There's A Hole In My Ideology, Dear Liza, Dear Liza.

Bloody hell, what are Max and I doing wrong? Well, obviously, we're not earning enough - but why? Apart from the undeniable fact that we both have a talent for negotiating the lowest-possible payment for any job we ever do.

After today's events, Max says it must just be because we make very bad decisions - like staying married and declaring our earnings. Not that I can allow myself to listen to him - not when The Boss has already called me a fascist.

I just wish there was the occasional PLP Briefing for dealing with disaffected husbands, as well as for responding to anecdotal evidence that policies don't always work as they're intended to. Some of which we discover this afternoon.

It's getting dark and Max and I are sitting at the table sorting through the bills when Josh and Holly arrive, after what has obviously been a major Sunday shopping spree.

As usual, Josh has bought only one item - yet another bloody hat - but as it's from Northwick's premier men's designer clothes shop, it probably represents a week's wages for him. I have no idea why teenage boys are so set against Primark. Holly isn't, though: she's laden with brown paper carrier bags.

"Holly's dad's going to pick her up in a minute," says Josh. "So we thought we'd just hang out here until he arrives."

"What've you bought, then?" I say. "Come on, show me. I need some excitement."

I'm fed up with trying to make our bank statement add up and, anyway, in my job, one should never miss an opportunity to keep up with what's in fashion.

Politics doesn't exactly offer a multitude of style icons as role models, after all. (Samantha Cameron doesn't count given her clothing budget and, as for Theresa May's sartorial choices: don't even go there unless looking like a slightly deranged Vulcan is the aim.)

Josh shows me a hat that looks exactly the same as all his other ones, so it's a bit difficult to feign much enthusiasm for his purchase. Holly's are a different story, though. She smiles and tips the bags upside down, revealing a series of pretty tops, a handbag, and a really cute jacket. She holds each item up in turn for my approval.

"Bloody hell," I say. "Fantastic. Not that you wouldn't look good wearing sackcloth and ashes, Hol. But how on earth can you afford all that? You must be much better with your wages than we are, if the state of our bank account is anything to go by."

Holly shakes her head and laughs.

"Nah," she says. "I'm not. Just got my EMA, that's all."

I'm confused, but I don't like to say so. Or not to Holly, anyway. I've got no such scruples when it comes to Josh, though: so I ask him for the lowdown instead, as soon as she leaves the house.

"Joshua," I say. "Just curious: how much EMA does Holly get a week on top of what she earns from her job at her aunt's cafe?"

"£30:00, as far as I know," he says. "Why?"

"Bloody hell," says Max. "How - with both her parents working? Don't they have to earn below £10,000 or something for her to get as much EMA as that?"

I shake my head, but Max doesn't notice. He's too busy staring at Josh, who's fidgeting like mad, as if he wishes we'd both shut up.

"Well, her mum only works a few hours a week helping out at the school," he says. "And her dad doesn't work at all, of course."

"Yes, he does," says Max. "He's a bloody window-cleaner. He told me that himself."

"Well, maybe he told you," says Josh. "But that doesn't mean he tells the tax man, does it?"

Seeing Max's expression, Josh leaves the room as fast as he can, and heads upstairs to his room. I think he's probably resorted to shooting virtual nosy parents as therapy now, judging by the sound of gunshots that's coming through the ceiling. Do teenagers have to have the bass so loud on these bloody games?

Max sighs, and looks over at me. He's about to say something, when Pat sends me a text. I read it, then groan in envy.

"What is it now?" says Max, who has abandoned the bank statement and is attempting to "chat" with Connie on Facebook instead - a bit of a challenge for someone with his distinctive one-fingered typing style.

"I'm so jealous," I say. "All Holly's new clothes, and now Pat's got a new dress too - and hers is from AllSaints!"

"I know," says Max. "She's just posted it as her Facebook status too. From her new iPhone, for f*ck's sake."

I  can't think of anything to say to that, but it seems as if Max isn't expecting a reply. He's on a roll.

"Pat still unemployed, Mol?" he says.

"I think so," I say. I have a horrible feeling I know where he's going with this.

"Still doing that mobile aromatherapy service as well?"

"I don't know, Max," I say. "I always think it's better not to ask - and anyway, it's not easy for her to work in a proper job, is it? She's a single parent."

"And no doubt penniless  - just like that woman who's been bonking Lord Strathclyde."

Max rolls his eyes at me, and then shuffles all the bills and the bank statements into a pile, before throwing them into the broken filing tray I brought home from work. It's already full, so they slide straight off and onto the floor, where he decides to leave them.

"Well, at least it seems that a private education isn't the advantage everyone always thinks it is," I say. "Not if Birgit Cunningham is as destitute as she claims. Not very good publicity for Roedean, is she?"

"Maybe not," says Max. "But that's not the point. I reckon we'd better re-think our career choices. At the risk of sounding like a Sun reader: we'd be better off at the moment if I became a supposedly-unemployed window cleaner than I am while doing my bloody job. Unless you divorce me, get pregnant, and become a single, unemployed aromatherapist - if that is how Pat's still not earning her living?"

I open my mouth to say something about the Black Economy of Thatcher's 1980s, when a searing pain shoots though my tooth, and I decide that I can't be bothered. Max watches me wince, then strikes the killer blow in our newly-fascist household:

"I bet Pat's and Holly's families get free dental treatment, too," he says. "As well as that bloody Birgit woman. So you get the J-Cloths, Mol, and I'll find the bucket."

A Radical Use For iPhones, And An Occasion Of Great Joy.

There's bad news and good news this morning, which is an improvement on the usual wholly-negative situation.

The phone rings almost as soon as we enter the office, and Greg loses at our version of rock, paper, scissors* so he has to answer it. Within seconds he's banging his head on the desk.

"Who is it?" I say.

Greg puts his finger to his lips, and then mouths something that looks like, "Mea mrmnghn."

Then he says,

"Well, there's nothing we can do for you now - but I do hope you're happy in your new home."

Then he slams the phone down without waiting for a reply, jumps to his feet and does a weird tribal-style dance around the office. Several times, and accompanied by a grunting chorus, which seems to involve the words, "oh yes, yes, yes."

Vicky looks appalled when she walks in and catches him at it. I think she raises her eyebrows at me but, given how exaggerated they normally look, it's rather hard to tell.

"Don't ask me what's wrong with him," I say. "He hasn't stopped whooping and dancing for the last five minutes. Though I shall trip him up when he next goes past. He's making me feel dizzy."

Greg comes to a halt, pauses for effect, and then says,

"That, my dear Molly, was our favourite constituent."

"Who?" I say. "Mr Bradley?"

"No, you idiot,"  says Greg. "Can't you spot irony when it's staring you in the face? It was the marvellous Mr Meeeurghn, the most demanding man in Northwick. As well as quite possibly the most dangerously insane."

Now it's my turn to bang my head on the desk, while making moaning noises.

"No-o-o," I say. "I was hoping he'd died. Well, maybe not died exactly, but I did think there was a chance he'd got amnesia since his accident, and had forgotten all about us. But now he's back, and I think I may be going to cry."

"Stop being so melodramatic," says Greg, who's a fine one to talk. "He's not back - that's the whole beauty of it."

I look puzzled, while Vicky just contemplates her nails. I have no idea why she finds them perennially interesting.

"The Council agreed it was too dangerous for Mr Meeeurghn to move back into his flat when he got out of hospital - seeing as it was his neighbour who ran him over."

Greg really doesn't need to speak as slowly as he is, for goodness' sake. I am not an idiot, whatever the general consensus may be.

"With me so far?" he says, adding insult to injury.

I stick two fingers up in the air, at which Vicky tuts and starts brushing her hair.

"So Mr Meeeurghn has been moved to a new flat," says Greg.

"Which is worthy of all that terrible dancing because?"

"It's not in our constituency!" says Greg. "Even better, he's moved to Northwick West, so now he's become that LibDem's problem. Couldn't happen to a nicer person."

Greg starts dancing again and, once I've stopped laughing, I join in too. Things are definitely looking up around here. One loony down, and only another 2,500 to go.

I tell Johnny the good news when I email him after lunch to discuss the arrangements for our rendezvous next week.

"You'll be pleased to hear that my half of Northwick has just become a much safer place to visit," I say.

"No, I won't," says Johnny. "I'm afraid it's irrelevant."

Oh, honestly, is he going to chicken out of our date now? I know it's usually me who does that but, at the rate we're going, we won't manage to get into bed until we're eighty, when we'll probably have to spend most of the time re-adjusting our artificial hips and re-bandaging our ulcers.

"Why?" I say. "Has your trip to the UK been cancelled?"

"No," says Johnny. "But I can't come to Northwick. You're going to have to meet me at Heathrow this time."

"We've already been through that," I say.

Honestly, talk about Mr M's amnesia - has Johnny forgotten that I haven't got a good reason to be anywhere near an airport if anyone should spot me there? Whereas he can go where he likes, as no-one has a clue who he is in the UK, anyway. Unless they mistake him for Putin - in which case they'd probably decide to keep quiet about it.

"But why?" I say. "It isn't as if anyone keeps tabs on you, seeing as you spend half your life travelling the world."

"That's where you're wrong," says Johnny. "My wife bought me an iPhone for Christmas."

He follows this sentence with one of those emoticons. I think his kids have just taught him how to use them, as his emails have been peppered with stupid faces ever since Christmas. This one's sad, but I figure they all are really.

"Nice for some," I say. "I was given a block of cheese."

A smiley face indicates that Johnny thinks I'm joking. He has no idea how the other half live.

"Very funny," he says. "But she's made me get that 4Square app for it, so that she can tell where I am at any given time. Anywhere in the bloody world."

I don't think Johnny's very happy with my reply, given that it merely asks how he thinks I could get hold of a cheap iPhone for Max. And how to persuade the Government to issue them to Mr Meeeurghn and the rest of the usual suspects too.

It would cost a lot, admittedly - but just think of the peace of mind it might bring. Unless you're Alan Johnson, of course, and you've already got Ed Balls keeping one of his (rather scary) eyes on you.



*Rock, Paper, Scissors - this is a link to the usual version, but Greg and I don't have time for that when we're deciding who has to answer the phone. So we just pump our hands once, then go for it. I always win because, unlike Greg, I listen to my instincts.

Foodie Heaven. Or Hell, Depending On Your Perspective.

God, dinner party conversation has died a death since the advent of foodie-ism. In fact, you can't get away from it at any bloody meal, or at least, not at any meal held at Max's parents' house. Today we go there for lunch and I almost die of boredom. Really. I am not exaggerating, not one single bit. The entire conversation was about food.

Obviously, it isn't about just any old food. No, there is no mention of Hovis or tinned salmon, or Flora margarine. But previously staple foods that are now produced or grown by specialists? They're deemed worthy of a whole lecture series. On and on, and on and bloody on. It puts me right off my food, actually.

No sooner do I raise a forkful to my mouth, then I get its entire history, blood lines, provenance, whatever. What soil it was grown in, or what food it was fed, and whether there were bags of lavender hanging where it was stored, for twenty years before it was deemed ready to hit my (unappreciative smoker's) palate. I am in an agony of boredom within fifteen minutes but it just goes on, relentless.

Max seems unaffected, which is worrying in itself. This must surely be worse than it used to be when he was still living at his parents' house, so he ought to be finding it as irritating as I am. Foodie-ism didn't really exist in those days, after all. I think he must have switched on the part of his brain that allows him to tune out the kids when they argue - but, anyway, he just keeps eating and doesn't say anything.

I'm not allowed to get away with that, though. Instead, I have to go through my entire repertoire of constituent-humouring noises, and throw in a load of "surprised and appreciative" eyebrow raises for good measure. And even then I don't think I make the grade. I don't suppose I ever will, unless I can gain about ten stone, and bone up on the niceties of elderflower cordial production and the optimum time to hang game.

Josh just shovels down some food, then excuses himself, saying that he has indigestion and needs to go to the loo. He doesn't come back until the meal is finally over. I reckon he was playing games on his iPhone - which normally I would consider likely to cause brain rot, but in this instance, was probably an effective precaution against it.

When the time comes for coffee, I am so relieved. Once we've established the exact grade of roast, the fineness of the grind, and the country of origin, my agony should finally be over. Shouldn't it? But no. Max's Dad gets out a magazine, and says to Max,

"Look what I came across the other day!"

Max looks distinctly unimpressed, but his dad goes on.

"Isn't that great? And what a marvellous photo, too. Show Molly!"

"Oh, I don't think so, Dad," says Max, squirming.

"She'd love to see it. Go on, show her!"

Max passes me the magazine, open at the article in question. I sit and stare at it. I have absolutely no idea why I am looking at it, or what I am supposed to say. Now everyone's looking at me, Max cringingly, and the others with anticipation. Even Josh looks curious. Bloody hell, there's nothing for it, but to tell the truth.

"Um, sorry - what exactly am I looking at?" I say. "All I can see is an article about chilli-growing and a photograph of a smiling fat girl."

Max laughs out loud, and his parents look horrified.

"But that is Lizzie," says Max's dad.

"Lizzie Who?" I say. (This is getting tedious.)

"Max's ex-girlfriend, Lizzie,"   says Max's Mum. As if that was both obvious and reasonable.

"What, from before Mum and Dad were married?" says Josh. "Why on earth would you want Mum to look at that?"

Sometimes, I just adore my son. As much as I don't adore talking about, growing or indeed, cooking food. And it is very nice to see how shit Lizzie looks, too. I don't recommend an over-reliance on chillies if you want to keep your looks, that's for sure.