volume, then whispering?

"Mum." It's Josh. A very quiet Josh. Oh God.

"How did you do, darling?" My voice is so bright and brittle, it even manages to annoy me.

"Crap."

"What do you mean, crap? It can't all be bad, can it?"

"Well, I got a D in Film Studies," says Josh, as if that is meaningless. Which it could be - what exactly is Film Studies?

"Oh, well - that's not a terribly important subject, is it?" I say. "How did you do in the other two?"

"Two U's," says Josh. "Bye, Mum. And sorry."

Oh my God. I try phoning Josh back, but he doesn't answer, so I text Robbie:

"Hi Robbie - is Josh with you? And how did you do in your A-levels?"

Robbie's reply comes straight back:

"Hello, Mrs B. Josh went home - had a headache. I got two A's and a C :-)"

I have absolutely no idea what I am going to say to Josh when I get home. It's not that I think university is a guarantee of success - I'm living proof that that's not the case, after all -  but there are no bloody jobs for under-25s, and no-one's going to be offering apprenticeships in this economic climate. I suppose he could always become a stand-up, but I don't think he's going to appreciate that suggestion at the moment.

I walk very, very slowly all the way home, and when I finally get there, am very tempted to turn around and head off to Sainsburys or something - anything rather than to have to go inside. But Connie's obviously been on look-out, and spots me. She opens the front door before I can make my escape. She is beaming.

"Mum, Josh failed almost everything. What a muppet!"

Honestly, if there were exams in sibling rivalry, both my kids would have doctorates. Now I have to find a way to convince Josh that there is more to life than academic success - without making Connie feel that  I don't value her achievements in that field. Bloody hell - sometimes parenting is much closer to the practice of politics than is generally appreciated.

*US - usual suspect(s) - shorthand for barking mad and a pain in the arse, as usual.
*Neet - Not in Education, Employment or Training, i.e. a write-off.
*HSE - responsible for safety in the workplace, allegedly.