The New Cold War And Strategies To Deal With It.

God, I had a terrible dream last night. I was standing outside the old Labour Party HQ in Millbank trying to hold the line against the massed troops of North Korea, who all looked like mini-Ellens. By myself, so this turned out about as well as you'd expect.

Those marching clones scare the shit out of me. I get the shivers every time I see them on the news, even when it isn't as freezing cold as it is today. They're much more frightening than the Russian soldiers who used to parade in front of Brezhnev* - probably because they look so much more focused. Like a demented band of pre-teen baton twirlers.

Anyway, my encounter with them leaves me with a sense of dread that lingers for most of the day. Mr Warner seems to be having the same problem. He comes to the office to tell me that TV Licensing still won't believe that he doesn't own a TV, and that things seems to be getting worse.

"Things are coming to a head," he says. "Everyone's out to get me now - including the bloody Council."

"Why do you think that?" I say.

"They haven't collected my rubbish for the last two months. Not since I wrote to TV Licensing and said I'd shoot anyone who tried to break into my flat. They must share information."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case. It's probably just a coincidence."

I make a note of the last date upon which he remembers his bin being emptied, and promise to see what I can do. Then I stand up and wait for Mr W to take the hint, but he just stays in his chair, fidgeting, and plucking at his clothing.

"Was there anything else?" I say.

Talk about a very bad move. Mr W stands up.

"Do you want to see my ulcer?" he says, as he drops his trousers.

Mr W's legs put me right off my lunch, so I donate my sandwich to the Greg winter stomach fuel fund and send Johnny an email instead. I attach a photo of my new haircut to give him a laugh.

"Wow. You look great," he says. "I'd be really proud to walk into a room with a woman who looked like that on my arm."

"Are you taking the piss?" I say. "I am already having a very bad day, so it's inadvisable."

"No. For Christ's sake, woman, can't you ever take a compliment? Thank you is the appropriate response."

Honestly - whatever must Johnny's wife look like if he thinks my haircut is okay? I apologise, anyway, and blame my grumpiness on the fact that, not only did I spend last night protecting the Labour Party from the North Koreans - singlehandedly -  but I am also freezing to death.

"What the hell are you talking about? North Koreans? And have you forgotten that I live in Russia?" he says. "Generally considered to be somewhat chillier than the UK?"

I have the last laugh on that one, though - as it turns out that it's colder here today than it is in bloody Moscow, although Johnny is quick to point out that it's much worse there in the depths of winter.

"Minus 10 is common," he says.

"Good job I don't live with you then," I say. "How on earth does your wife manage?"

"Oh, she has a mink coat."

The phones start ringing again then, so I don't manage to send my anti-fur response until after the office has closed. Johnny is completely undeterred.

"Yes, yes, PETA* and nasty fur coats - sometimes, darling, you are so predictable," he says. "But just wait until you've tried a winter here without one. You'll do a Naomi Campbell within days."

I'm not at all sure about this last comment. What's with the use of "you will" instead of "you would"? Mind you, with the Cold War that's raging at home at the moment, it's a very tempting thought.

Just imagine: instead of being Molly Bennett, overlooked wife and under-rated MP's caseworker, I could be Molly Hunter, wife of an adoring (if bossy) oil baron. I'd spend my life dancing at embassy parties and swanning around Moscow in designer clothes.

Including a fur coat which, even if I didn't object to it on moral grounds, would make me look like a Ewok. I suppose I'd better don my Primark jacket and head for home.


*Brezhnev, Leonid Ilyich. For those of you too young to remember him.
*PETA - People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, for whom Naomi Campbell was a spokesperson. Until she started wearing fur again.

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.

The Medusa of Northwick, Or Why One Can't Always Be Expected To Rise Above Gossip

Joan stops me in the corridor this morning. I suppose it's preferable to her usual tactic of cornering me in the loo, but not by much.

"Molly, what's going on with Andrew and Trish?" she says.

"What d'you mean? " I say.

"She picked him up from GC* on Friday night. Didn't look like he was too happy about it, either."

Joan fixes me with that look. No wonder it terrorised the kids in South Park.

"Ah," I say.

"Exactly," says Joan.

After I've dredged up several acceptable reasons why Trish might have insisted on collecting Andrew rather than leaving him to find his own way home - such as cold weather, or that she just happened to be passing - Joan gives me the look again. It really makes your bowels clench.

"Come on, Molly," she says. "There was more to it than that. I overheard them arguing in the car park."

"Ooh, did you?" I say. "What about?" One can't rise above curiosity indefinitely, after all.

"I don't know for sure. First Andrew refused to get in to the car, because he said he had another engagement to go to, and then Trish said 'The fuck you have.'"

Blimey. Trish doesn't share Andrew's penchant for swearing, so her using that sort of language is unheard-of. I wonder who the "other engagement" was with? I bet it was bloody Vicky.

"What happened then?" I say.

I know I should rise above office gossip, but I might as well get the full story - as it's not as if everyone else won't already know the gory details, after all. Joan's not known as the bush telegraph of Northwick Labour Party for nothing.

"Trish leant over, and grabbed Andrew's new pipe out of his mouth. Then she snapped it in half and threw it at him. Really hard."

I don't quite manage to hide my laugh, as Joan continues:

"He noticed me when he jumped out of the way, so then I had to get into my car and drive off. Oh, sorry - hang on, Molly." Joan's mobile is ringing.

Thank God for that. I am saved from having to comment on what she's told me by the bell. Or by her phone's massively annoying ring-tone, anyway. I make a break for it, while Joan starts a heated argument with the photocopier engineer.

When I get back to my desk, I find that Trish and I aren't the only ones whose relationships are in trouble. There are three letters from people whose "partners" have cheated on them in today's post.

They all want Andrew to report their cheating ex-loves to the DWP* for benefit fraud, and their letters provide comprehensive and detailed information - such as National Insurance numbers, places of work and car boot locations - to facilitate the process.

The Boss will never have any truck with this sort of thing, so I have to write back and make vague references to our inability to use third party data due to the Data Protection Act. No doubt I'll eventually get replies asking why the Benefits Agency's Fraud Hotline doesn't share the same scruples.

All this stuff does make you think, though - doesn't it? I may have to revise my position on talking to Max about what is going on with Ellen.

In fact, I've decided I'm going to take a leaf out of Trish's book and tackle him when I get home tonight. Perhaps Joan would like to come along and back me up with some more of her looks.


*DWP - Department for Work and Pensions, for those of you lucky enough to still have jobs.
*GC - General Committee Meeting of the local Party, as before. For those of you lucky enough never to have to go to them.

Why Erect Is Not Always A Good Thing.

Let's just say I am not having an Edith Piaf moment. I could not regret this haircut more.

I nearly have a heart attack when I spot myself in the mirror this morning.

"Holy shit," I say to Max. "What the hell happened to my hair in the night? Was I actually swirling around?"

"It's just sticking up a bit," he says.

Given the lack of gold stars, I don't know how he considers himself an expert on such matters, but I refrain from mentioning that. Instead, I start trying to resurrect my hairstyle, which takes a lot longer than you'd think.

"Brilliant," I say. "Now I'm going to have to go through all this every bloody morning."

"It does look much better short, though," says Max.

As far as I'm concerned, this is right up there with "You have a great body for your age" in terms of being a backhanded compliment. Why didn't Max tell me my longer hair looked terrible at the time?

My ostentatious sulking seems to have no effect whatsoever on anyone, though - probably because there's no-one at home to witness it. Josh and Max decide to go into town, while I go back to bed in an effort to stop the room moving.

When they arrive back home - after what appears to have been a diversion to the pub - I decide to risk returning to an upright position, and am rewarded with both good and bad news. The bad news is that lying down has made my hair stick up again, but the good news is that Dad has sent me another email.

There are more photographs attached but, yet again, there's no text to give me a clue as to the contents, so I call Josh and order him to open the files. You can't be too careful, after all.

As I put my hands over my eyes, just in case of a sudden vertigo-inducing attack of naked Thai brides or man-boobs, Josh starts double-clicking.

"Here we go," he says.

We both stare at the screen in disbelief.

"Fish," I say.

"Yes, indeed, Mother," says Josh. "Nothing gets past you."

"Very funny. But fishing? For fish?"

It's hardly a common hobby for a man with a short attention span, is it? But at least Dad's got a new interest. Maybe he'll decide to come back home now, and the Porn-Poon saga will be over. Stepmother Mark IV averted.

"Yes!" I say, and punch the air. Josh raises his eyebrows.

"Yes, what?" he says. "Since when do you like fishing?"

"I don't," I say. "But this means Dinah's right: Dad must be bored."

"He's probably just passing the time 'til he can get score some more Viagra," says Josh. "I wouldn't get your hopes up."

After yesterday's triumph of reality over optimism, this is probably good advice, but it has given me an idea: I wonder how Max would react to Viagra? You could probably extract it from my hair. That's definitely got a problem with frequent erections.

Some Things In Life Should Be Taken Much More Seriously Than They Are.

Argh, what made me do that? It's all Max's fault. He obviously likes women to look like bloody boys, as per the whole James Blunt thing.

I ask him how he thinks I should have my hair cut, before he leaves for work this morning. Admittedly, he's already running late and so doesn't have much time to look at all the pictures of hairstyles I put in front of him - but, honestly, this is a serious decision and demands careful thought.

He ignores all the photos I have put stars next to, and opts for something completely different instead. A messy crop.

"Are you sure?" I say. "I don't want to look like those women of a certain age who work on the cosmetics counters in Debenhams. Like they've jammed their fingers in the plug socket."

"It'll suit you," he says. "You're only small and longer hair drags your face down."

"That's gravity," I say, but he's already rushed out of the door.

I stagger off to the hairdresser's shortly afterwards, in the hope that a haircut will make me feel better, and I'm still feeling quite optimistic after I hand Gino the photograph.

"You'll be a new woman after this," he says.

"I do hope so," I say. "I've gone off the old version."

Things seem to be going quite smoothly until, half-way through the haircut, I have to lie down on the floor until the room stops spinning. It takes ages, and Gino seems pretty fed up by the time I can sit up again. I think I may have been lying in his way, but he didn't need to step over me with quite so much exaggeration on his way to the sink.

Anyway, he's definitely taken his revenge. Now I have no bloody hair left, and look exactly like an extra from Oliver!* You should be made to sign a declaration that you are of sound mind before changing your hairstyle.

And you should never listen to your husband, either. When I get home and take another look at the haircut in the photograph, I see that it is entitled, "For the mature woman." Thanks, Max. Why does "mature" make me think of decayed, rather than ripe?



*Oliver! - I'd rather look like Jack Wild than Mark Lester, just in case anyone's wondering. Though should a grown woman - albeit a headless childlike version - really look like either of them?

A Strategy To Produce Better MPs, By Molly Bennett, Aka The Mother Teresa Of Northwick

While I've been pole-axed by swirling rooms and trying to think philosophical thoughts, I've been mulling over the state of our politicians. Especially the one who ate my bloody sandwich this lunchtime.

It's occurred to me that MPs should be made to take sabbaticals, particularly as more and more of them seem to be becoming professional politicians before they've had any work or even life experience outside politics. Six to eight weeks a year ought to do it.

I know MPs already get months off when Parliament's in recess, but that's not what I mean. I'd make them take the same (i.e. much shorter) holidays as the rest of us (except for teachers like Ellen), then spend the rest of each Recess working at the sharp end. Under assumed identities, so they don't just get to see the bits that have been pre-gilded to impress them.

If The Boss had to spend a week or two in a hospital ward as an orderly, and then another few as a debt adviser, for example, he'd have a much better idea of the real situations his constituents face. And of the obstacles and possible solutions to their problems. Any attempt he made to influence policy formation as a result would at least have the virtue of being genuinely informed.

Andrew used to get some real-life input from constituents during surgeries, of course, but that was in the days when he was really listening. I don't know what's happened to him lately - whether he's burned-out, chronically tired, or just distracted by whatever is going on with Vicky - but he doesn't really seem to absorb what he's being told any more.

The only exception to this was the Leylandii business the other day, which is what got me started thinking about this, actually. I know his solution was completely impractical - as well as probably illegal - but at least he saw Mr and Mrs Parker's situation and really understood it, for once. And he brought it up afterwards, too. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

Maybe The Boss doesn't usually worry about the outcomes of constituents' cases because he's started to believe that his almighty power as an MP will override everything, whether it be social security regulations, or waiting lists, or even the housing shortage. Even so, it's depressing that, the longer he's been an MP, the less interest he seems to take in what happens to the people he promises we'll try to help.

I mean, it's nice that Greg and I are trusted to do a good job without any oversight, but I can't understand how Andrew can just forget about most of the constituents once they leave surgery. You'd think curiosity would kick in sometimes, if nothing else. Unless he just has a short attention span, like Dad. (And look where that's got him, not to mention me and Dinah.)

Greg and I have completely different attitudes. Even when we take annual leave, the first thing we do upon returning to work is to check what's been happening with our cases while we've been absent. That's if we haven't already phoned in during our holiday, especially if a significant deadline's been scheduled to occur while we're away.

We don't do it because it's our job - but because these people are real to us. (Too real in the case of the usual suspects, but that's a different issue.) At the risk of sounding like Mother Teresa, I wish that Andrew still seemed to care as much as we do. He was a much better MP when he did.

Anyway, I'm going off on a bit of a tangent, so I need to re-focus on the main argument - I really hope Mum's rambling Kevin Turvey thing isn't hereditary - and explain why my sabbaticals suggestion would be good for MPs in other ways, too.

When Michael Portillo spent a week living with that single mother on benefits, it didn't do him any harm, did it? Even though he didn't go undercover, it did bring him good publicity. I've had a sneaking affection for him ever since, and I bet I'm not the only one.

It also helped that, although Portillo did look completely out of his depth, he did at least seem aware that he was in deep water. I'm starting to wonder if Andrew thinks he can bloody walk on it. And as far as his political philosophy goes, well - there's more to that than smoking a pipe and wandering around trying to look like Jean-Paul Sartre, isn't there?

So, to sum up - quick, before Channel 4 News starts - if MPs really want to help anyone, and to make policies with a chance of achieving their aims, then a regular reality check would be A Bloody Good Thing.

There endeth the sermon as delivered by Molly Bennett in uncharacteristically dictatorial mode. This may be due to vertigo, but hopefully normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

A Right Earful, And The Shortcomings Of Georges Bloody Perec

I've given up on Perec. His bloody book's no help at all when it comes to real life. It must be the most useless user's manual ever.

He obviously never met anyone like Miss Chambers - who phones this morning to complain that someone has posted more dog poo through her letterbox. When I ask if she's reported it to the Police, she says,

"How can you be so stupid? You can't trust them an inch."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case," I say, but this seems to enrage her even more than usual.

"I told you they stole my teapot!" she screams. "I can't take any more of this. If I kill myself, it'll be your fault."

Oh, for God's sake. I'm not having that on my conscience. I take a deep breath, brace myself to return the phone to my ear, and then say,

"Well, if you're feeling like that, I really think you should speak to your GP and see if he or she can help."

"I haven't got a GP. My last one threw me off his list."

Then she starts screaming. No words, just a long, drawn-out sound that I can't even begin to reproduce.

The noise travels down the phone line, hurtles in through my left ear, and exits through the other one, apparently making it all the way into Greg's office, and causing him to come rushing in to mine.

I drop the phone, but Miss C has already hung up.

"What the hell?" says Greg.

"She's threatening suicide, so I suggested she go to see her GP and she just went ballistic," I say. "God, my ear hurts."

"I'm not surprised," says Greg. "Never heard anything like it. Not even from her."

"Well, it's probably your fault. Have you been posting more dog poo through her door?"

"Don't be stupid, Molly. I'm not risking that again. I value my life too much."

Greg shows me an article about a man who was killed after urinating through someone's letterbox, but I can't read it as the whole room is starting to swirl.

After about an hour, I am feeling so sick that I have to lie down on the sofa in the Oprah Room, much to Vicky's disgust, and eventually, Greg sends me home. Via my GP.

Apparently I either have Labyrinthitis - whatever that is - or damage to my eardrum. So now I'm stuck with having to lie down to stop the room moving, while I bet Miss Bloody Chambers is sitting in an armchair, happily watching TV and knitting.

Unless she's making herself a straightjacket, there is no justice.

In Which My Brain Is Discovered To Be Deader Than Previously Thought

Oh, dear God. Things are worse than I thought. Just spent hours banging on about Sophocles, and mocking Vicky's inability to pronounce it, when all the time I meant Socrates.

Is this what is known as a senior moment? What a complete idiot. I am quite clearly no longer an intellectual. Or even vaguely competent...

An Intellectual Voice In The Wilderness, And The Shortcomings Of Marriage Guidance.

I've had a brainwave. Maybe Max and I could go to Relate. I mean, that's what they're for, isn't it? Propping up the marriages that are the foundation of social stability. I decide to phone them at lunchtime, while Vicky and Greg are out.

In the meantime, I'm going to think about ways to make myself more interesting, in between dealing with the usual suspects. I think I've turned into Mrs Dull and Boring, as well as a headless child. I used to be an intellectual!

Someone mentioned Plato the other day, and I was shocked to realise that the only thing I can remember about him is that thing in the Crito about Sophocles not standing up for himself when he was wrongly accused.

I only recalled that because it came up in a discussion I had with Connie while she was studying Philosophy and Ethics at A-level. I had a terrible time convincing her of the validity of Sophocles' claim that, if you believe in the rule of law, then - logically - you should accept your sentence even if it is unjust.

"Sod the rule of law if it means I get punished for the stuff Josh has done," she said. "I'd rather have anarchy any day."

I doubt she would, actually - Josh would be bound to come off best in that situation, but Connie got even more annoyed when I said so. I had to change the subject and ask her when R.E. became Philosophy and Ethics. I might even have been tempted to have studied it if it had been called that in my day.

Whatever, it occurs to me that the way we fight cases on behalf of constituents is quite similar to old Soph's approach: force small admissions, and build on them until we've indisputably won the whole argument. (When there is an actual argument to be won, of course. I'm not talking about Miss Bloody Chambers and Edmund Beales here.)

I mention my new theory to Greg and Vicky when they get back from lunch. They look at me as if I am mad.

"What the hell are you on about, Mol?" Greg says. "Greek philosophy has absolutely nothing to do with what we have to take from this circus of freaks."

Vicky just says, "Who's Sopholololes?"

I am a rose amongst thorns. I shall put aside Henning Mankell and start reading something intellectual as soon as I get home. I might even give Perec another go.

I need something to give me hope, as it turns out that Relate's service isn't free. Can you believe it? I have no idea what I've been donating my clothes for all these years for. Big Society, my arse.

Goodbye To All That, And The Usefulness Of Lists.

Okay, that's it with the weight gain plan. I am sick of Complan already.

It tastes like liquidised wallpaper paste, so I'm going to have to come to terms with being a headless child. And Max will just have to accept me as I am - unless he's already decided he prefers blonde James Blunts, in which case gaining a couple of stone won't help.

Anyway, I am not going to think about that today. Marriage is off the agenda, despite William and Kate's attempt to distract us all from the spending cuts. I shall bury myself in my work instead.

It's got to be preferable to sitting around stewing about my home life, even though the dreaded Vicky's back. She isn't wearing a neck collar, so I can only assume that I misdiagnosed her condition. I do have another go at finding out what's she up to, though. I haven't entirely given up on my powers of detection.

"What exactly is it that you're working on now, Vicky?" I say. Subtle is my middle name.

"Something special for Andy," she says. "Confidential."

Huh. Andy. And what a hypocrite! Vicky hasn't even been made to sign a bloody confidentiality agreement, since she complained to The Boss that my suggestion was offensive.

"Everything that goes on here is confidential," I say. "You can tell us."

She won't divulge anything else, though - so Greg's going to have to stalk her, if we're to have any chance of discovering what's going on.

I'm thinking of stalking Max, too. Maybe I'll follow him the next time he "pops to Sainsburys" and check that he isn't stopping off at Ellen's for a quickie instead. In the meantime, I could always start keeping a list of the evidence that suggests that he's having an affair.

I like lists. They're deeply reassuring. In fact, I'm sure I used to make them when I was trying to decide if a boy liked me or not. I shall get my old diaries out again tonight, and check what method I used.

When I mention this to Johnny in an email, he seems pretty pleased about it.

"Then you'll see that I was your first love," he says. "And probably The One."

"I don't believe in The One," I say. "It's only my single friends who do. And, last time I looked at my diaries, you got a mention as my first exhibitionist, but I'm sure I didn't say anything about love."

"You said you'd written Molly Loves Johnny For Ever."

"That was Luvs," I say. "Totally different thing. Fuelled by teenage hormones, too many Babychams, and The Real Thing."

Johnny spends the next few emails trying to persuade me that we all need some romance in our lives, and pointing out that my life with Max is hardly the stuff of Mills and Boon. It seems that even he is not immune to the bloody Royal Wedding.

I study Max's expression for signs of a romantic disposition while he watches TV tonight. It's hard to tell much from the side of someone's head, so I eventually give up trying to read his mind, and start flicking through the diaries instead.

I soon come across some old lists, though they're not exactly illuminating. For a start, I have no idea who half of them refer to, this one being a good example:

Kev Likes Me/ Likes Me Not. 

Pros
He looked at me when I trod on his foot while getting on the school bus.
He answered me when I asked if he was playing footie after school: "No."
He gave me his chewing gum wrapper to put into the bin.
He called me Short-arse twice.

Cons
He didn't ask me out.
He looked at Julie Firman's tits all the way home.
He called me Short-arse twice.

Who the hell was Kev? I have no idea, but he sounds a bit of an idiot.

The lists are interspersed with pages and pages of differing versions of my signature - my first name, combined with the surname of whichever boy was in favour at the time, including David Cassidy and Marc Bolan. (Neither of these two went well with Molly.)

Molly Hunter doesn't make an appearance - although it doesn't sound too bad, now I come to think of it. If I was called that, I'd probably make a brilliant stalker. And it's a definite improvement on Kate Wales.

Beware The Activities Of The Furniture Spooks.

This is probably going to be a bit garbled, as I'm not exactly thinking straight. God knows what possessed me to go to bed so early last night.

Not only did I miss the chance to snoop out of the window to see if anyone else got out of the car when Max finally arrived home, but I also missed my opportunity to phone Sam and pretend I needed to speak to Max. Now it's too late to pull that one.

I wish I could find the Valium that Dad left here. I could really do with something to calm me down. Whoever said knowledge is power was absolutely bloody right, and Max is even more uninformative than usual today.

If he worked for MI5 or 6 I'd understand it, but I can't see someone who works in the furniture industry being privy to many state secrets. Unless one of them is the exact amount by which the public sector is routinely charged over-the-odds for desks and filing cabinets.

When we get up this morning, I decide to act normal and see what I can find out that way.

"How was your weekend?" I ask.

"Oh, okay."

I wait a bit, in case Max is just pausing for breath, but when nothing else is forthcoming, I have another try:

"So what did you guys get up to?"

"Not much," he says. "Do you want to use the shower first?"

This international man of mystery stuff is so annoying. God knows whether Max was staying at Sam's, or shagging Ellen in public somewhere - I just can't tell. Which is pathetic, given how good I am at detecting when other people are lying.

I knew that Lucas North was no good right from the first episode of Spooks. In fact, Max and I had an argument about it, when I forgot my promise to stop telling him what I think's going to happen next, and now he says I ruined the rest of the series.

My honesty detector might be malfunctioning when it comes to getting a reading from my husband, but it's back on form once I arrive at the office. I know Greg's lying as soon as he says he jogged to work, for example.

"How do you know that?" he says. "You been stalking me?"

"No," I say. "Didn't need to. You must have put those on in the lobby."

I point at his feet, and Greg looks incredulous, until he notices my shoes. They are soaked, whereas his trainers are bone dry. And it's pissing down outside.

"Oh, well," he says. "It was worth a try. I wanted to encourage you to get fit in readiness for our little jaunt to check on the loonies of Florence Road. Can't afford any passengers on such a dangerous mission, and I'm the only one with youth on my side, after all."

Luckily for him, the phones start ringing before I can reply. They don't stop until mid-afternoon, when Greg rushes out to buy himself "a healthy snack." I don't have an excuse to go out as my so-called lunch is waiting for me in the staff kitchen. More's the pity.

Marie-Louise calls while I'm trying to force myself to drink yet another mug of bloody Complan.

"What is going on, Molly?" she says.

That's what I'd like to know, too - though I hope Marie and I aren't talking about the same thing. I don't think she's even met Max, although anything's possible, I suppose.

"What d'you mean?" I say.

"Why are so many appointments going missing from the diary? Andrew has given me a verbal warning this morning - or, at least, that's what I think it was. In amongst the swearing."

"I don't know, Marie. Greg and I wondered that while you were off sick. We thought it wasn't you."

"I can't prove that, though - can I? I am the Diary Secretary, after all."

Marie sounds as if she's on the verge of tears - again - although she calms down a bit when I suggest she should print a copy of the diary every time she makes a change, as a half-soaked insurance policy.

After she has promised me not to resign, and has rung off, I fill Greg in on what has happened.

"Well, there's nothing else that we can to do to help today," he says. "Seeing as our prime suspect hasn't come to work again."

"If it is Vicky, how are we going to catch her out?" I say. "Assuming she doesn't drop dead of her self-inflicted hair-flicking injury?"

"Self-inflickted. Good one," says Greg. "And, in answer to your question: slowly, slowly, catchee monkey."

God knows what he's on about, but I'm pretty sure he's attempting a Burmese accent. Aung San Suu Kyi's release has gone right to his head.

He offers me a fortune cookie.

"These are your healthy snack?" I say.

"Brain food," he says. "Maybe they'll give us a clue as to what's really going on."

"I don't think I want to risk it," I say. "Just in case the cookie thinks I'm curious about something else."

The last thing I want to know is that I'm married to the Lucas North of Northwick, after all. "Bunkbed emergency" does sound a bit like code, now I come to think of it.

Alarms Going Off All Over The Place, Including In My Head.

Gah. I haven't slept a wink. So much for having a restful weekend while Max is away. First I have a nightmare, in which I am at work and spot the number 666 tattooed on Greg's head, and then - as soon as I get back to sleep - I'm woken again by a siren going off.

It's so loud that, at first, I think it must be our burglar alarm, but then I realise I didn't switch that on, because Josh was still out clubbing when I went to bed.

He's back home and fast asleep when I stumble through to his room at about 4:00am, though.

"Josh," I say. No reaction whatsoever. And what is that smell?

"Josh! Wake up!"

"Whassat?" says Josh. Finally.

"Alarm," I say. "Not ours, though. Oh, God - unless it's the car alarm?"

"Don't be daft, Mum. The car's not here, is it? Dad's got it."

It's very annoying when your drunken teenage son is more capable of rational thought than you are.

He's not half so quick off the mark when it comes to going to investigate, though: I have to do that. I can't tell where the noise is coming from when I look out of the front door, thanks to the late-night traffic, so I go into the back garden.

Oh, shit, it's Ellen's alarm. I hope she's all right, though now I haven't a clue what to do next. Knowing someone like Steve Ellington causes a certain reluctance to confront burglars, so I just shout, "Ellen? You okay?" - over the garden wall.

There's no reply, so then I go back inside, and phone the Police. They say they'll be there as soon as they can, but that most units are currently in Northwick's nightclub quarter. (Also known as Beirut at this time of night.)

"Well, please hurry," I say. "My neighbour's a single woman and often on her own at weekends, so I'm worried about what's happening, though I don't really want to risk going into the house myself."

The alarm's still sounding when I put the phone down, so God knows why Ellen hasn't turned it off herself. Something must have happened to her.

"Stop panicking," says Josh. "She's probably come in pissed and set it off herself before passing out in a corner somewhere. Just phone her up."

But there's no answer when I call Ellen's landline, so then I find her mobile number and try that instead. I can barely hear the ringing tone - and not just because of the alarm. My heart sounds as if it's relocated to the inside of my head.

"Uh. Hello? Who is this?" says Ellen. "And do you know what time it is?"

"Oh," I say. "Ellen, it's me. Molly."

"Christ! What are you doing calling me now?" Ellen doesn't sound like someone who's in fear of her life, though maybe I should be fearing for mine, given her snotty tone.

Then she says something else, but I can't hear her properly.

"Sorry, what did you say?" I ask.

"I wasn't talking to you," she says. Oh, I see. There's someone else there.

Honestly, I don't think Ellen has any appreciation of what it takes to be a good neighbour. She barely bothers to listen while I try to explain about her alarm, then just tells me to instruct the Police to disable it.

"I'm away this weekend," she says. "Won't be back 'til this evening." I'm sure she giggles as she hangs up.

I'm not finding it half as funny as she seems to be, especially when it takes until almost 10:00am for the Police to turn up and establish that there hasn't been a break-in.

It takes even longer to switch the damned thing off, as it turns out that one of the policemen will have to force entry to gain access. I don't think Ellen is much nicer to him than she was to me when he rings to seek her permission.

"So sorry to have disturbed you, Ma'am," he says, in a very sarcastic tone of voice. He'd do well in our office. The ability to be rude via excessive politeness is an essential part of the job.

Anyway, now it's lunchtime and I'm so bloody knackered that I should think I'll be asleep well before Max gets home tonight. I wonder what time Ellen will be back from wherever it is that she's been? She'll need to get that window re-glazed as soon as she is.

It's just typical that, on the one night that there's an emergency at her house, Max is away and I have to deal with it single-handedly. Though Max will probably say that it's just an unfortunate coincidence. Not that they happen half as often as some constituents would have you believe. Oh. Bloody, bloody hell.

It can't be normal for a heartbeat to be this loud.

Learning Difficulties - (Grand)Parental Style. Hopefully Not An Omen.

Max has decided to go on a flying visit to Sam's overnight, as he says this is likely to be the last weekend off he'll be allowed before Christmas. He doesn't invite me, but when I look a bit unimpressed, he says,

"You could have come if you'd wanted to. I thought you'd like a weekend to yourself. You can catch up on all that woman stuff you don't like me to see you doing."

Is that a hint that I should have another go with the hair removal wand? Or is it just an excuse? Whichever it is, there doesn't seem much point in arguing, so I wave Max goodbye, and then decide to go for a wander around Primark.

Bloody, bloody Christmas. Why does it have to start so early? The florist I pass on my way into town still has pumpkins piled up in the window, but now they're swathed in Christmas tree lights. Talk about trying to cover all bases. I bet there'd have been hearts in there somewhere, too, if I'd stopped for a better look.

My blood pressure always goes up at the mention of the so-called festive season. Or, at least, it does these days. I didn't used to mind it when the children were young, despite the inevitable Christmas morning fight that would break out between Connie and Josh within five minutes of them waking.

This was usually about ten minutes after Max and I had gone to bed, but watching the kids open their stockings was such fun, even if Josh did get a bit stressed.

Connie's obsession with laboriously un-peeling every bit of Sellotape and folding the wrapping paper as if it were an origami masterpiece - before she even looked at the present - almost drove him into a frenzy. Josh has always been a fan of immediate gratification.

He would rip his presents open as fast as he could, then cram anything remotely edible into his mouth - including an unshelled Brazil nut that he confused with a piece of Chocolate Orange on one memorable occasion. He'd almost always need to be sick by about 10:00am. Or hospitalised. (Maybe not quite as much has changed as I thought.)

Now Christmas just isn't the same. Well, the fun's gone, though the tedious bits remain exactly as they were. I still have to write one hundred and sixty-four Christmas cards every year - another dubious benefit of having an over-extended extended family.

And why do wives automatically become responsible for buying, writing and sending cards to their husband's family too? That wasn't at all what I meant when I said, "I do." Five million years ago.

Top of the enthusiasm-killers is definitely the "Who gets which parent?" question, though. Dinah's already on the case when she phones in the evening.

"You having Gary Glitter for Christmas, if he comes back from Thailand before then?" she says. "He already sounds a bit bored."

"Well, even he probably can't have sex twenty-four hours a day," I say.

"Not without spending all his pension on Viagra, anyway. So - are you going to invite him?"

"What?" I say. "Dinah, it's not my turn. I did it last year. Why can't he come to you?"

"He's too annoying." I suppose that's undeniable, but even so...

"And he hates my kids," Dinah continues. "He will insist on calling Jake Damian."

"Damian?" I say.

"From The Omen. Dad thinks it's bloody funny, but I don't appreciate him looking through Jake's hair every five minutes, and saying he's only trying to find the number 666."

Dinah inhales, then carries on:

"And Dad always picks the remote up the moment he arrives and doesn't let it go until he leaves. He won't even let Jake watch CBeebies, for God's sake. How can you expect a four-year-old to appreciate Rugby Sevens or The Terminator?"

She's got a point there. Whenever Dad comes to stay with us, he insists on having the TV on all the time. As far as anyone can tell, there appears to be no reason for this, except to allow him to change channels. Every thirty bloody seconds.

"Yeah, what is wrong with him?" I say. "I thought Josh was going to have a coronary by Boxing Day. We didn't manage to watch a single film all the way through."

"It's ADHD," says Dinah. "As witnessed by his serial marriages."

I really hope that's not an omen. Max is easily-distracted - especially by naked women - and aren't there more divorces over Christmas than at any other time of year?

How To Turn An MP's Staffer Into A Domestic Goddess. Whether She's Willing Or Not.

The Boss is in a towering rage today, oh joy. I can only assume it's because Vicky has rung in sick. Or, rather, she says she's sick when I phone to find out where she is, though she doesn't tell me what is wrong with her. Probably a cricked neck from all that hair-flicking.

Andrew's also annoyed about the whole Phil Woolas thing. Harriet Harman's not exactly his favourite person at the moment, but he's most furious with the local Party.

"Why?" I ask. "What have Joan and the others got to do with it?"

"I told them to make a complaint about the LibDems' election expenses in Northwick, didn't I?" he says. "But the buggers wimped out. As usual."

"Well, you won anyway," I say.

"Though God knows how," says Greg, rather quietly - but Andrew still hears him. Ears like a bat, that man.

"Pair of comedians, you two, aren't you? he says. "There's no way that bastard Smithson could have afforded all those leaflets within the allowed spending. And as for how much the yellow peril paid for postage and deliveries - well, that'd have taken them miles outside the limit."

For once, The Boss may have a point. It certainly looked bad when Greg estimated the cost just after Election Day, but it's hardly worth crying over spilt milk now, is it? It's not going to help Phil Woolas. Or his staff, for that matter.

Talking of ex-MPs' staff, Jen phones after lunch and sounds really depressed. She still hasn't got a job and is finding being unemployed very difficult.

"I've done all my cleaning by 10:00am," she says. "And I've even resorted to bloody baking this week - Nigella's got nothing on me. I've got Christmas puddings coming out of my ears.'

"Shut up about Christmas," I say. "But I can't believe someone hasn't snapped you up by now. What's going on?"

"Well, I did get offered one job," she says. "But I couldn't bring myself to take it."

"What on earth was it?" Jen is nothing if not multi-skilled. And adaptable - it comes with the territory.

"The new MP phoned to ask if I'd become his office manager," she says. "For Christ's sake. Talk about crass. And he was offering a lower salary."

"Probably to cover his excess election expenses, if The Boss's theory is right."

Andrew looks up, makes an obscene gesture that he usually reserves for use when he's driving, and then returns to the important business of eating Greg's lunch. (I was right about the Complan, even though I can't bear it either.)

"So have you had any interviews at all?" I say. If Vicky manages to get rid of one of us, it may be me that's job-hunting next.

"Loads," says Jen. "Trouble is, no-one can get their heads around what MPs' staff actually do. The breadth of our remit just boggles their minds, and there's never enough time to cover everything. And I think half of them only want to meet me to see what someone who works for an MP looks like in the flesh."

Bloody hell. I'd be unemployable on that basis. Better give the Complan another try.

Two Birds, And The Usefulness Of Knowing When To Make A Quick Getaway.

God, today is stressful. First of all, Trish phones.

"Andrew's in London," I say. "Did you think it was Friday?"

Seems I'm not the only one who has no idea where my husband is half the time although, as The Boss is always in Westminster on Mondays to Fridays when Parliament is in session, you'd think Trish would have learned that by now.

"No, I know it's Thursday" she says. "I want to talk to you, Molly. Is that Victoria still there?"

Trish doesn't sound at all like her usual dynamic self. And why is she asking me?

"Um, yes," I say. "Though I'm not sure for how much longer."

"Thanks. That's all I wanted to know." Then Trish hangs up. I've got a horrible feeling that that wasn't the answer she was hoping for.

Five minutes later, Greg is reading the local paper when he says, "Shit!"

"What?" I say, as Vicky does that long-suffering sigh that denotes her disapproval of swearing. She's probably got her eye on an internship with the Pope next.

"Look at this." Greg puts the paper in front of me.

The front page says: "Man run over by neighbour in bizarre feud." Oh, for God's sake. It's Mr Meeeurghn. He's been mowed down by one of his neighbours, and is now in Northwick General. With minor injuries.

"Maybe we should have taken him more seriously," says Greg. "Seen who they've arrested?"

"Not yet," I say. "Who?"

"John Fuk-Yue. Claims he had an epileptic fit while at the wheel."

Brilliant. Just brilliant. One loony constituent ploughed down by another. Now they'll both want us to help them get justice. Talk about a conflict of interest.

Mind you, there is something very neat about two of our most nightmare constituents putting each other out of action. You might almost say "two birds with one stone." If you were that sort of person.

"Killed two birds with one stone, there," says Greg - who obviously is that kind of person. "Bloody marvellous. Though I've just realised something else. It's not just those two who live on Florence Road. Miss Chambers lives there too - and Mr Everett. The council must be building a loony ghetto."

"Well, we're still not sure Mr Everett is a loony," I say. "It might just be his head injury."

"He scared the shit out of you last time he came in. You said The Twilight Zone theme was playing at full blast."

Greg's right, actually. Despite his smart suit, and his educated and superficially polite demeanour, there is something strange about Mr Everett. If you contradict him at all, or indicate that you are checking his story with the relevant authorities, you can sense the aggression boiling away just beneath the surface.

He claims to have been the victim of a mugging but, so far, no-one seems to believe that that is the reason he was found lying unconscious in the street. Not even the woman who was his girlfriend at the time, though I haven't told him that yet. All the witnesses refer to his habitual drinking, though - when they're willing to speak about him at all, that is.

"Well, yes, " I say. "And I do wish he hadn't taken such a liking to me. I'm getting tired of him coming in every other day, but I've decided I'm not going to see him on my own again, anyway."

"I doubt he'll like that," says Greg. "Seeing as you seem to be becoming his raison d'etre."

This is a really unnerving thought, and I can feel myself go pale.

"Don't fret," says Greg. "That's why we're going to do our next CRB check on Florence Road."

"Oh, God. Do we have to do more of those?" I say. "I've had quite enough of living dangerously."

"It's more dangerous not knowing what we're up against, Mol. This time we'll just do one street. And we'll wear trainers in case we need to make a quick getaway."

"Pity Mr Meeurghn didn't think of that," I say.

Now I come to think of it, it sounds as if The Boss might need to get some running shoes, if Trish's tone was anything to go by. I can't believe I used to complain I led a boring life.

The Unreal Woman, Or The Headless Child Bride.

I have got to stop The Boss eating my food. If I get any smaller, I'm going to disappear, and then all that will be left is a pile of clothing, mainly comprised of the five million layers of thermal underwear I've had to resort to now that the weather's become so much colder.

Over the last few days, I've been barely able to move my arms to type, and yesterday Greg would not shut up about Weebles.

"I didn't find that analogy funny when Max first thought of it," I said. "So you lack even the virtue of originality."

Well, you look as if you're wearing a fat suit," said Greg. "Can you even breathe with all that thermal underwear crushing your rib cage?"

"Yes, of course I can. I just have to take shallower breaths. Being skinny is no laughing matter - as you'd know if you ever went to the gym more than twice a year."

"Oooh - defensive behaviour. Another sign of burnout," said Greg. He didn't stop mocking me until I threatened to tell Miss Chambers who had put the dog poo through her letterbox.

Mind you, now I'm not sure that I wouldn't rather be a Weeble than the alternative.

When I get out of the shower this morning, I realise that I've forgotten my dressing gown - so I have to hurtle into the bedroom wrapped only in a towel. A hand towel, as Josh has used all the bigger ones.

Speed is of the essence as, not only is it bloody freezing in our house, but you never know who you're going to meet on the landing: none of Josh's friends seem to have homes to go to, if the number of bodies asleep on his bedroom floor most mornings are anything to go by.

On my way through the bedroom door, the towel catches on the handle, so by the time I'm fully inside the room, I'm totally starkers. And facing the full-length mirror. Oh, my God.

Honestly, if you chopped my head off, you'd think I was about twelve years old. Gok would have a fit if he saw me. He'd have to give up his obsession with the "real woman" thing, and find an alternative phrase. Probably "unreal."

I don't like this idea at all, so I ask Max:

"Do you think I look like a real woman?"

"What?" he says, while hopping about on one foot and trying to put a sock on the other. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, do I look like a woman - or a child?"

"Well, a woman, I suppose."

I suppose? What the hell's that supposed to mean?

"What about if you imagine me without a head?" I say.

Max rolls his eyes.

"Do I have to? Headless isn't exactly normal, is it?"

Now I've found the hand-mirror, too, and I'm twisting about trying to see my back view. Max has stopped getting dressed and is staring at me in disbelief.

"Max - stop looking at me like that! Just humour me for a minute. Woman - or child - when missing my head?"

"Well, um, child, I suppose," he says. Then he pulls a face.

"Oh, thanks," I say. "Is it that bad?"

"Well, it makes me feel like a bit of a pervert," he says. "Being married to a headless child."

So there you have it. I bet that's why we have no sex! I am going to Boots on my way home from work, and I'm going to buy up their entire stock of Complan and eat the whole lot at once. Or drink it, anyway.

I know Complan tastes disgusting, but at least it's unlikely that Andrew will want to help himself to any, so that'll help the pounds pile on. Then I won't need any thermal underwear and my body might match my bloody head for once. These real women have no idea how lucky they are.

Rainchecks, Botox and Pumpkins. And An Impending Sense Of Doom.

I'm off the hook for this Thursday. Johnny's trip to the UK has been rescheduled, so at least that gives me some more time to work out if Max is having an affair with Annoying Ellen the Botox Queen. Though God knows how, seeing as Greg's half-arsed investigations still aren't achieving anything so far.

As Max is smoking again, and is less irritable as a result, maybe I should try and talk to him about what's going on, though I'm not at all convinced that that's a good idea.

After all, lots of married women seem to opt not to voice their suspicions however sure they are that their husbands are up to something. I think it's to avoid being forced into a situation where they have no choice but to act on whatever they find out.

I do know that, if Max is guilty, then I'd definitely be entitled to have a fling - as long as said fling was metaphorical and didn't involve Johnny falling over any more stationary objects - but what then? What would happen to Connie and Josh if Max and I split up? Or to me, for that matter? It's not as if I'm sure I'd want to spend the rest of my life with Johnny - even if that was an option.

I'd never get through the oil company's wives' training course, for a start. I can barely boil an egg, let alone prepare canapes for five thousand people, and I can't even eat one of those without getting crumbs all down my front. Now I'm definitely having a hot flush.

"It's another panic attack, you muppet," says Greg. "You're losing your mind. Told you you'd been doing this job too long."

"Thanks so much," I say. "Where's your empathy gone?"

"Caseworker burnout. Well-known problem. You need some Valium."

I suppose Greg could be right, so I decide to make an appointment to see the doctor about my hormones while I'm at the surgery with Josh after work. I'm sure he's broken his hand.

He says that he didn't expect the Hallowe'en lantern to be so hard, and now regrets punching it while yelling "You know the band, the Smashing Pumpkins? Well, this is their greatest hit!"

"Do you never learn?" I say.

"Just playing it for laughs, Mum. Just for laughs. You should try it sometime," says Josh. "Unless that's what you were doing when you chose that outfit."

Honestly, what happened to respecting your elders and betters? Now Josh can tell the doctor how he got this latest injury all by himself. That'll teach him and, anyway, there's only so much embarrassment a parent can take.

So I'm sitting in the waiting room and enduring the seemingly-endless jingles that comprise ninety per cent of Radio Northwick's output, when I spot something lying amidst the old copies of People's Friend and Heat on the table. It's the surgery's newsletter, printed on bright pink paper, and giving details of flu jabs and diabetes clinics.

Good God. And Botox injections - at £150 a throw. What the bloody hell is going on? Isn't Ellen's shiny forehead depressing enough? Now even my doctor seems to be saying that I need my face paralysed in order to be healthy, or at least, to ensure that the sight of it doesn't make anyone else ill. And this is an NHS practice!

I bet Botox is compulsory for oil barons' wives, now I come to think of it. I am doomed. If Josh hadn't already smashed the pumpkin, I'd be very inclined to put it over my head.

Slavery, Unpaid Work And Daytime TV: Constituents On Reforms To The Benefit System.

Today is filled with the post-weekend moans of the usual suspects, and also lots of calls from people with an opinion on Iain Duncan-Smith's latest proposal to make the long-term unemployed do a minimum of four weeks' voluntary work.

Constituents might all be sticking to the same subject but, God, their opinions vary. Some of them are enraged that people are to be made to work unpaid, and one even bandies the word "slavery" about. (Obviously the recent criticism of Boris et al for the use of over-the-top language hasn't filtered through to everyone yet.)

Of course, Mr Beales has a completely different point of view. (Probably due to those glasses of his.)

"Why does everyone keep saying these people will be working unpaid?" he says. "Taxpayers like me are already bloody paying them - to sit on their backsides and watch daytime TV. While eating pizza."

Thank God Mr Beales rarely notices if I don't reply, and nor does Richard Levison, who wants to know why the Labour Party is objecting to the idea, given that they put something similar in place themselves. Or so he says.

Even Joan has a contribution to make, when she catches me on my way back from the loo:

"I know it's not the Party line," she says. "But I did voluntary work to get back into the jobs market once my kids were older. Sometimes it's the only way to make your CV worth anything after a big gap."

It seems that Joan has her finger on the pulse where issues are concerned, at least where young people are concerned. It must be due to her being the bus driver in South Park in a parallel universe.

A recent graduate called Jim Mackie phones and, after telling me that he's never contacted his MP before, takes Joan's point a whole lot further:

"These proposals," he says. "About time, too - though only if they make sure that the work is bloody relevant."

"Um, yes," I say. "Did you have something specific in mind?"

"I've got a degree in Molecular Biology," he says. "And I've been unemployed all year. The f*cking Jobcentre hasn't a clue where graduates are concerned."

Then he goes on to explain that, after he finished university, he got a research job with a company which quickly became a victim of the recession. So Jim had no option but to move back home to live with his parents, as he was under twenty-five and therefore only entitled to half the Housing Benefit payable to an older person.

"I've been to almost a hundred interviews since I came back to Northwick," he says. "But even though I usually make it to the second interview, I always lose out to someone older. Even for science jobs that only require GCSEs or A-levels."

"That's awful," I say. "But I'm sorry, how does it relate to the new work and benefits proposals?"

"I get turned down because I can't compete with the experience that the older candidates have. A few months ago, I was offered two short unpaid internships by a research lab and by the local university, but I wasn't allowed to take either of them to make myself more employable. My benefits would have been stopped - and, as my parents can't afford to keep me, I need the Jobseeker's Allowance to pay my share of the housekeeping."

"Oh, I see," I say.

"With all due respect, I don't think you do," says Jim. "When I was told that I couldn't do the internships, the Jobcentre said that I would be allowed to do unpaid work in the local RSPCA shop or for some other charity while claiming benefit - even though that wouldn't have helped me at all in the longer term. So it's okay to do something for charity while you're signing on - but not anything that might make you more able to get off benefits."

"Oh, now I do see." Good God, that's ridiculous. No wonder he sounds so angry. I really hope Connie's not going to have the same problem when she graduates.

"So is something going to be done to make sure that these new proposals will allow people to take useful work that might actually get them jobs in the long run? If there are any good internships left by then, because God knows the competition for them is high, too."

"I'll see what I can find out," I say. "But I really hope so."

Honestly, this stuff is so complicated, isn't it? God knows how anyone's supposed to muddle their way through it - and it's not exactly reassuring when MPs are the people making the policies that affect our lives. Not when you work for one.

If a simple thing like cycle helmets is too challenging for The Boss, what hope is there of the Government reforming something as complex as the benefits system without cocking it up even further?

Maybe I should persuade Connie to change her degree subject now, while there's still time. There seem to be publicly-funded jobs for stylists and photographers, after all. Shame the Camerons don't need a personal scientist, as I know just the man for the job.

The Smoking Gun. Or Rabbit, In This Case.

Huh, so much for Max's much-vaunted self-discipline during his latest attempt to renounce smoking.

I'm sitting in the garden at lunchtime today - smoking, of course, but then I'm not the one who's claiming to have given up - when Josh comes out to complain about Connie. Apparently, she's getting too competitive while boxing on the Wii and has just whacked Josh on his unbroken arm.

"I'd take that as your punishment for the shoes incident, if I were you," I say. "And, anyway, leave me alone - I've only come out here to get away from you two arguing."

"No, you haven't," says Josh. "You're a filthy addict, unlike Dad. If he can give up - just like that - I don't see why you won't even try."

"Unlike your father, I have a genuinely stressful job," I say, "And maybe I'm not motivated by the same rewards."

Josh isn't listening. That's so typical.

"Look at that," he says, pointing towards the side of the shed. "Something's on fire."

He's right. There are clouds of white smoke, billowing around from the back of the shed wall and drifting across the garden.

"Dad. Dad!"

Honestly, I don't know why the kids always assume Max is the only person who can deal with an emergency. He doesn't even know the meaning of the word, not to mention that I am the designated fire officer at work. (There's no need for everyone to keep pointing out that I can't lift the extinguisher by myself.)

"Yes?" comes Max's voice - from the other side of the shed.

"What are you doing? Are you okay?" says Josh.

"Just feeding the rabbit, and cleaning out the hutch," says Max. "Nothing to worry about."

"But there's smoke coming from the back of the shed." Josh is getting very worried now, and is heading towards it.

"No, that's just dust from the hay. I'll be with you in a minute."

"Oh, for God's sake," says Josh, in a tone of deep disgust. "Mum, Dad's smoking a bloody cigarette. Right next to the poor old rabbit. Dust from the hay, my arse."

"Oh, honestly, Max," says Ellen, over the garden wall. "And when you were doing so well, too. "

I do wish Ellen would stop appearing from nowhere, even when she's fully-clothed - although I'm quite enjoying watching Max blustering and claiming it is "just a lapse." At least, I am until I remember that he is my husband, and yet I'm not the one he's been trying to please.

I don't say anything about it, though. Some of us are capable of genuine self-discipline.

Josh Shows A Lack Of Appreciation For Birdsong, And Expensive New Shoes.

God, I've got a terrible hangover. Why on earth did I decide to drink red wine instead of gin last night? I really don't think anyone noticed, so it's not as if I earned any Brownie points for fitting in with the rest of the women at the Party bonfire.

Unlike bloody Josh, who fitted in all too well, but then couldn't get his head out of the bucket, again. He's much too old - and his head's far too big - to still be trying to win at apple bobbing, but he's so ridiculously competitive. Even when he's competing against a field of eight year olds.

Now he's blaming me for "making him misjudge the angle of entry" as he says that he gets anxious when I watch him. Then he explains that this is why he always "forgot" to tell me when Sports Day was taking place.

"Why would you do that?" I ask. It's the first I've heard of it, and I am deeply wounded. "I am your mother, Joshua."

"Performance anxiety," he says. "The last time I let you come to Sports Day, I dropped the egg, fell over my own feet in the three-legged race and came first by accident in the slow cycling race."

Honestly, we really should have sent the kids to a far less progressive school. I'm sure the whole "competition is too traumatic" thing has only made them worse.

Josh used to get so angry that the headmaster wouldn't even apply selection to the football team. He said it made them a laughing stock throughout the entire inter-school league. Not that Josh's anger is a thing of the past - he's in a foul mood this morning too, because his hangover is even worse than mine.

It seems that drinking has also become a competitive sport, though no-one in their right mind - other than Josh - would ever try and take on Pete Carew. That man can still drink a pint while lying flat out underneath a bar stool. Without spilling a drop. His status within the local Party is legendary as a result.

Josh doesn't accept that he has a hangover, though - but claims instead that he is sleep-deprived, even though I'm the one who gets woken up early. By Connie, who comes barging in at 9:30am yelling, "Mum!"

Max is still asleep beside me - free of a hangover - so why is Connie picking on me?

"Ouch," I say, pulling the pillow over my head. "Shush. Head hurts."

"You've got to do something about bloody, bloody Josh, Mum. Now!"

"What? Con, you've only been home since last night and Josh is probably still out cold, so I really don't see what's so urgent."

"My new shoes," she says. "They're probably ruined. I come home for the weekend and this happens on the first bloody night."

What is she talking about? I sit up in bed, decide fast moves are a very bad idea and lie down again. Slowly.

"Connie, I have a terrible hangover and I feel like death, so just tell me. What have your new shoes got to do with Josh?"

"They're in the tree outside his bedroom," she says. "Come and look."

She insists Max and I follow her downstairs and out into the garden, where we stand and stare up in disbelief at Connie's new shoes, which really are in the tree. Still in their box, though this doesn't seem to make Connie feel any better.

So it's back inside and straight up the stairs to Josh's room - which smells of teenage boy and far too much beer the night before. Now I feel sick as well as having the headache from hell.

"Josh," I say, shaking him. "Josh! Wake up! Why are Connie's new shoes in the tree?"

"I threw the box out there about four o'clock this morning," says Josh. "Now go away and let me get back to sleep. I'm tired."

"Why?" say Connie, Max and I, simultaneously. Josh opens one eye, glares at all of us, then sighs as if the answer should be obvious.

"Because the bloody birds were singing too loud, and the shoebox was the first thing that came to hand," says Josh. "Connie shouldn't have left it in my room."

"I'll get dressed and go and get the ladder," says Max. "Good morning, one and all." There is a definite tone about the way he says this. It sounds like resignation.

Bloody Men, Again - And The Dangers Of Apple-Bobbing.

Is it any wonder I occasionally have a less than favourable opinion of men? As if it's not bad enough having to put up with The Boss and a grumpy, James Blunt-adoring husband on a daily basis, then there are the constituents as well.

Today's surgery is ghastly. First Mr Beales turns up bearing more photos of the policeman who gave him his speeding ticket.

"See?" he says. "He's not wearing his luminous jacket again."

"Ah," says Andrew. "Yes, I do see." He passes the pictures to me.

"He's also not wearing his uniform," I say. "And is that a pub garden?"

"Might've been. Can't quite recall now." Mr Beales shuffles about a bit as he says this - always a dead giveaway that he's up to something.

"Well, was the policeman even on duty when you photographed him? I don't think they're required to wear high-vis clothing in their leisure time, you know."

"Molly does have a point there," says Andrew. "Good photos, though."

"Well, the policeman has a head," I say. "Which is always a bonus. Though I do think Mr Beales should check the anti-stalking legislation, don't you?"

"Hmm," says Andrew, while Mr Beales glares at me through his paedophile glasses. I will keep forgetting about his shotgun licence. And that bloody dog.

Next up is Angie Osman. I haven't seen her since early May, when she brought me a bunch of flowers for sorting out her husband Mehmet's Indefinite Leave to Remain.

This case was a small triumph, actually, as the couple's marriage had initially been treated as being a marriage of convenience, purely because Angie was ten years older than Mehmet.

It's funny how that's so rarely claimed when a male British pensioner marries a twenty-five year old Thai girl. Or it would be funny, if I wasn't expecting Dad to do much the same thing any time soon.

Angie doesn't look very happy today, though.

"Are you okay?" I ask. Bad move - as she promptly bursts into tears.

Andrew looks horribly uncomfortable but does produce some (cleanish) tissues from one of his many pockets, while I try to calm Angie down. Finally she's capable of speech.

"Mehmet's left me," she says, in between sporadic sobs.

Neither Andrew or I can believe it, and we don't really know how to handle the situation - though we blunder our way through various expressions of sympathy. Both of us are unprepared for what Angie says next, though:

"So I want you to do something about him. Urgently."

"Well, have you tried Relate?" I say. We can hardly kidnap Mehmet and drag him back, after all.

"No, that's no good," she says. "I want you to write to the Border Agency and get his Leave to Remain revoked. That'll teach the bastard to play me for a fool."

Andrew finally manages to persuade Angie to go home and think about it, on the basis that retaliation of this sort might not be the best thing for her, though I think it'd do her a power of good - if it were feasible.

I suppose there's no hurry, anyway - revenge is a dish best eaten cold, or so Greg says when I ask him if he's come up with a way of dealing with Vicky yet. As soon as surgery is over, Andrew takes her for lunch and we don't see either of them for the rest of the day.

I'm not sure if they'll even deign to turn up to this evening's Labour Party Bonfire Night do. Somehow I can't quite see toffee apples and pints of beer being Vicky's thing, and The Boss still seems to think that everyone in the Party's ready to oust him at the first opportunity, so it might be better if they both stay away.

I just wish I could get out of it, too - but Josh is so determined to win the apple bobbing this year, that I've got no choice but to go - especially as Max isn't coming with us.

He's not yet confident enough of his recent conversion to a non-smoker to risk attending a social occasion, or that's what he claims, anyway. He's going to pick Connie up from the station instead, and take her straight home as she says she'll be too tired to be sociable.

At least Greg has promised to help me pull Josh's head out of the bucket if it gets stuck again. After the day I've had, a repeat of that is the last thing I need. Though I can think of someone Turkish whose head I'd gladly shove under water at the drop of a hat.

The Unexpected Hazards Of The Internet...

Blimey, the internet's a dangerous place. Not just because of all the bomb-making instructions, but also because anyone with a computer can access it. And I don't just mean Dad and all his Thai "friends" either.

Carlotta phones to ask Greg to update The Boss' website this morning, though unfortunately not with an accurate CV. She wants some of Andrew's recent speeches added, as well as a clearer instruction to constituents that they should contact me or Greg, and not her or Marie-Louise.

"Mr Beales is far too demanding," she says, as if we aren't only too aware of that already.

While Greg's doing as Carlotta asked, I decide to take a quick look at what The Boss has been blogging about this week.

Honestly, Andrew seriously needs an editor. His blog's a nightmare - full of mad, unrelated witterings about stuff he knows nothing about. Pretty much like the letters he'd write to constituents if left to his own devices.

He's also mis-spelled Easemount, for God's sake - so I get Greg to correct it before everyone who lives there phones to complain.

"I bet they've already started leaving comments all over the internet," he says. "It's just occurred to me that we need to be keeping an eye on that for references to Andrew, as well as checking the papers. I'll google him now."

I dread to think what he's going to find. Whatever the first thing is, it's obviously funny, as Greg starts laughing out loud.

"Hey, Mol - you're famous," he says.

"What?" I'm still reading Andrew's blogged account of last Friday in the constituency. He needs a thesaurus if his over-use of "interesting meeting" is anything to go by. And a dictionary.

"You're being quoted."

Shit! How did that happen? I look over Greg's shoulder, while trying not to pass out from excessive after-shave fumes.

"Oh, my God," I say.

A constituent has cut and pasted one of my replies (sent on Andrew's behalf) into a discussion board about cycle helmets.

I'm sure it didn't seem quite so obviously non-committal when I wrote it, though Andrew's continuing inability to decide what he thinks on the issue is a bit of a challenge. The constituent makes it clear that he's not impressed, though.

"Huh," I say. "It's hardly fair to blame me for Andrew's indecisiveness, is it?"

"True," says Greg. "Seems we're writing for a wider audience than we think. Maybe we should get ourselves an agent. Fame and fortune, here we come."

Sometimes Greg thinks he's much funnier than he really is. And I'm not at all comfortable with the idea of my correspondence being published on the net, because I've just had a really terrible thought. What if my emails to Johnny fell into the wrong hands?

I'd better order him to delete them all, as soon as possible. The last thing I want is to find one of those posted on an oil barons' chat forum, despite their perfect spelling.

15, Yemen Road, Aberdeen. And A Very Fishy Situation.

Greg spends all morning ranting about John Hirst, when he's not moaning about David Cameron's taxpayer-funded photographer instead. He says he's going to demand £35,000 a year for taking snaps of The Boss from now on.

I'm just hoping Mr Beales hasn't already been given that job, though I can see the argument for headless photos of politicians only too well. I'm fretting about other issues, like the whole printer cartridge thing.

Yemen doesn't sound half as funny as it used to when any mention of the country made you think of Chandler's accidental visit in Friends. I'm worried about all the flying that Johnny does - though he doesn't seem to be.

"Don't be daft, darling," he says. "I've worked in the major trouble spots of the world - given that those are the places where oil is most often located." (Darling?)

"Well, don't mention that to Scotland," I say. "Or you'll have Alex Salmond after you."

"Why are Scottish politicians all named after fish? Isn't there someone called Sturgeon as well?"

Trust Johnny to know about sturgeon, though I bet that's only because of caviar. Honestly, I do wish he would take politics seriously. He does live and work in Russia, after all.

"Anyway, Molly - just think about the fact that I'm willing to risk my life to fly over and see you again as soon as you stop bloody dithering."

Oh, God. Talk about shameless emotional blackmail. Although the idea is becoming more appealing by the day, especially since Max has given up smoking.

He's still in such a bad mood that I bet even Ellen is regretting that he's now a non-smoker, if the whole thing was her idea. Unless Max is reserving his grumpiness just for me, and she's getting the Mr Pleasant stuff.

"I'm flying into Heathrow again next Thursday," says Johnny. "What d'you think?"

Oh. So he's coming anyway - for work? Now I don't feel half so flattered. And haven't we already ruled out a rendezvous at Heathrow?

"Have you seen the latest T-Mobile flash mob video?" I say.

When Johnny admits that he hasn't, I send him the link.

"Just imagine if I'd been waiting there to meet you, like you suggested last time," I say. "I'd have been all over the internet if something like this had happened. I told you it was too risky."

"More romantic than you thought, though?" says Johnny.

That's as maybe, but Johnny's so impatient he'd give Dinah a run for her money. He sends me another email before I've even replied to the last one. It says,

"Don't worry, I've already told you I'll come to Northwick. Again. Okay?"

Now I'm sure I'm having a hot flush. I had no idea they were dithering-related, but I feel very odd indeed. I tell Greg who says,

"It's a panic attack, you fool. Probably due to all these adrenalin-fuelled late nights, looking for Mr Sampson's file. Go and lie down in the Oprah Room for a minute, until you get a grip."

"Are you sure you don't mind?" I say. "I do feel a bit peculiar, though it's bound to be hormonal. Is my face red?"

"No, it isn't. You look perfectly normal," says Greg. "But lie down anyway. It'll be good for Vicky to have to sit upright when she gets back from lunch, too."

Well, thank God for hot flushes, that's all I can say. When I collapse onto the sofa, there's a funny noise, so I stand up again to check I haven't broken it. (I may have been being a little dramatic when I threw myself towards it, if I'm honest.)

I sit down, more carefully the second time - but the noise happens again. And the seat cushion doesn't seem to fit as well as it used to, either. I decide I'd better put my panic attack/hot flush combination on hold and investigate.

"Greg! Greg! Come and bloody well look at this!"

"I have no interest in seeing whatever imaginary symptom you've just developed," says Greg. "You've turned into a neurotic constituent since your birthday, Mol."

"Get in here. Now!"

"Shit," says Greg - as he contemplates Mr Sampson's file. "Bloody hell. What made you take the cushion off?"

"Never mind that," I say. "More to the point, how did the file get there?"

"I think we know the answer to that," says Greg. "Given Vicky's fondness for the prone position. Put the file in your locking drawer, quickly. We need to give our next move careful thought."

"Unlike Chandler," I say, but Greg's too irritable to find anything funny today.

I wonder if there's a shortage of piranha-faced hair-flickers in Yemen? Maybe we could send Vicky on an extended visit, accompanied by John Hirst and a certain photographer.

Not All Conspiracy Theorists Are Delusional, And Another Enigmatic Reply From Dad

It must be national non-constituent day. God knows how many Labour supporters from nearby areas phone this morning, all arguing that they have to be allowed to see The Boss, as their own MPs are either Tories or LibDems.

It doesn't matter how often you explain that this is irrelevant, and that MPs have a duty to act on behalf of all their constituents, regardless of their political persuasion - it never convinces anyone. I do wish all the new MPs would send out a round robin, informing their constituents that they're welcome no matter how they voted. I've already got more than enough to do.

I suppose it's a good thing that Andrew's not the one answering the phone, though. He's uncontrollable in the face of flattery from other MPs' constituents, as Igor's persistent presence demonstrates only too clearly.

If Andrew had his way, he'd be the only MP in the UK - though I bet he'd still appoint the extra staff that this would require on the basis of leg length alone. Vicky's a perfect example, unless I'm missing whatever it is that she is good at. Probably conspiracy, if the whereabouts of Mr Sampson's file are anything to go by.

Greg and I are knackered, and we still haven't found the damned thing, so there's another long night ahead. I just wish I could think of somewhere else to look.

We've checked every cupboard; every drawer, and emptied all the filing cabinets and the archive. At least twice. Now Greg wants to search Vicky's briefcase, but she seems to be taking it everywhere with her at the moment, even to the loo.

At least Dad's no longer missing. Well, he's obviously missing a number of brain cells, but I'm used to that. Dinah phones at lunchtime, and starts going on about all the terrorism reports.

"Dad's such an idiot that, if a pretty girl asked him to carry a printer onto a plane, he would," she says.

"Well, he must be in Thailand by now," I say. "Or we'd have heard about it. And anyway, I can't email him because he hasn't worked out how to access NTL anywhere other than from his house yet."

"Didn't  you say he set up a hotmail account when he went last time?" says Dinah. "Use that."

Honestly, Dinah's so bossy. Why do I have to do everything? Though I suppose I can keep it brief.

I send Dad an email saying,

"Are you okay?"

He responds quickly, I'll give him that - but I'm not sure it's worth it. His reply just says,

"Wet."

I really, really hope this isn't another case of the double-entendres.

Bennett and Duke, Incompetent PIs At Your Service. Episode Two: The Case Of The Missing File.

Well, there's one piece of good news today. Marie-Louise is back at work. The (very) bad news is that Vicky is still here.

"Andy needs me," she says, when Greg asks her why she's staying on, unpaid - or at least, that's what we assume, in the absence of any other explanation.

"Why does he need you?" says Greg.

Vicky's continuing presence has obviously wiped out his few remaining good manners.

"Because I'm the only one he trusts," says Vicky - which just goes to show that Andrew's judgement has completely gone to pot, as far as I'm concerned.

As a result, office morale is at an all-time low by lunchtime and then, to make matters worse, Mr Sampson phones to ask how his (very long-standing) case is going.

"Mr Sinclair said he'd send me something in the post quite urgently," he says. "But nothing has arrived yet."

"Oh," I say. "I don't know what's happened, I'm afraid. I didn't know there had been any new developments, and there are no recent updates on the computer. When did he tell you this?"

"When he visited me. The week before last, I think it was," says Mr Sampson.

"Ah, yes. I was off sick that week, so that's probably why I wasn't aware of it. Just hang on one moment, and I'll get your file."

I put Mr Sampson's call on hold, and head for the filing cabinet. I look through it twice, then on my desk - but there's no sign of the file. I promise to phone Mr S back, and search again, still without success. I'm rifling through the paperwork on Greg's desk when he walks in and asks what the hell I'm doing.

"Trying to find Mr Sampson's file," I say. "Can't see it anywhere. Have you had it?"

"No," says Greg. "Andrew took it with him when he went to visit Mr S. I'll phone and find out what he did with it."

The call doesn't last long and, when Greg slams the phone down and starts making V signs at it, I conclude that he doesn't have good news.

"Andrew says he gave the file to Vicky," says Greg. "On their way back from Mr Sampson's house."

"He took Vicky with him? To see a constituent?"

"Um, yes. I didn't like to tell you that bit."

Oh, for f*cksake. And it doesn't get any better. When Vicky finally returns from lunch, she claims that she left the file on my desk. She doesn't blink while she says this, and then comes the worst news of all.

"It was so that you could do that photocopying," she says, while smirking. Fishily.

"What photocopying?"

"The constituent gave Andy a pile of documents to take copies of. Then he was supposed to return them by post."

I look at Greg, who looks back at me. Neither of us wants to ask the next question but, as usual, I cave in first.

"Vicky, please tell me that these aren't original documents we're talking about?" I say.

"Oh, I should think so," she says. "Otherwise the constituent wouldn't be so anxious to get them back. You don't want any Tom, Dick or Harry laying their hands on the deeds to your house, now do you?"

Does she have to look as if she's enjoying this quite so much? Honestly, sometimes I can quite understand what motivates axe-murderers. Especially serial ones.

I could cheerfully kill The Boss as well as Vicky. Although she might be first on today's list of people that I plan to do away with come the revolution, Andrew's a close second. Especially after I call him with an update.

"Well, Molly - you'll just have to phone Mr Sampson back, explain that you've lost his file and apologise," he says.

"Me?" I say. "I wasn't even at work when you - or Vicky - managed to mislay the damned thing. Containing really important, original documents, for God's sake."

"Collective responsibility's the thing," he says, before he hangs up on me. Now it's my turn to make V signs. Mine are even more extravagant than Greg's.

There's no getting away from the fact that a holding manoeuvre is needed, though. I phone Mr Sampson and tell him that the file is still in Andrew's briefcase, which he's taken to London with him - so I'll have to get the paperwork sent back from there. (I really hope there's no bad Karma for white lies, or I am completely buggered in the next life.)

I'm clinging to the hope that we'll find the file and solve the whole problem, but it's already almost 7:00pm and Greg and I are still searching the office, while old fish-face is long gone. She's probably washing all her hair tonight, or doing something equally important, whereas  Greg and I won't be going home until we've found what we're looking for.

There's paper everywhere and the place already looks as if it's been ransacked. We haven't even had time to discuss what on earth we're going to do about the most serious problem: Vicky. I don't know why, but I've got a horrible feeling that she lost this file on purpose. It might pay not to underestimate hair-flickers in future, especially as I can't get the image of a smiling piranha out of my head. Or the sound of a very familiar tune.

Nicotine Deprivation And The Ninja Cat.

Well, as if it isn't bad enough that Dad is acting even more suspiciously than usual, now Max is at it, too. And he's in a bloody horrible mood, and seems to be getting through an entire packet of extra-strong mints every five seconds.

"What's the matter with you?" I say, after he's spent the last five minutes swearing. (He nearly bit through his tongue at the same time as a mint.) "And why do you keep eating those?"

"I'm giving up smoking," he says.

"What? Why?" Isn't that a bit of a coincidence after I had to endure an Ellen lecture on the subject only yesterday?

"Don't be silly, Mol. Everyone knows it's not good for you. And it's like having social leprosy these days."

"Well, not when both of us smoke," I say. "Unless you're thinking of getting up close and personal with anyone else?"

"Oh, for God's sake. I want to give up before I enter my next bloody decade. That's all. Just like you said you were going to. I'm a bit more determined that you, though."

Talk about unfairness. Has Max forgotten the provocation I was subjected to on my birthday?

"Well, that wasn't my fault," I say. "What with Ellen and her very public search for a big you-know-what at my party, and The Boss going on and on about Gordon Brown, it's no wonder I forgot I was supposed to be giving up, is it?"

"Excuses, excuses." says Max. There is nothing as annoying as a reformed smoker. Except for Ellen.

It seems nicotine withdrawal is very bad for your judgement, though. Max agrees to give Josh a lift to Holly's after lunch, and they both leave the house together. Two minutes later, Josh comes pelting back in through the door.

"Mum, have you seen Charlie?" he says.

"No. He's probably still out shagging," I say. "There seem to be about ten cats on heat around here at the moment." (Not to mention humans.)

"No, he isn't. He was asleep on the wheel of the car when Dad and I got into it just now."

"Well, then - you know where he is already. Why are you asking me?"

"Well, I told Dad Charlie was on the wheel -"

"And?" I say. I don't like the sound of this.

"And Dad said not to worry - that Charlie'd get off as soon as the engine started. Only he didn't."

Marvellous. So now Max is a cat murderer. I'm just waiting for the Facebook hate page to be created, when Josh explains that, although there was a big bump, Charlie has run off somewhere.

"So he's not dead," he says. "We've just got to find him and take him to the vet as fast as we can."

Honestly, I'm sure some people have restful weekends. We search for hours but there's no sign of Charlie anywhere.

Josh is distraught and keeps telling us that cats always take themselves off to somewhere off the beaten track to die. This is not particularly helpful in the circumstances. When it gets dark, we have no choice but to admit defeat and go indoors.

By the time Charlie finally swaggers through the cat flap and into the house, Max is a wreck. I bet he's dying for a cigarette too, but not half as much as he is once we get the vet's bill. How can it cost £65:00 just to be told that your cat has no internal or external injuries and has therefore had a miraculous escape?

"You may have been right about pet insurance," says Max on the way home. "Especially as I feel like killing the bloody cat myself now. Sixty-five quid and there's nothing wrong with him!"

"He's obviously better than Josh is at ninja rolls," I say.

Max doesn't laugh. Honestly, giving up smoking plays hell with your sense of humour. I'm sure Charlie's smiling from the depths of his basket, though.