PMT, Predictability And Some Unwanted Colour Theory.

I've got a funny feeling I may have PMT today, though I'd rather die than admit that to Max and Josh. Either that, or I'm suffering from quiet-day-at-the-office-itis.

I spend all day bursting into tears at inopportune moments, not that there ever is an opportune time to wail like a baby. Unless you're an X-Factor winner.

Greg thinks I've gone off my rocker, and starts The Campaign to Cheer Molly Up. He even donates one of his Twixes to the cause. It doesn't work, and just makes me weepier instead. Unexpected kindness always does that.

"What on earth's the matter?" he says, when I hand him the bar back. "It must be awful if even a Twix won't fix it."

"Nothing," I say. "I'm fine."

Big fat tears roll down my face at the same time, though luckily the crying isn't of the noisy hiccuping and choking kind. That would be even more embarrassing.

"Well, unless you've got some bizarre eye infection, I think there is. You look a mess. And move that invitation from the Mayor out of the way - it's getting soaked."

Greg passes me a tissue from one of those little travel packs his mum gives him. I'm sure she thinks he's still a Boy Scout.

"It's probably just because no-one's told me about anything terrible today," I say, trying to wipe off all the supposedly-waterproof mascara that seems to be everywhere except on my eyelashes.

"And that would be logical because?"

"Well, when there aren't any calls from constituents whose problems are worse than mine, having a wallow doesn't seem as self-indulgent as it usually would."

"Hmm,"  says Greg.

He doesn't sound convinced, though I'm sure I'm right. This always happens at this time of year. The phones get progressively less busy, and the volume of letters tails off to a comparative trickle.

You'd think the opposite would be the case, seeing as it's commonly thought that rates of depression and suicide rise in December, but we don't usually see much sign of that in our office. It's as if everyone - even the usual suspects - is too busy to be depressed until they've at least finished eating Christmas dinner.

If you were new to casework, you'd probably breathe a sigh of relief and enjoy the relative peace and quiet, but old hands like me know better. To us, this unusual calm speaks volumes - because we know it just presages the furious storm that always hits in January.

"Maybe I'm miserable because I know what's coming?" I say.

"Probably," says Greg. "You do keep going on about your life being predictable."

This wasn't what I meant, but I suppose he might have a point. I decide to consider what changes I could make to my life while I'm on my lunch-break - whilst simultaneously buying all the Christmas presents I was supposed to have bought during yesterday's shopping trip.

I wander around the mall, trying to ignore the bloody music. I can't believe that they still insist on playing Merry Christmas Everybody. I bet even Noddy Holder's sick of the sound of it, though thinking about glam rock does give me an idea.

Perhaps I should buy something new to wear? In a bright colour, for once. Max is always moaning about my penchant for black, and it is a bit draining on the complexion. At my age, as he'd no doubt feel compelled to add.

By the time I get back to work, I'm feeling much more cheerful, even if I have spent more than I can afford.

"That's better," says Greg. "First smile you've cracked all day."

"I bought a gorgeous new knitted dress," I say. "To wear to the Party Christmas meal. What do you think?"

I pull it out of the bag and hold it up against myself. I even do a couple of twirls. It's a real Anthea Redfern moment.

Greg opens his mouth to speak, but Vicky beats him to it:

"You do know purple is the colour of sexual frustration?" she says.

The phone rings before I can think of a cutting reply, so I answer that instead of her.

"Hello, dear,"  says Mum. "How are you? How's your Christmas shopping going?"

"Well, I got a bit distracted," I say. "And bought myself a purple dress. But I'm not at all sure about it now."

I glare at Vicky while I say this, but she's got her back to me, so the effort is wasted.

"Oh, I love purple," says Mum. "It always reminds me of that wonderful poem by Jenny Joseph. What's it called - Warning?"

Christ, I'd forgotten about that. As if wearing something that screams, "No sex life" wouldn't be quite bad enough, now it seems I'd also be signalling that I'm on the way to becoming an eccentric old woman. I might as well have gone the whole hog and bought a bloody red hat as well.

I'm going to get a refund on my way home. There's no point in advertising that you're desperate, is there?   

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.

A New Leader And I Am Out Of My Depth In A Sea Of Vibrating Plastic.

I have never felt such an idiot in my life. And I am never going to Ann Summers again, either. What on earth is all that stuff for?

Everything's made of that nasty luminous plastic, like those horrible toys that the kids always insisted on putting on their Christmas lists. I used to ignore their pleas and get something wooden and tasteful from the Early Learning Centre instead, but I'm not sure what the Brio equivalent of the sex world is.

After Greg's texted me the leadership result, I am filled with the spirit of change. I realise that I need to take a new direction too, so I decide to surprise Max with something to liven up our sex life. Huh, talk about best-laid plans and all that.

I lurk around outside the shop for a while, and then make a dash for it when I think no-one is looking. As soon as I walk in, I am confronted by revolting-looking stuff - tons of it. I get quite dizzy. No wonder the psychologists say we're becoming stressed by having too much choice. Not to mention a shortage of clear instructions.

I do know what some of it is for - I'm not totally stupid - but there's a whole load of things that I have no idea what you're supposed to do with. This is very unnerving: I used to have my finger on the pulse! Now I feel like someone who is drowning, not waving.

To add insult to injury, who do I see at the counter when I approach the assistant for advice? Only Mr and Mrs Bloody Beales. Oh yuck.

How depressing is it that even Mr Beales has a better sex-life than me, judging by how much his carrier bag is bulging? I can't bear to think about it, especially as he actually winks at me as he walks out. My bowels are still clenching now.

The whole day is about sex in one way or another. And not in a good way, either. Dinah phones as I am trying to watch the X-Factor.

"It gets worse," she says.

"What does?" I have no idea what she's on about. Or what Louis Walsh means either, for that matter. He's so annoying. And that contestant is obviously a usual suspect. I can always tell the nutters before they even start to sing.

"P-ns nm," says Dinah. Or something like that. The Twilight Zone theme is a bit distracting.

"What did you say, Di?"

"Listen, for God's sake. Porn's name. Or names. Plural."

I forget to answer. Well, I don't - but with Dinah, you never know if a pause indicates your turn to speak, or whether she's just stopping to breathe in or light a cigarette.

"Wake up, Molly! Didn't you hear what I said?'

"Erm, yes. Double-barrelled. Porn," I say. This creates a thoroughly unpleasant image of Mr and Mrs Beales in the act, not for the first time today.

"Yes - guess what her other name is?" says Dinah. "I've just got off the phone to Dad. He's back."

"I don't know, Dinah. Why do I always have to guess? Can't you just tell me? It's been a bad day."

I might as well give up watching the X-Factor. I missed it last week too, due to the stupid TV aerial at David and Susie's cottage.

"Well, you've spoiled it now," says Dinah. "But I might as well tell you anyway. It's Poon!"

"Now you're really making it up," I say. "Don't be ridiculous. Poon? As in Poon-Tang?"

Josh looks up and makes a shocked face. Sometimes I'm sure he thinks I know nothing and that he is the product of an immaculate conception. Mind you, after the depths of my ignorance have been revealed by the Ann Summers experience, he may have a point.

"Yes, as in Poon-Tang," says Dinah. "Porn-Poon. That's our father's girlfriend's name. And I am not telling you anything else, as you are obviously not listening. Phone me when you can be bothered to give this the attention it deserves."

Seems to me that I've given this whole porn thing far too much attention today already. With very little reward, as far as I can see. I do hope the Party's attempt to change is going to be a lot more successful than mine. Maybe I should ask Ed what he suggests I buy.