So much for having a peaceful week at work. The phones go nuts today, and everyone is moaning about something, especially the usual suspects. If I hear the phrase, "I've got issues" one more time, I swear I'm going to become an axe murderer.
Some people have got valid points to make, though. Honestly, I don't think some students are working as hard as they claim to be. Not if all the constituents complaining about them are anything to go by.
"I can't take it any more," says Mrs Watts. "I haven't had a decent night's sleep for months."
She goes on to explain that the students who live in the terraced house next to her are driving her to distraction.
"They're completely nocturnal," she says. "When they're not coming in drunk at 3:00am and putting their stereos on at full volume, or sitting outside smoking and yelling their heads off, they're shooting things on those damned PlayStations. They just don't seem to understand that normal people work during the daytime, or that they are partying next to my bedroom."
"Have you reported them to the university?" I ask.
"Oh, yes," she says. "And to the Anti-Social Behaviour team. Doesn't do any good. The only time the university does anything is when it's another student who's being disturbed."
"Well, what did the ASB* officer say?" I ask.
"What attractive boys they all were. And how nicely-spoken. Of course, she only visited during the day when they were sober."
It isn't the first time that I've heard this from constituents. When the ASB team receive complaints about a bunch of youths on one of the council estates who are making their neighbours' lives a misery, they're only too happy to believe the complaining residents and to take a tough line. As they should.
But it's often a totally different story where students are concerned, especially those who are middle-class or who have cut-glass accents. You'd wouldn't think professionals would be so easily fooled, but drug and drink-fuelled noise and disturbance caused by partying students is often treated as high-jinks. It's as if neighbour nuisance is defined by class and educational attainment, not by actual behaviour.
"I'll write to the university and the council and ask them to take meaningful action as soon as possible," I say. "Mind you, if they put all the lectures on in the mornings, and made attendance compulsory, that'd probably solve the problem."
"Thanks. I wish they would," she says. "Oh, while you're at it, can you please find out why every male student thinks he can play a guitar?"
I must sound a bit non-plussed, because she continues:
"They leave home, rent a room in a shared house next door to a working family, and immediately go out and buy a guitar and amplifier. I wouldn't mind so much if any of them could bloody well play the damn things. It's like Chinese water torture listening to that ELO music."
"I think it's called EMO," I say. "ELO is The Electric Light Orchestra. Probably too outdated for today's students. But I know exactly what you mean about how awful it is."
I boast about my knowledge of "yoof" culture to Josh when I get home, but he is unimpressed. I'm just about to ask him why, when Ellen pops round to borrow the corkscrew. I fetch it as quickly as I can, so that I can keep her on the doorstep instead of being forced to invite her in.
"Drinking again, Ellen?" says Max, who seems to have casually wandered into the hallway at the sound of her voice.
"Own your issues, Max, own your issues - that's what I always say," she says, and blows him a kiss as she walks away.
I kick the door shut behind her, and follow Max and Josh into the living room.
"Own your issues? Own your f*cking issues?" I say. "God, that woman talks crap."
"Get a grip, Mum," says Josh. "Now who's being juvenile? You're worse than a student."
"No, I'm not," I say. "At least I don't torture my neighbours with hideous guitar music and self-pitying lyrics."
"Well, they're unhappy because they've obviously got mean parents like you and Dad," he says. "So they have to grab the opportunity to play music the minute they leave home. If you'd let me buy an amplifier, I'd have been famous by now."
"Infamous," I say, but Josh isn't listening.
"You're supposed to nurture your kids' talents, not stifle them," he says, throwing himself onto the sofa and turning on the TV. "Failing to do so probably counts as deprivation, or neglect."
I look to Max for back-up, but he still seems too depressed to speak, so he's no help at all.
"Well, report me to Child Protection, then," I say. "They'll probably give me a medal for services to humanity."
"I may just do that - via these guys," says Josh, gesturing at the advert for the NSPCC that has just come on. He pays close attention as a young girl explains the terrible experiences she has endured.
"But now I know I'm going to be okay," she says, as the image fades.
"Except you bloody won't be," says Josh. "Will you?"
I stare at him in amazement, and even Max looks a bit surprised.
"What on earth d'you mean?" I say.
"Well, she isn't going to be okay, is she?" says Josh. "She's going to have a shitload of issues."
I really don't know what to say to that.
*ASB - Anti-Social Behaviour. I'm embarrassed to admit it's a virtually meaningless phrase that New Labour thought up.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Never Ask What's Wrong, Or Why Two Mid-Life Crises Are Worse Than One.
Never marry a man the same age as you. I'm not recommending sugar daddies or toy-boys, but I do think an age gap of more than a year is highly-advisable. At least then you could stagger the misery wrought by significant birthdays.
Max has a face like a wet weekend when he comes in from work tonight.
"What's the matter?" I say. "You look terrible."
"I'm fine," he says. In the flattest, most depressed tone imaginable. It's like listening to Marvin the Paranoid Android.
"Well, you don't sound it," I say. "What's up?"
"Nothing," he says, then sighs. Several times. You wouldn't think you could make so much noise just by breathing out.
He doesn't become any chattier after we've eaten, and the monosyllabic replies go on for most of the evening. By News At Ten, I'm pretty fed up with the whole thing, and a bit anxious, too. I've got that horrible feeling in my bowels that I always get when he gives me the silent treatment. I think it's a sense of impending doom.
Max waits for the headlines, and then starts flicking through the TV channels. He works through the whole lot, then sighs again - even louder - before passing the remote to me.
"Nothing on," he says, as if it is the end of the world.
"Max, what is the matter?" I say. "You sound awful."
"I'm just a bit fed up."
He says the words so slowly that it feels as if half an hour passes between each one. I've bitten my lip to pieces by the time he's finished the whole sentence. And I'm knackered, but bed in not an option. Not at the moment, anyway.
Nan always told me never to go to bed on an argument. I know that, technically, Max and I aren't actually arguing, but I'm pretty sure that staying up to identify the cause of dramatic sighing was also recommended. Or would have been, if Nan had ever witnessed it.
I brace myself and enter the fray.
"Fed up about what?" I say.
"Everything," says Max.
Well, that's all right then, isn't it? Every single bloody thing. Which probably translates as "you." I am starting to feel a bit sick, and I'm not at all sure that I want to know any more but, as usual, I can't help myself. I ask the next question, right on cue:
"Like what?"
"Everything. When I look at my life, I wonder what's the bloody point - I never do anything, or go anywhere. Everyone else has a social life and goes travelling, and I don't."
Oh, God. So that's it. The mention of travel is the giveaway, isn't it? Bloody Bambi spent hours going on about her forthcoming Australian trip while we were at the Christmas dinner. Max was advising her on the best places to visit on the basis of the year he spent there a lifetime ago.
"Well, you did all that stuff when you were in your twenties," I say. "And whenever I suggest we go out somewhere, you never want to bother. You prefer to stay in watching TV."
"Well, now I don't," he says. "I should be having some fun at my age. And I'm not."
"Do you think you're having a mid-life crisis?" I say.
Hopefully, he'll deny it, and pull himself together. Then he'll laugh at the idea - and everything will be normal again. Thank God.
Max looks down at his hands, and starts turning his wedding ring around on his finger.
"Maybe I am," he says. As if that's all there is to say.
I hope it is, as I certainly don't want to ask any more questions. I have a horrible feeling I won't like the answers and, anyway, I think I might need to be sick.
Max has a face like a wet weekend when he comes in from work tonight.
"What's the matter?" I say. "You look terrible."
"I'm fine," he says. In the flattest, most depressed tone imaginable. It's like listening to Marvin the Paranoid Android.
"Well, you don't sound it," I say. "What's up?"
"Nothing," he says, then sighs. Several times. You wouldn't think you could make so much noise just by breathing out.
He doesn't become any chattier after we've eaten, and the monosyllabic replies go on for most of the evening. By News At Ten, I'm pretty fed up with the whole thing, and a bit anxious, too. I've got that horrible feeling in my bowels that I always get when he gives me the silent treatment. I think it's a sense of impending doom.
Max waits for the headlines, and then starts flicking through the TV channels. He works through the whole lot, then sighs again - even louder - before passing the remote to me.
"Nothing on," he says, as if it is the end of the world.
"Max, what is the matter?" I say. "You sound awful."
"I'm just a bit fed up."
He says the words so slowly that it feels as if half an hour passes between each one. I've bitten my lip to pieces by the time he's finished the whole sentence. And I'm knackered, but bed in not an option. Not at the moment, anyway.
Nan always told me never to go to bed on an argument. I know that, technically, Max and I aren't actually arguing, but I'm pretty sure that staying up to identify the cause of dramatic sighing was also recommended. Or would have been, if Nan had ever witnessed it.
I brace myself and enter the fray.
"Fed up about what?" I say.
"Everything," says Max.
Well, that's all right then, isn't it? Every single bloody thing. Which probably translates as "you." I am starting to feel a bit sick, and I'm not at all sure that I want to know any more but, as usual, I can't help myself. I ask the next question, right on cue:
"Like what?"
"Everything. When I look at my life, I wonder what's the bloody point - I never do anything, or go anywhere. Everyone else has a social life and goes travelling, and I don't."
Oh, God. So that's it. The mention of travel is the giveaway, isn't it? Bloody Bambi spent hours going on about her forthcoming Australian trip while we were at the Christmas dinner. Max was advising her on the best places to visit on the basis of the year he spent there a lifetime ago.
"Well, you did all that stuff when you were in your twenties," I say. "And whenever I suggest we go out somewhere, you never want to bother. You prefer to stay in watching TV."
"Well, now I don't," he says. "I should be having some fun at my age. And I'm not."
"Do you think you're having a mid-life crisis?" I say.
Hopefully, he'll deny it, and pull himself together. Then he'll laugh at the idea - and everything will be normal again. Thank God.
Max looks down at his hands, and starts turning his wedding ring around on his finger.
"Maybe I am," he says. As if that's all there is to say.
I hope it is, as I certainly don't want to ask any more questions. I have a horrible feeling I won't like the answers and, anyway, I think I might need to be sick.
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
A Secret Mission. Which Has Nothing To Do With Russia.
I've been trying to catch up on all the WikiLeaks stuff. No wonder Johnny's so reluctant to say the M-word, given what the cables say about life in Russia! Maybe Igor isn't as mad as he seems, either. I shall be nicer to him next time he drops in to the office.
In fact, I shall make that one of my New Year resolutions. Along with saving my marriage and having more sex. Hopefully I can kill both those birds with one stone, but if I can't, I shall have to have a re-think.
Johnny says he's still more than happy to step in to fill the breach - as it were - so I can only assume he's got over his anxiety about what Max's height might signify.
"I just miss romance," I say. "You know, someone who has eyes for no-one else, and who really, really loves you. Like Dr Zhivago loved Lara."
"Well, that film wasn't set in Russia by accident," he says. "It's a lot more romantic than the UK. That's why I'm a better bet if grand gestures are what you're after. I've been here so long, I've practically gone native."
"Well, actually, I think that's where Pasternak set the book," I say. "And, anyway, given that you say you miss romance too, I can't see that there can be much of it in Russia either."
"That's because my Lara is in bloody Northwick," he says. "And won't even travel to Heathrow to reach me, let alone over the Urals in the snow."
Me? Johnny's Lara? Has he been on the vodka? His eyesight must be worse than I thought. I'm a bit dizzy after that, so I pretend I have an important meeting to attend and can't spend any more time talking to him today.
"Email me tomorrow, then," he says. "And think about when we're going to get together for real. If you want to, I might be able to get away for a day or so between Christmas and New Year. As long as flights into the UK aren't grounded by an inch of snow again."
Oh, hell. Now I'm really stressed. If I get in any deeper with Johnny, not only will I probably end up getting deported as a Russian spy, and then being murdered by the Mafia for my connection to Igor, but I don't want to cheat on Max if he isn't cheating on me.
So I seriously need to find out if he is. Trouble is, there's no shortage of candidates since last week's Christmas meal. It's been bad enough trying to work out what's going on with Annoying Ellen, but now there's Bloody Bambi to contend with as well. Who to focus on first?
I can't reach a decision even though I have plenty of time to think about it, given that I spend half of the afternoon sticking stamps on to all the envelopes containing The Boss's Christmas cards, and the other half standing in a queue in the Post Office waiting to buy some more.
If so many of the cards didn't need Airmail stamps, I could have just bought a few books of first-class in Superdrug or somewhere. Not for the first time, I curse Andrew's fondness for overseas jollies. I hate the Post Office - it always smells funny, the lights are permanently set to flicker, and its acoustics are a nightmare.
By the time I escape, it is almost closing time and I have completely gone off - in no particular order - young women with screaming babies; initially-cute toddlers who never seem to tire of knocking over the barriers onto other people's feet; and white youths who speak as if they were black. Not to mention everyone who sells anything via eBay, and eccentric old people trying to remember where they put their shopping lists.
Watching a pensioner searching irritably through her handbag, I suddenly realise how much nicer it is to be thought of as Lara rather than as an grumpy old woman, which seems to be how Max sees me. If he sees me at all.
Just as the thought occurs to me, I spot Max walking past the entrance to the Post Office, and assume that he's on his way home, until I see that he is being accompanied by Bambi. Neither of them have noticed me - no change there, then - so I watch for a moment, dithering, before I take out my mobile and phone Greg.
"Can you lock up tonight?" I say. "I've only just got out of the Post Office and now I'm on an urgent mission."
I wonder if tiptoeing makes you more conspicuous than walking normally when you're stalking someone? It certainly makes you more likely to fall over on icy patches.
God knows when I'll next get a chance to follow Max and see what he's up to, though I must admit that those boys were very kind - even if they did insist on calling each other "bro" and "my man" while helping me to my feet.
In fact, I shall make that one of my New Year resolutions. Along with saving my marriage and having more sex. Hopefully I can kill both those birds with one stone, but if I can't, I shall have to have a re-think.
Johnny says he's still more than happy to step in to fill the breach - as it were - so I can only assume he's got over his anxiety about what Max's height might signify.
"I just miss romance," I say. "You know, someone who has eyes for no-one else, and who really, really loves you. Like Dr Zhivago loved Lara."
"Well, that film wasn't set in Russia by accident," he says. "It's a lot more romantic than the UK. That's why I'm a better bet if grand gestures are what you're after. I've been here so long, I've practically gone native."
"Well, actually, I think that's where Pasternak set the book," I say. "And, anyway, given that you say you miss romance too, I can't see that there can be much of it in Russia either."
"That's because my Lara is in bloody Northwick," he says. "And won't even travel to Heathrow to reach me, let alone over the Urals in the snow."
Me? Johnny's Lara? Has he been on the vodka? His eyesight must be worse than I thought. I'm a bit dizzy after that, so I pretend I have an important meeting to attend and can't spend any more time talking to him today.
"Email me tomorrow, then," he says. "And think about when we're going to get together for real. If you want to, I might be able to get away for a day or so between Christmas and New Year. As long as flights into the UK aren't grounded by an inch of snow again."
Oh, hell. Now I'm really stressed. If I get in any deeper with Johnny, not only will I probably end up getting deported as a Russian spy, and then being murdered by the Mafia for my connection to Igor, but I don't want to cheat on Max if he isn't cheating on me.
So I seriously need to find out if he is. Trouble is, there's no shortage of candidates since last week's Christmas meal. It's been bad enough trying to work out what's going on with Annoying Ellen, but now there's Bloody Bambi to contend with as well. Who to focus on first?
I can't reach a decision even though I have plenty of time to think about it, given that I spend half of the afternoon sticking stamps on to all the envelopes containing The Boss's Christmas cards, and the other half standing in a queue in the Post Office waiting to buy some more.
If so many of the cards didn't need Airmail stamps, I could have just bought a few books of first-class in Superdrug or somewhere. Not for the first time, I curse Andrew's fondness for overseas jollies. I hate the Post Office - it always smells funny, the lights are permanently set to flicker, and its acoustics are a nightmare.
By the time I escape, it is almost closing time and I have completely gone off - in no particular order - young women with screaming babies; initially-cute toddlers who never seem to tire of knocking over the barriers onto other people's feet; and white youths who speak as if they were black. Not to mention everyone who sells anything via eBay, and eccentric old people trying to remember where they put their shopping lists.
Watching a pensioner searching irritably through her handbag, I suddenly realise how much nicer it is to be thought of as Lara rather than as an grumpy old woman, which seems to be how Max sees me. If he sees me at all.
Just as the thought occurs to me, I spot Max walking past the entrance to the Post Office, and assume that he's on his way home, until I see that he is being accompanied by Bambi. Neither of them have noticed me - no change there, then - so I watch for a moment, dithering, before I take out my mobile and phone Greg.
"Can you lock up tonight?" I say. "I've only just got out of the Post Office and now I'm on an urgent mission."
I wonder if tiptoeing makes you more conspicuous than walking normally when you're stalking someone? It certainly makes you more likely to fall over on icy patches.
God knows when I'll next get a chance to follow Max and see what he's up to, though I must admit that those boys were very kind - even if they did insist on calling each other "bro" and "my man" while helping me to my feet.
Monday, 13 December 2010
PMT, Predictability And Some Unwanted Colour Theory.
I've got a funny feeling I may have PMT today, though I'd rather die than admit that to Max and Josh. Either that, or I'm suffering from quiet-day-at-the-office-itis.
I spend all day bursting into tears at inopportune moments, not that there ever is an opportune time to wail like a baby. Unless you're an X-Factor winner.
Greg thinks I've gone off my rocker, and starts The Campaign to Cheer Molly Up. He even donates one of his Twixes to the cause. It doesn't work, and just makes me weepier instead. Unexpected kindness always does that.
"What on earth's the matter?" he says, when I hand him the bar back. "It must be awful if even a Twix won't fix it."
"Nothing," I say. "I'm fine."
Big fat tears roll down my face at the same time, though luckily the crying isn't of the noisy hiccuping and choking kind. That would be even more embarrassing.
"Well, unless you've got some bizarre eye infection, I think there is. You look a mess. And move that invitation from the Mayor out of the way - it's getting soaked."
Greg passes me a tissue from one of those little travel packs his mum gives him. I'm sure she thinks he's still a Boy Scout.
"It's probably just because no-one's told me about anything terrible today," I say, trying to wipe off all the supposedly-waterproof mascara that seems to be everywhere except on my eyelashes.
"And that would be logical because?"
"Well, when there aren't any calls from constituents whose problems are worse than mine, having a wallow doesn't seem as self-indulgent as it usually would."
"Hmm," says Greg.
He doesn't sound convinced, though I'm sure I'm right. This always happens at this time of year. The phones get progressively less busy, and the volume of letters tails off to a comparative trickle.
You'd think the opposite would be the case, seeing as it's commonly thought that rates of depression and suicide rise in December, but we don't usually see much sign of that in our office. It's as if everyone - even the usual suspects - is too busy to be depressed until they've at least finished eating Christmas dinner.
If you were new to casework, you'd probably breathe a sigh of relief and enjoy the relative peace and quiet, but old hands like me know better. To us, this unusual calm speaks volumes - because we know it just presages the furious storm that always hits in January.
"Maybe I'm miserable because I know what's coming?" I say.
"Probably," says Greg. "You do keep going on about your life being predictable."
This wasn't what I meant, but I suppose he might have a point. I decide to consider what changes I could make to my life while I'm on my lunch-break - whilst simultaneously buying all the Christmas presents I was supposed to have bought during yesterday's shopping trip.
I wander around the mall, trying to ignore the bloody music. I can't believe that they still insist on playing Merry Christmas Everybody. I bet even Noddy Holder's sick of the sound of it, though thinking about glam rock does give me an idea.
Perhaps I should buy something new to wear? In a bright colour, for once. Max is always moaning about my penchant for black, and it is a bit draining on the complexion. At my age, as he'd no doubt feel compelled to add.
By the time I get back to work, I'm feeling much more cheerful, even if I have spent more than I can afford.
"That's better," says Greg. "First smile you've cracked all day."
"I bought a gorgeous new knitted dress," I say. "To wear to the Party Christmas meal. What do you think?"
I pull it out of the bag and hold it up against myself. I even do a couple of twirls. It's a real Anthea Redfern moment.
Greg opens his mouth to speak, but Vicky beats him to it:
"You do know purple is the colour of sexual frustration?" she says.
The phone rings before I can think of a cutting reply, so I answer that instead of her.
"Hello, dear," says Mum. "How are you? How's your Christmas shopping going?"
"Well, I got a bit distracted," I say. "And bought myself a purple dress. But I'm not at all sure about it now."
I glare at Vicky while I say this, but she's got her back to me, so the effort is wasted.
"Oh, I love purple," says Mum. "It always reminds me of that wonderful poem by Jenny Joseph. What's it called - Warning?"
Christ, I'd forgotten about that. As if wearing something that screams, "No sex life" wouldn't be quite bad enough, now it seems I'd also be signalling that I'm on the way to becoming an eccentric old woman. I might as well have gone the whole hog and bought a bloody red hat as well.
I'm going to get a refund on my way home. There's no point in advertising that you're desperate, is there?
I spend all day bursting into tears at inopportune moments, not that there ever is an opportune time to wail like a baby. Unless you're an X-Factor winner.
Greg thinks I've gone off my rocker, and starts The Campaign to Cheer Molly Up. He even donates one of his Twixes to the cause. It doesn't work, and just makes me weepier instead. Unexpected kindness always does that.
"What on earth's the matter?" he says, when I hand him the bar back. "It must be awful if even a Twix won't fix it."
"Nothing," I say. "I'm fine."
Big fat tears roll down my face at the same time, though luckily the crying isn't of the noisy hiccuping and choking kind. That would be even more embarrassing.
"Well, unless you've got some bizarre eye infection, I think there is. You look a mess. And move that invitation from the Mayor out of the way - it's getting soaked."
Greg passes me a tissue from one of those little travel packs his mum gives him. I'm sure she thinks he's still a Boy Scout.
"It's probably just because no-one's told me about anything terrible today," I say, trying to wipe off all the supposedly-waterproof mascara that seems to be everywhere except on my eyelashes.
"And that would be logical because?"
"Well, when there aren't any calls from constituents whose problems are worse than mine, having a wallow doesn't seem as self-indulgent as it usually would."
"Hmm," says Greg.
He doesn't sound convinced, though I'm sure I'm right. This always happens at this time of year. The phones get progressively less busy, and the volume of letters tails off to a comparative trickle.
You'd think the opposite would be the case, seeing as it's commonly thought that rates of depression and suicide rise in December, but we don't usually see much sign of that in our office. It's as if everyone - even the usual suspects - is too busy to be depressed until they've at least finished eating Christmas dinner.
If you were new to casework, you'd probably breathe a sigh of relief and enjoy the relative peace and quiet, but old hands like me know better. To us, this unusual calm speaks volumes - because we know it just presages the furious storm that always hits in January.
"Maybe I'm miserable because I know what's coming?" I say.
"Probably," says Greg. "You do keep going on about your life being predictable."
This wasn't what I meant, but I suppose he might have a point. I decide to consider what changes I could make to my life while I'm on my lunch-break - whilst simultaneously buying all the Christmas presents I was supposed to have bought during yesterday's shopping trip.
I wander around the mall, trying to ignore the bloody music. I can't believe that they still insist on playing Merry Christmas Everybody. I bet even Noddy Holder's sick of the sound of it, though thinking about glam rock does give me an idea.
Perhaps I should buy something new to wear? In a bright colour, for once. Max is always moaning about my penchant for black, and it is a bit draining on the complexion. At my age, as he'd no doubt feel compelled to add.
By the time I get back to work, I'm feeling much more cheerful, even if I have spent more than I can afford.
"That's better," says Greg. "First smile you've cracked all day."
"I bought a gorgeous new knitted dress," I say. "To wear to the Party Christmas meal. What do you think?"
I pull it out of the bag and hold it up against myself. I even do a couple of twirls. It's a real Anthea Redfern moment.
Greg opens his mouth to speak, but Vicky beats him to it:
"You do know purple is the colour of sexual frustration?" she says.
The phone rings before I can think of a cutting reply, so I answer that instead of her.
"Hello, dear," says Mum. "How are you? How's your Christmas shopping going?"
"Well, I got a bit distracted," I say. "And bought myself a purple dress. But I'm not at all sure about it now."
I glare at Vicky while I say this, but she's got her back to me, so the effort is wasted.
"Oh, I love purple," says Mum. "It always reminds me of that wonderful poem by Jenny Joseph. What's it called - Warning?"
Christ, I'd forgotten about that. As if wearing something that screams, "No sex life" wouldn't be quite bad enough, now it seems I'd also be signalling that I'm on the way to becoming an eccentric old woman. I might as well have gone the whole hog and bought a bloody red hat as well.
I'm going to get a refund on my way home. There's no point in advertising that you're desperate, is there?
Sunday, 12 December 2010
Missing: One Wife, Some Photos And That Thing Commonly Known As A Sex-Life
Thank God Connie's coming home for Christmas. At least that'll mean that Max won't be able to keep on sleeping in her room whenever he's in a mood with me. He did it again last night, after I referred to Bambi in a tone he didn't like.
When he gets up this morning, he cooks a full English breakfast - but only for him and Josh. I'm left with crumpets, which I can only assume is Max's way of telling me something. Irony's always been his thing.
Things don't get any better when he decides to upload the photos he took at the Christmas meal.
"Can I use your laptop?" he says. "I promised the girls I'd get the pictures onto Facebook today. They can't wait to see them."
"Neither can I," I say. Max isn't the only one who can do irony.
When he's finished, I sneak a look at his Facebook page. Bambi's got there before me and has already clicked "like" on all the photos in which she appears - which is most of them. She doesn't look half as cute wearing the fake moustache she got in the cracker as she thinks she does.
Shirley Bassey's there too, and the cuckoo, and even Max's boss has been captured, along with his boyfriend. In fact, everyone has made the cut - except me. There are no photos of me at all. Maybe I really was as invisible as I felt?
Sometimes, there's no substitute for an ill-considered revenge attack. As soon as Max goes off to Sainsburys, I look up his password, then sign back in to his Facebook page and delete all the photos of Bambi. Take that!
I feel great for all of thirty seconds before I start to panic about what Max is going to say when he finds out what I've done. Probably something about me being supposed to be a grown-up. Unlike bloody Bambi.
It might be an idea to make myself scarce before he returns, so I go into town to try to do some Christmas shopping. I can't put it off any longer, though I'd really like to. I'm becoming more bah, humbug by the day.
This is mainly due to that infuriating new thing on Facebook showing how many "sleeps" there are until Christmas. All the friends I'd previously thought of as adults are posting these damned updates every five minutes, while I'm getting increasingly tempted to go and murder them in their bloody sleep.
How come they've all got enough money to be looking forward to Christmas? So many people haven't, that you'd think those who have would show some bloody restraint. I'm expecting a rush of suicidal phone calls from constituents if all these "perfect Christmas" programmes and adverts keep on much longer.
As for me, I haven't a clue what to buy anyone, and barely any money either - which rules out all the things that Max and Josh might want. What is it with men and expensive gadgets?
I wish everyone was as easy to buy for as Connie, who still gets almost as excited by the process of unwrapping as by the gift inside it but, instead, the over-extended extended family are even more of a nightmare than Max and Josh.
Dad sends me an email saying that he doesn't want anything other than his "lovely" Porn-Poon, so that's really bloody helpful. When she phones this evening, Dinah's no more impressed than I am.
"So, everything else is Dad's life is disposable, then," she says. "Apart from the Thai bride."
"Ah," I say. "So he told you that she was all he wanted for Christmas, did he?"
"Yes," she says. "And if he thinks I'm going to contribute to that, he's got another think coming."
"What do you mean, Dinah?"
Now I'm confused. I thought Dad was just doing the over-sentimental thing he always does when he gets a new woman.
Dinah huffs as if I am an idiot, then says,
When he gets up this morning, he cooks a full English breakfast - but only for him and Josh. I'm left with crumpets, which I can only assume is Max's way of telling me something. Irony's always been his thing.
Things don't get any better when he decides to upload the photos he took at the Christmas meal.
"Can I use your laptop?" he says. "I promised the girls I'd get the pictures onto Facebook today. They can't wait to see them."
"Neither can I," I say. Max isn't the only one who can do irony.
When he's finished, I sneak a look at his Facebook page. Bambi's got there before me and has already clicked "like" on all the photos in which she appears - which is most of them. She doesn't look half as cute wearing the fake moustache she got in the cracker as she thinks she does.
Shirley Bassey's there too, and the cuckoo, and even Max's boss has been captured, along with his boyfriend. In fact, everyone has made the cut - except me. There are no photos of me at all. Maybe I really was as invisible as I felt?
Sometimes, there's no substitute for an ill-considered revenge attack. As soon as Max goes off to Sainsburys, I look up his password, then sign back in to his Facebook page and delete all the photos of Bambi. Take that!
I feel great for all of thirty seconds before I start to panic about what Max is going to say when he finds out what I've done. Probably something about me being supposed to be a grown-up. Unlike bloody Bambi.
It might be an idea to make myself scarce before he returns, so I go into town to try to do some Christmas shopping. I can't put it off any longer, though I'd really like to. I'm becoming more bah, humbug by the day.
This is mainly due to that infuriating new thing on Facebook showing how many "sleeps" there are until Christmas. All the friends I'd previously thought of as adults are posting these damned updates every five minutes, while I'm getting increasingly tempted to go and murder them in their bloody sleep.
How come they've all got enough money to be looking forward to Christmas? So many people haven't, that you'd think those who have would show some bloody restraint. I'm expecting a rush of suicidal phone calls from constituents if all these "perfect Christmas" programmes and adverts keep on much longer.
As for me, I haven't a clue what to buy anyone, and barely any money either - which rules out all the things that Max and Josh might want. What is it with men and expensive gadgets?
I wish everyone was as easy to buy for as Connie, who still gets almost as excited by the process of unwrapping as by the gift inside it but, instead, the over-extended extended family are even more of a nightmare than Max and Josh.
Dad sends me an email saying that he doesn't want anything other than his "lovely" Porn-Poon, so that's really bloody helpful. When she phones this evening, Dinah's no more impressed than I am.
"So, everything else is Dad's life is disposable, then," she says. "Apart from the Thai bride."
"Ah," I say. "So he told you that she was all he wanted for Christmas, did he?"
"Yes," she says. "And if he thinks I'm going to contribute to that, he's got another think coming."
"What do you mean, Dinah?"
Now I'm confused. I thought Dad was just doing the over-sentimental thing he always does when he gets a new woman.
Dinah huffs as if I am an idiot, then says,
"F*cksake, Molly, don't you know anything? Dad has to pay the bar Porn-Poon works at by the hour or day or whatever to be able to 'live' with her while he's in Thailand. It probably costs more than he gets from his pension, given how long he's been out there this time."
"Oh," I say. "Ah. Well - I'm not paying for that, either, then."
Why should I buy sex for my father when I'm not even getting any myself?
After Dinah rings off, it occurs to me that, not only is my marriage a sex-free zone, but so is my supposed affair. Two men on the go - and no sex with either of them, unless you count the odd hastily-typed virtual encounter with Johnny. Which I don't.
This is a hell of an achievement. No wonder Max is feeding me crumpets in an ironic fashion: I am quite patently hot stuff.
"Oh," I say. "Ah. Well - I'm not paying for that, either, then."
Why should I buy sex for my father when I'm not even getting any myself?
After Dinah rings off, it occurs to me that, not only is my marriage a sex-free zone, but so is my supposed affair. Two men on the go - and no sex with either of them, unless you count the odd hastily-typed virtual encounter with Johnny. Which I don't.
This is a hell of an achievement. No wonder Max is feeding me crumpets in an ironic fashion: I am quite patently hot stuff.
Saturday, 11 December 2010
The (Crappy) Morning After The Night Before
Next time my instincts tell me not to go to a social event, I'm going to bloody well listen to them. Last night was hideous, and I haven't even got a hangover to show for it. Mainly because that would have required obtaining a supply of alcohol.
And since when has a gold lame dress come under the heading of "smart-casual" unless you're Shirley Bloody Bassey? I can't believe my eyes when we arrive at the restaurant. Late, due to the argument we have when I refuse to tell Max what to wear.
I'm nearly blinded by the amount of bling at the table, not to mention the cleavage and the sparkly eye-shadow. It looks like a Barry M convention - and for those of you unfamiliar with the lack of subtlety of that make-up range - I am not referring to Mr Manilow, although he'd have felt right at home. Talk about The Copacabana.
As soon as Max and I sit down, one of the girls he works with - who can't be much older than Connie - leans right across me as if I was invisible and says to him,
"Are you drinking red wine, Max?"
"Yes," he says, basking in the Spaniel-like adoration oozing from her non-presbyopic eyes.
"I'll share a bottle with you, then," says Miss Bambi. (I know I've just switched her from dog to faun, but the effect's the same: really f*cking annoying.)
"Why?" says her gold lame clad friend. "You always have white."
"But Max prefers red, don't you Max?" says Bambi.
This is true. Max does prefer red - which I'd have happily shared with him, had anyone bothered to ask me.
Bambi orders the wine and makes great play of pouring it slowly into Max's glass while staring at him at the same time. Then they both take big gulps of the stuff and sigh contentedly.
As a non-employee, I'm not in a position to order anything as, although Max's boss has just announced that the company is paying for the drinks, he has made it plain that the staff are expected to do the ordering to ensure that they stay within the budget.
So I have no choice but to sit there like a starched fart until Max remembers he actually arrived with a wife in tow.
"Oh - what are you drinking, darling?" he says. "Gin and tonic?"
"Looks that way, in the absence of anyone to share a bottle of wine with," I say.
He doesn't reply, but orders me a gin - a single - and then informs me that the restaurant has run out of lemon. I consider mentioning that I'm starting to feel like one of those myself but, instead, I try very hard to follow idiot brother Robin's advice about feeling compassion for anyone who annoys me.
Like most of Robin's suggestions, this one proves pretty useless: I get progressively grumpier as Bambi and Max continue to converse across me. I can't join in because I have absolutely no idea who or what they are talking about, though it sounds as boring as hell.
They order a second bottle and drink that too, while I resort to repeatedly asking Max to pass me the water jug in the hope that he will notice that I have finished my one gin. More than an hour ago. He complies each time without comment but, when he has re-filled my glass with water for the fifth time, he pauses and looks concerned. At last.
Then he says, "Bambi, have you got enough wine?"
I don't hear her reply for the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I lean in towards Max and say, in what can only be described as a hiss,
"It'd be nice if you gave a shit about whether your wife had a f*cking drink."
Then I excuse myself and go outside for a cigarette. It starts to snow and I wish I'd put my coat on, and brought my handbag with me. Then I could just go home instead of having to return to the others for more of the same.
Except that it's not the same. It's worse. By the time I get back to the table, another young woman has taken my seat. So now I have a faun and a cuckoo to contend with. It's like Tim Burton does Disney.
I am left with the choice of sitting on a separate table with people I don't know at all, or standing at the end of the table I am supposed to be sitting at. I try both but neither are much fun and I drink the second gin in double quick time.
It's the last one I get, though, as I don't see Max again until we leave the restaurant. He hangs around in the doorway, probably waiting for the inevitable kissing-fest, while I stomp off down the steps, desperate to get home.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" he says, sotto voce.
"Where to start?" I say.
I breathe in, ready to let rip, as the rest of the party make their way outside. As I move aside to let them pass, I feel my feet start to move. I didn't know you could slip sideways on ice.
I slide towards the busy road, wobbling as furiously as Josh does on his skateboard. It seems to take forever before I manage to stop, but it turns out that I've only travelled a couple of feet so, for a few over-optimistic seconds, I think perhaps no-one will have noticed.
Fat chance: when I straighten up, I see that everyone is staring at me, and trying not to laugh. I don't know whether I stiffen in horror, but something makes me begin to slip again.
My mouth open in gormless incredulity, I repeat the slide - wobble - stop process three more times, with the sound of mass laughter ringing in my ears. By the time I crash into the traffic barrier and come to a halt, it's positively deafening.
I challenge anyone to pull off a dignified exit after that.
And since when has a gold lame dress come under the heading of "smart-casual" unless you're Shirley Bloody Bassey? I can't believe my eyes when we arrive at the restaurant. Late, due to the argument we have when I refuse to tell Max what to wear.
I'm nearly blinded by the amount of bling at the table, not to mention the cleavage and the sparkly eye-shadow. It looks like a Barry M convention - and for those of you unfamiliar with the lack of subtlety of that make-up range - I am not referring to Mr Manilow, although he'd have felt right at home. Talk about The Copacabana.
As soon as Max and I sit down, one of the girls he works with - who can't be much older than Connie - leans right across me as if I was invisible and says to him,
"Are you drinking red wine, Max?"
"Yes," he says, basking in the Spaniel-like adoration oozing from her non-presbyopic eyes.
"I'll share a bottle with you, then," says Miss Bambi. (I know I've just switched her from dog to faun, but the effect's the same: really f*cking annoying.)
"Why?" says her gold lame clad friend. "You always have white."
"But Max prefers red, don't you Max?" says Bambi.
This is true. Max does prefer red - which I'd have happily shared with him, had anyone bothered to ask me.
Bambi orders the wine and makes great play of pouring it slowly into Max's glass while staring at him at the same time. Then they both take big gulps of the stuff and sigh contentedly.
As a non-employee, I'm not in a position to order anything as, although Max's boss has just announced that the company is paying for the drinks, he has made it plain that the staff are expected to do the ordering to ensure that they stay within the budget.
So I have no choice but to sit there like a starched fart until Max remembers he actually arrived with a wife in tow.
"Oh - what are you drinking, darling?" he says. "Gin and tonic?"
"Looks that way, in the absence of anyone to share a bottle of wine with," I say.
He doesn't reply, but orders me a gin - a single - and then informs me that the restaurant has run out of lemon. I consider mentioning that I'm starting to feel like one of those myself but, instead, I try very hard to follow idiot brother Robin's advice about feeling compassion for anyone who annoys me.
Like most of Robin's suggestions, this one proves pretty useless: I get progressively grumpier as Bambi and Max continue to converse across me. I can't join in because I have absolutely no idea who or what they are talking about, though it sounds as boring as hell.
They order a second bottle and drink that too, while I resort to repeatedly asking Max to pass me the water jug in the hope that he will notice that I have finished my one gin. More than an hour ago. He complies each time without comment but, when he has re-filled my glass with water for the fifth time, he pauses and looks concerned. At last.
Then he says, "Bambi, have you got enough wine?"
I don't hear her reply for the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I lean in towards Max and say, in what can only be described as a hiss,
"It'd be nice if you gave a shit about whether your wife had a f*cking drink."
Then I excuse myself and go outside for a cigarette. It starts to snow and I wish I'd put my coat on, and brought my handbag with me. Then I could just go home instead of having to return to the others for more of the same.
Except that it's not the same. It's worse. By the time I get back to the table, another young woman has taken my seat. So now I have a faun and a cuckoo to contend with. It's like Tim Burton does Disney.
I am left with the choice of sitting on a separate table with people I don't know at all, or standing at the end of the table I am supposed to be sitting at. I try both but neither are much fun and I drink the second gin in double quick time.
It's the last one I get, though, as I don't see Max again until we leave the restaurant. He hangs around in the doorway, probably waiting for the inevitable kissing-fest, while I stomp off down the steps, desperate to get home.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" he says, sotto voce.
"Where to start?" I say.
I breathe in, ready to let rip, as the rest of the party make their way outside. As I move aside to let them pass, I feel my feet start to move. I didn't know you could slip sideways on ice.
I slide towards the busy road, wobbling as furiously as Josh does on his skateboard. It seems to take forever before I manage to stop, but it turns out that I've only travelled a couple of feet so, for a few over-optimistic seconds, I think perhaps no-one will have noticed.
Fat chance: when I straighten up, I see that everyone is staring at me, and trying not to laugh. I don't know whether I stiffen in horror, but something makes me begin to slip again.
My mouth open in gormless incredulity, I repeat the slide - wobble - stop process three more times, with the sound of mass laughter ringing in my ears. By the time I crash into the traffic barrier and come to a halt, it's positively deafening.
I challenge anyone to pull off a dignified exit after that.
Friday, 10 December 2010
Stress-Related Dyspraxia And A New-Found Empathy For Camilla.
God, I'm knackered, and I look like shit. I got so distracted by Question Time and then by reports of the attack on Charles and Camilla's car last night, that I forgot I'd left the entire contents of my wardrobe strewn all over the bed earlier in the evening.
At bedtime, Max took one look at the state of our room, and decided to sleep in Connie's. Again. Even after I'd stopped worrying about what that signified, I couldn't go to bed until I'd tried everything on, and put it away again, and I still didn't find anything I didn't look bloody awful in anyway.
Things don't get any better this morning when I oversleep as, by the time I get to work, The Boss is already there.
This is really bad news, as I like to prepare myself for our Friday encounters with plenty of coffee and some deep breathing, so I'm already feeling quite agitated as I tiptoe towards the Oprah Room, where he's sitting on the sofa and talking to someone on the phone.
Andrew's back is turned, and he doesn't seem to have heard me come in, so I stand in the doorway, waiting for him to finish.
"Well, I just think it would be easier to handle if you weren't here," he says. "I reckon she'll drop in again today."
Then he glances up at the window, spots my reflection in it, and almost drops the receiver. It's not very flattering, as he looks absolutely horrified to see me - though it is pretty much the same reaction as I get when I look in a mirror.
"Got to go," he says, to whoever he's talking to. "I'll call you later."
Then he hangs up, turns round, and glares at me.
"Problem?" I say. "Do you need me?"
"No," he says. "Haven't you got any work to be getting on with, instead of sneaking up on people?"
I pretend not to have heard him, and then stay out of his way for the rest of the morning. Greg doesn't follow my lead, but wishes he had when he takes Andrew a cup of coffee and gets no thanks for it.
"Ungrateful sod," he says. "Hope he burns his tongue. He's sulking because bloody Vicky's working from home, I suppose."
"Oh, so that's where she is," I say. "I did wonder. Every cloud has a silver lining, then."
Mind you, Vicky couldn't have been any less helpful than Greg is, when I ask him what he thinks I should wear to Max's works "do" this evening.
"You always look okay, Mol," he says. "And, anyway, the restaurant won't be brightly-lit. Just hide in the shadows and then you won't put people off their food."
"Very funny," I say, though I don't mean it.
God knows what has happened to me. I used to look forward to social occasions, but now they make me so anxious that I'm a mess for days beforehand. Today, I can't concentrate at all, and seem to have completely lost my ability to open the mail without shredding it with the letter-opener.
The incompetence doesn't end there and, by late afternoon, I'm covered in paper cuts, have managed to jam the printer three times, and shut my fingers in the filing cabinet. I'm still swearing about that when Trish comes into the office.
"Hi, Molly. Oh, and hello Greg," she says. "Isn't Victoria here?" I notice that her hands are clenched into fists.
I shake my head, but there's no time to explain as, at the sound of Trish's distinctive voice, Andrew comes hurtling out of the Oprah Room, and does a very exaggerated double-take at the sight of his wife.
"Trish!" he says."What a lovely surprise. Wasn't expecting to see you here."
Honestly, if there was an Oscar for hamming it up, he'd win hands down. Trish looks almost as unconvinced by it as I do, but neither of us says anything.
She perches on my desk while she waits for Andrew to get ready to leave.
"You okay, Molly?" she says. "You look awfully pale."
"Yes," I say. "It's just that I've got to go to Max's work Christmas dinner this evening, and I haven't got a clue what to wear."
Greg rolls his eyes in disgust, but Trish gets it straight away.
"Oh, God," she says, sympathetically. "I know exactly how you feel. Max works with almost as many young women as Andrew, doesn't he?"
"Yes," I say. " More. Though I've never thought about it like that before."
I'm still trying to stop thinking about the similarities when I get home from work, and now I've got less than half an hour to shower and get ready. Aargh. Can it be normal to be dreading a night out as much as this?
At the risk of sounding like Camilla before she quit, I think I need a quick gin and a cigarette. Especially as Max has just asked me what I think he should wear.
At bedtime, Max took one look at the state of our room, and decided to sleep in Connie's. Again. Even after I'd stopped worrying about what that signified, I couldn't go to bed until I'd tried everything on, and put it away again, and I still didn't find anything I didn't look bloody awful in anyway.
Things don't get any better this morning when I oversleep as, by the time I get to work, The Boss is already there.
This is really bad news, as I like to prepare myself for our Friday encounters with plenty of coffee and some deep breathing, so I'm already feeling quite agitated as I tiptoe towards the Oprah Room, where he's sitting on the sofa and talking to someone on the phone.
Andrew's back is turned, and he doesn't seem to have heard me come in, so I stand in the doorway, waiting for him to finish.
"Well, I just think it would be easier to handle if you weren't here," he says. "I reckon she'll drop in again today."
Then he glances up at the window, spots my reflection in it, and almost drops the receiver. It's not very flattering, as he looks absolutely horrified to see me - though it is pretty much the same reaction as I get when I look in a mirror.
"Got to go," he says, to whoever he's talking to. "I'll call you later."
Then he hangs up, turns round, and glares at me.
"Problem?" I say. "Do you need me?"
"No," he says. "Haven't you got any work to be getting on with, instead of sneaking up on people?"
I pretend not to have heard him, and then stay out of his way for the rest of the morning. Greg doesn't follow my lead, but wishes he had when he takes Andrew a cup of coffee and gets no thanks for it.
"Ungrateful sod," he says. "Hope he burns his tongue. He's sulking because bloody Vicky's working from home, I suppose."
"Oh, so that's where she is," I say. "I did wonder. Every cloud has a silver lining, then."
Mind you, Vicky couldn't have been any less helpful than Greg is, when I ask him what he thinks I should wear to Max's works "do" this evening.
"You always look okay, Mol," he says. "And, anyway, the restaurant won't be brightly-lit. Just hide in the shadows and then you won't put people off their food."
"Very funny," I say, though I don't mean it.
God knows what has happened to me. I used to look forward to social occasions, but now they make me so anxious that I'm a mess for days beforehand. Today, I can't concentrate at all, and seem to have completely lost my ability to open the mail without shredding it with the letter-opener.
The incompetence doesn't end there and, by late afternoon, I'm covered in paper cuts, have managed to jam the printer three times, and shut my fingers in the filing cabinet. I'm still swearing about that when Trish comes into the office.
"Hi, Molly. Oh, and hello Greg," she says. "Isn't Victoria here?" I notice that her hands are clenched into fists.
I shake my head, but there's no time to explain as, at the sound of Trish's distinctive voice, Andrew comes hurtling out of the Oprah Room, and does a very exaggerated double-take at the sight of his wife.
"Trish!" he says."What a lovely surprise. Wasn't expecting to see you here."
Honestly, if there was an Oscar for hamming it up, he'd win hands down. Trish looks almost as unconvinced by it as I do, but neither of us says anything.
She perches on my desk while she waits for Andrew to get ready to leave.
"You okay, Molly?" she says. "You look awfully pale."
"Yes," I say. "It's just that I've got to go to Max's work Christmas dinner this evening, and I haven't got a clue what to wear."
Greg rolls his eyes in disgust, but Trish gets it straight away.
"Oh, God," she says, sympathetically. "I know exactly how you feel. Max works with almost as many young women as Andrew, doesn't he?"
"Yes," I say. " More. Though I've never thought about it like that before."
I'm still trying to stop thinking about the similarities when I get home from work, and now I've got less than half an hour to shower and get ready. Aargh. Can it be normal to be dreading a night out as much as this?
At the risk of sounding like Camilla before she quit, I think I need a quick gin and a cigarette. Especially as Max has just asked me what I think he should wear.
Thursday, 9 December 2010
How Middle-Aged Men Can Put You Off Young People For Good
I know I should probably be writing about the tuition fees vote but I'm a bit distracted by other stuff and, anyway, I'm fed up with young people today - for reasons which will become apparent.
Trish phones first thing, and asks to speak to me off the record. That always makes me nervous.
"What exactly is Victoria working on?" she says. "Have you found out yet?"
"Um, no," I say. "I've had Greg looking into it too, but we're still not sure. Vicky says it's very important, though."
"I bet she does," says Trish.
I don't know what to say to that, but Trish doesn't seem to notice. She just carries on, regardless:
"Well, I've spoken to Andrew, and he says there'll shortly be a vacancy that he'll need her to fill. Do you know what he means? Is anyone thinking of leaving?"
"Not as far as I'm aware," I say. "But I'll check, if you like?"
"Please do, Molly," says Trish. "As let me know as soon as possible."
Oh, bloody, bloody hell. Now what is going on? And how am I supposed to find out if anyone's leaving without causing wholesale panic? Marie-Louise still hasn't got over her last undeserved verbal warning, and Carlotta's already convinced that all non-British researchers are going to get the boot since the whole Mike Hancock incident.
I can barely concentrate all afternoon, as I'm so worried about what The Boss could have meant. And who he could have been referring to. I'm sure no-one's thinking of resigning in this economic climate, so I hope it's not my job he's talking about.
The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that I am the one that Andrew is planning to put out to grass. I don't have Slavic cheekbones and am probably not decorative enough to work for an MP any more. I'm positively geriatric compared to Mike Hancock's researcher.
My self-image doesn't improve when I get home. Honestly, if there's one thing more difficult than finding out who Andrew is planning to get rid of, it's establishing the dress code for any event linked to Max's job. Which is all the more vital because all bar one of Max's colleagues is female.
The only male - Max's boss, Colin - is gay, so I probably should have asked him what to wear to the Christmas dinner, as Max is about as helpful as a hole in the head when it comes to sartorial matters.
Tonight is no exception. When I ask him what he thinks I should wear tomorrow evening, he says it doesn't matter, because I always look fine. This is obviously rubbish, so I try again.
"What will the other women be wearing?" I ask.
This seems a perfectly reasonable question to me, but Max sighs heavily before saying that he doesn't know. It's like getting blood out of a particularly reluctant stone.
"Well, will they be dressing up or down?"I say. "It's not a very posh restaurant, and 6:00pm is a funny time to start, so I haven't got a clue what's appropriate."
"I already told you - I don't know," he says again. "I suppose they'll probably wear a skirt and a top, or trousers and a top, or a dress. Does it really matter?"
"Yes," I say. "It does bloody well matter. As I would have thought you'd remember from the last time we had to go out with your colleagues. When you told me that no-one would be dressing up."
"They did all wear jeans," he says. "Just like I told you they would."
"Yes, but you missed out that they'd all have their tits hanging out from miniscule sequinned tops, would have slapped on more make-up than Jordan, and would be wearing enough jewellery to open a branch of Warren James with. Not to mention skyscraper heels."
Max glares at me, and I'm sure he whispers something about elephants never forgetting under his breath. I glare back, so that he knows the subject is not yet closed.
"You looked all right. You were just in a mood for some reason," he says.
Trish phones first thing, and asks to speak to me off the record. That always makes me nervous.
"What exactly is Victoria working on?" she says. "Have you found out yet?"
"Um, no," I say. "I've had Greg looking into it too, but we're still not sure. Vicky says it's very important, though."
"I bet she does," says Trish.
I don't know what to say to that, but Trish doesn't seem to notice. She just carries on, regardless:
"Well, I've spoken to Andrew, and he says there'll shortly be a vacancy that he'll need her to fill. Do you know what he means? Is anyone thinking of leaving?"
"Not as far as I'm aware," I say. "But I'll check, if you like?"
"Please do, Molly," says Trish. "As let me know as soon as possible."
Oh, bloody, bloody hell. Now what is going on? And how am I supposed to find out if anyone's leaving without causing wholesale panic? Marie-Louise still hasn't got over her last undeserved verbal warning, and Carlotta's already convinced that all non-British researchers are going to get the boot since the whole Mike Hancock incident.
I can barely concentrate all afternoon, as I'm so worried about what The Boss could have meant. And who he could have been referring to. I'm sure no-one's thinking of resigning in this economic climate, so I hope it's not my job he's talking about.
The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that I am the one that Andrew is planning to put out to grass. I don't have Slavic cheekbones and am probably not decorative enough to work for an MP any more. I'm positively geriatric compared to Mike Hancock's researcher.
My self-image doesn't improve when I get home. Honestly, if there's one thing more difficult than finding out who Andrew is planning to get rid of, it's establishing the dress code for any event linked to Max's job. Which is all the more vital because all bar one of Max's colleagues is female.
The only male - Max's boss, Colin - is gay, so I probably should have asked him what to wear to the Christmas dinner, as Max is about as helpful as a hole in the head when it comes to sartorial matters.
Tonight is no exception. When I ask him what he thinks I should wear tomorrow evening, he says it doesn't matter, because I always look fine. This is obviously rubbish, so I try again.
"What will the other women be wearing?" I ask.
This seems a perfectly reasonable question to me, but Max sighs heavily before saying that he doesn't know. It's like getting blood out of a particularly reluctant stone.
"Well, will they be dressing up or down?"I say. "It's not a very posh restaurant, and 6:00pm is a funny time to start, so I haven't got a clue what's appropriate."
"I already told you - I don't know," he says again. "I suppose they'll probably wear a skirt and a top, or trousers and a top, or a dress. Does it really matter?"
"Yes," I say. "It does bloody well matter. As I would have thought you'd remember from the last time we had to go out with your colleagues. When you told me that no-one would be dressing up."
"They did all wear jeans," he says. "Just like I told you they would."
"Yes, but you missed out that they'd all have their tits hanging out from miniscule sequinned tops, would have slapped on more make-up than Jordan, and would be wearing enough jewellery to open a branch of Warren James with. Not to mention skyscraper heels."
Max glares at me, and I'm sure he whispers something about elephants never forgetting under his breath. I glare back, so that he knows the subject is not yet closed.
"You looked all right. You were just in a mood for some reason," he says.
"I was wearing a thick, woolly jumper and my snow boots," I say. "On the basis of your advice to dress up warm. I have never felt such an idiot in my life."
Now would be a very good time for my husband to smooth the situation over, give me some reassurance and generally show some sensitivity.
"Well, seeing as all the other women are only in their twenties, I can't see how it's relevant what they'll be wearing anyway," he says.
I manage to lock myself in the bathroom before I burst into tears.
Now would be a very good time for my husband to smooth the situation over, give me some reassurance and generally show some sensitivity.
"Well, seeing as all the other women are only in their twenties, I can't see how it's relevant what they'll be wearing anyway," he says.
I manage to lock myself in the bathroom before I burst into tears.
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
James Blunt, Christmas Meals, and Teenage Sensitivity - Not To Mention The Call Of Duty.
I wish they'd do away with works Christmas meals. At least those you have to pay for yourself. At this rate, Max and I will be broke by the time it gets to the middle of December.
Even though The Boss will probably pay for our Constituency Office lunch - if he doesn't cancel it at the last minute again - I've still got to pay for the Labour Party one, and now Max says that I'm expected to go to his works "do" with him. And pay for the privilege of being bored out of my brains.
"Do I have to come?" I say. "I'd rather save the money and go out for dinner by ourselves. Or take the kids with us."
"There's no bloody pleasing you," says Max. "Last year you went nuts when I told you you couldn't come."
"Well, that was different. You told me no spouses were invited, and then I found out I was the only one who wasn't. After the event."
He changes the subject after that, which is a good job as I am not listening anyway. I am staring in horror at the advert for the new James Blunt album instead. Bloody brilliant. Now I'm going to have to spend the weeks leading up to Christmas being tortured by seeing a brunette version of Ellen on the TV every five minutes.
To make matters worse, the album is called In Some Kind Of Trouble and the two songs named in the advert are: Stay The Night and I'm So Far Gone. It'd be funny, if I wasn't sure that Mr Blunt wasn't somehow related to the woman I'm almost sure is sleeping with my husband. He's just mocking the afflicted, as far as I'm concerned.
"I don't see why you hate James Blunt so much," says Max. "Most women seem to love him."
"Well, you wouldn't understand why I can't stand him, would you?" I say. "Seeing as you're such a fan of the blonde female version."
Max just huffs at that, and then there follows one of those uncomfortable silences. Josh decides to try to break it by taking an interest in politics.
"What do you think of this Daylight Savings Bill, Mum?" he says.
"I'm against it," I say. "The less daylight I have to look at myself in, the better. How about you?"
"I'm against it too."
Josh sounds as if he's actually given this some thought. I am very impressed and settle myself for a long discussion. A mother and son bonding session coming up.
"I was only joking," I say. "I'm in favour, and I thought you'd think it was a good idea, too. Why don't you?"
"I don't like change," says Josh.
He looks meaningfully at Max and me. I squirm, while Max says, "Why not?"
"Because change brings pain," says Josh.
Then he goes upstairs to kill a whole nation of people in Call of Duty. Teenage sensitivity only goes so far, after all.
Max and I look at each other, but neither of us speaks for ages. Then, just as Max finally opens his mouth to say something, James Blunt makes a bloody reappearance, standing at the edge of a cliff.
What I wouldn't give to push him off it. Along with the lookalike who's causing all the trouble.
"Do I have to come?" I say. "I'd rather save the money and go out for dinner by ourselves. Or take the kids with us."
"There's no bloody pleasing you," says Max. "Last year you went nuts when I told you you couldn't come."
"Well, that was different. You told me no spouses were invited, and then I found out I was the only one who wasn't. After the event."
He changes the subject after that, which is a good job as I am not listening anyway. I am staring in horror at the advert for the new James Blunt album instead. Bloody brilliant. Now I'm going to have to spend the weeks leading up to Christmas being tortured by seeing a brunette version of Ellen on the TV every five minutes.
To make matters worse, the album is called In Some Kind Of Trouble and the two songs named in the advert are: Stay The Night and I'm So Far Gone. It'd be funny, if I wasn't sure that Mr Blunt wasn't somehow related to the woman I'm almost sure is sleeping with my husband. He's just mocking the afflicted, as far as I'm concerned.
"I don't see why you hate James Blunt so much," says Max. "Most women seem to love him."
"Well, you wouldn't understand why I can't stand him, would you?" I say. "Seeing as you're such a fan of the blonde female version."
Max just huffs at that, and then there follows one of those uncomfortable silences. Josh decides to try to break it by taking an interest in politics.
"What do you think of this Daylight Savings Bill, Mum?" he says.
"I'm against it," I say. "The less daylight I have to look at myself in, the better. How about you?"
"I'm against it too."
Josh sounds as if he's actually given this some thought. I am very impressed and settle myself for a long discussion. A mother and son bonding session coming up.
"I was only joking," I say. "I'm in favour, and I thought you'd think it was a good idea, too. Why don't you?"
"I don't like change," says Josh.
He looks meaningfully at Max and me. I squirm, while Max says, "Why not?"
"Because change brings pain," says Josh.
Then he goes upstairs to kill a whole nation of people in Call of Duty. Teenage sensitivity only goes so far, after all.
Max and I look at each other, but neither of us speaks for ages. Then, just as Max finally opens his mouth to say something, James Blunt makes a bloody reappearance, standing at the edge of a cliff.
What I wouldn't give to push him off it. Along with the lookalike who's causing all the trouble.
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Don't Call Me Stupid.
Blimey, I still can't get used to having so many young people phoning us up and wanting to talk about student funding. It's as if they've just discovered politics for the first time. I mention it to The Boss when he calls me at lunchtime.
"It's very good news," he says. "Perhaps we can stop worrying so much about youth disengagement now."
"About tuition fees, anyway," I say. "Though I'm not so sure that they're all interested in politics in general."
"Hmm," he says. "At least I hope they've learned where being politically naive gets them: LibDems promising the earth and then discovering they can't deliver it. If so many students hadn't fallen for the buggers' pledges, we might not be in this mess now."
This is all very well, but I do wish Ed Miliband would be a bit more careful when he talks about the changes to tuition fees affecting social mobility. It's not as if we've got a glowing record on that ourselves - as one of the older constituents who phones today is at pains to point out.
"Your lot presided over a worsening in the situation," says Mr Fincham. "And as for that ludicrous 50% university target, well that's the elephant in the room, isn't it?"
I hate to say it, but he's got a point. No-one wants to talk about that when the subject of tuition fees comes up. They stay well away from how on earth such a high target could possibly be publicly-funded.
And, as for whether graduates with poor degrees from less-desirable universities stand any chance of getting well-paid jobs, or whether they've been burdening themselves with debt for no good reason, not even the "bold and brave" Nick Clegg will touch that one with a bargepole, will he?
It's very unnerving when you find yourself agreeing with a Tory on anything, but David Davis seems to be one of the few prepared to think the unthinkable. Mr Fincham must be his biggest fan.
"Davis is the only one talking any sense," he says. "You guys should pay attention to him, instead of arguing about a graduate tax and fighting amongst yourselves."
"Ah," I say. Sometimes I can see why The Boss relies on saying that so often.
"Is that all you've got to say?" (I didn't claim it always works.)
"Well, I agree with him about tuition fees hitting those students who come from the tier just above the poorest the hardest," I say. "They do, as with many other means-tested things that involve a cut-off point."
I'm hoping this will satisfy Mr Fincham, but he hasn't finished yet:
"Bloody right. And Davis has got the solution to the whole problem, hasn't he?"
"What's that, then?"
"Send fewer people to university," he says. "Not that the Labour Party will ever have the bollocks to face up to that. Obsessed with degrees at all costs, and couldn't give a monkey's about whether the courses these young 'uns take are even worth doing."
I know what Mr Fincham means. The Boss is completely hung up on degrees for all - not that he seems to think mine is worth much.
When the Labour Government first brought in tuition fees, I kept asking Andrew why, if a university education was such a passport to success, I was so badly-paid in comparison to my non-graduate friends, but he always wriggled out of it.
"Gave you the confidence to argue your case, though - didn't it, Molly?" he said.
"But seemingly not to win it," I said.
I'd ask him again now, and use Johnny as an example of what non-graduates can earn, if I wasn't still worrying about MI5 and drawing attention to my Russian connection. Johnny thinks I'm being ridiculous when I ask him not to email me at work any more, though.
"You'd need to work for someone much more important than your boss for the Russians to be interested in you," he says. "He's a backbench MP - and in opposition, for God's sake. I shouldn't think they've even heard of him in the Kremlin."
"Given his supposedly-Marxist views, they may know him better than you think," I say. "Not that he ever applies them to my pay. But, anyway, I can't take the risk. I don't know what you might try to get me to reveal in an unguarded moment."
"The only thing I'm interested in getting you to reveal is what you look and feel like naked."
"Well, I've only got your word for that," I say. "I'll set up a Hotmail account and get back to you when I've done it. Don't email me until then."
"Now you're just being stupid," he says. He doesn't even moderate the insult with a smily face, or any kisses.
I somehow refrain from pointing out that only 6% of the population made it to university when I went, and Johnny didn't. But the knowledge makes me feel a whole lot better, as long as I don't think about what he earns.
"It's very good news," he says. "Perhaps we can stop worrying so much about youth disengagement now."
"About tuition fees, anyway," I say. "Though I'm not so sure that they're all interested in politics in general."
"Hmm," he says. "At least I hope they've learned where being politically naive gets them: LibDems promising the earth and then discovering they can't deliver it. If so many students hadn't fallen for the buggers' pledges, we might not be in this mess now."
This is all very well, but I do wish Ed Miliband would be a bit more careful when he talks about the changes to tuition fees affecting social mobility. It's not as if we've got a glowing record on that ourselves - as one of the older constituents who phones today is at pains to point out.
"Your lot presided over a worsening in the situation," says Mr Fincham. "And as for that ludicrous 50% university target, well that's the elephant in the room, isn't it?"
I hate to say it, but he's got a point. No-one wants to talk about that when the subject of tuition fees comes up. They stay well away from how on earth such a high target could possibly be publicly-funded.
And, as for whether graduates with poor degrees from less-desirable universities stand any chance of getting well-paid jobs, or whether they've been burdening themselves with debt for no good reason, not even the "bold and brave" Nick Clegg will touch that one with a bargepole, will he?
It's very unnerving when you find yourself agreeing with a Tory on anything, but David Davis seems to be one of the few prepared to think the unthinkable. Mr Fincham must be his biggest fan.
"Davis is the only one talking any sense," he says. "You guys should pay attention to him, instead of arguing about a graduate tax and fighting amongst yourselves."
"Ah," I say. Sometimes I can see why The Boss relies on saying that so often.
"Is that all you've got to say?" (I didn't claim it always works.)
"Well, I agree with him about tuition fees hitting those students who come from the tier just above the poorest the hardest," I say. "They do, as with many other means-tested things that involve a cut-off point."
I'm hoping this will satisfy Mr Fincham, but he hasn't finished yet:
"Bloody right. And Davis has got the solution to the whole problem, hasn't he?"
"What's that, then?"
"Send fewer people to university," he says. "Not that the Labour Party will ever have the bollocks to face up to that. Obsessed with degrees at all costs, and couldn't give a monkey's about whether the courses these young 'uns take are even worth doing."
I know what Mr Fincham means. The Boss is completely hung up on degrees for all - not that he seems to think mine is worth much.
When the Labour Government first brought in tuition fees, I kept asking Andrew why, if a university education was such a passport to success, I was so badly-paid in comparison to my non-graduate friends, but he always wriggled out of it.
"Gave you the confidence to argue your case, though - didn't it, Molly?" he said.
"But seemingly not to win it," I said.
I'd ask him again now, and use Johnny as an example of what non-graduates can earn, if I wasn't still worrying about MI5 and drawing attention to my Russian connection. Johnny thinks I'm being ridiculous when I ask him not to email me at work any more, though.
"You'd need to work for someone much more important than your boss for the Russians to be interested in you," he says. "He's a backbench MP - and in opposition, for God's sake. I shouldn't think they've even heard of him in the Kremlin."
"Given his supposedly-Marxist views, they may know him better than you think," I say. "Not that he ever applies them to my pay. But, anyway, I can't take the risk. I don't know what you might try to get me to reveal in an unguarded moment."
"The only thing I'm interested in getting you to reveal is what you look and feel like naked."
"Well, I've only got your word for that," I say. "I'll set up a Hotmail account and get back to you when I've done it. Don't email me until then."
"Now you're just being stupid," he says. He doesn't even moderate the insult with a smily face, or any kisses.
I somehow refrain from pointing out that only 6% of the population made it to university when I went, and Johnny didn't. But the knowledge makes me feel a whole lot better, as long as I don't think about what he earns.
Monday, 6 December 2010
Under Suspicion - Spies, MPs, And Russians, Not To Mention MPs' Staff
Bloody hell - and I thought The Boss was a liability! At least he doesn't have a researcher who's been picked up by MI5.
Honestly, though - wouldn't you think it would have occurred to Mike Hancock MP that employing a Russian research assistant was slightly inadvisable, especially when he sits on the Defence Select Committee? Has he never heard of the Cold War, or read any John Le Carre?
And, although Andrew can do some pretty stupid things, even he wouldn't be daft enough to (allegedly) take young female constituents out to dinner and text them to "cheer them up." Or, at least, I really hope he wouldn't.
"Thank God we don't work for Mike Hancock," I say. "Things could actually be worse."
"Don't count your chickens," says Greg. "I've got a very bad feeling about Vicky."
So have I, but I don't think she's that sort of spy. Greg decides to investigate, anyway, though. He picks up a new notebook, opens it to the first page and then turns to face Vicky, his pen poised at the ready.
"Got any Russian relatives?" he says. Subtlety has never been his forte.
"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "Why?"
"Just something Slavic about your cheekbones. And you look like a woman who'd know how to make a man tell you anything."
"Thanks," says Vicky, as if it were a compliment.
She obviously hasn't a clue what Greg is talking about, probably because she thinks keeping abreast of current affairs means revealing as much Wonderbra-enhanced cleavage as possible. I keep hoping she'll catch pneumonia like my Nan always warned me would happen if you walked around with your bosoms hanging out all over the place.
"And no Russian friends?" says Greg. "Close friends? Take your time before you answer."
"I don't need to. I don't know any Russians." Vicky rolls her eyes."Now do you mind if I get on with what I'm doing?"
Greg makes a great show of writing down her answers in his notebook, but she doesn't seem to notice, as she's too busy concentrating on trying to mend one of her fake nails. When she decides that the task is beyond her, she phones for an "emergency appointment" at the nail bar, and buggers off to lunch.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but then Greg starts on me while I'm making coffee.
"Of course, we already know that we have someone with Russian connections working in the office, don't we, Molly?" he says.
He gives me one of those horrible meaningful looks he usually reserves for when The Boss makes one of his wilder claims to the media.
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "I hardly think one disastrous date with a UK citizen who just happens to work in Russia counts as exposing myself to bribery and corruption. And, anyway, Johnny takes absolutely no interest in my job whatsoever. He's as unimpressed with it as I am. More, probably."
"Ah, yes - but you have always wondered what a man as rich and successful as he is could possibly see in you, haven't you?" says Greg. Somewhat insensitively, if you ask me.
"Thanks," I say, though not at all in the same tone as Vicky used earlier.
"Just food for thought," he says.
I glare at him, before passing him his coffee and spilling some on the letter he's just printed out. Accidentally on purpose. Hopefully that'll shut him up for the rest of the day.
Famous last words. Just after it gets dark, Greg comes into my office and walks to the window. He peers out, before diving to the floor.
"Get down! They're out there, Mol," he says, in a very loud whisper. "Waiting for you."
"Who?" I say. "Not Mr X and his cronies?"
I slide under my desk, banging my head in the process. Greg laughs.
"MI5" he says. "Look - dark car, and a man in a dark suit, speaking into his sleeve."
When I've managed to disentangle myself from the printer lead, I stand up and approach the window. Very carefully.
"For Christ's sake, Greg," I say. "That's Phil Ashbury, the Unison guy. He's got a meeting with Joan at 5:00pm. And he's just putting his gloves on."
"Or so he'd like you to think," says Greg, who isn't half as funny as he thinks he is.
I'm a bit unnerved now, though. I mean, what if MI5 are following everyone with a Russian connection? And how embarrassing would it be if they read my emails? They'd probably nominate me and Johnny for one of those bad sex awards after last week's woeful virtual performance.
I want to talk to Johnny about it, but I daren't. What if he's only softening me up before trying to find out everything I know? I bet it'll only be a matter of time before he starts asking me all about The Boss' position on cycle helmets.
I knew someone successful fancying me was too good to be true. Or anyone fancying me, for that matter. It's a shame no-one wants to take me out to dinner to cheer me up. Even an MP would do, the way I'm feeling, and it doesn't get much more desperate than that.
Honestly, though - wouldn't you think it would have occurred to Mike Hancock MP that employing a Russian research assistant was slightly inadvisable, especially when he sits on the Defence Select Committee? Has he never heard of the Cold War, or read any John Le Carre?
And, although Andrew can do some pretty stupid things, even he wouldn't be daft enough to (allegedly) take young female constituents out to dinner and text them to "cheer them up." Or, at least, I really hope he wouldn't.
"Thank God we don't work for Mike Hancock," I say. "Things could actually be worse."
"Don't count your chickens," says Greg. "I've got a very bad feeling about Vicky."
So have I, but I don't think she's that sort of spy. Greg decides to investigate, anyway, though. He picks up a new notebook, opens it to the first page and then turns to face Vicky, his pen poised at the ready.
"Got any Russian relatives?" he says. Subtlety has never been his forte.
"Don't be ridiculous," she says. "Why?"
"Just something Slavic about your cheekbones. And you look like a woman who'd know how to make a man tell you anything."
"Thanks," says Vicky, as if it were a compliment.
She obviously hasn't a clue what Greg is talking about, probably because she thinks keeping abreast of current affairs means revealing as much Wonderbra-enhanced cleavage as possible. I keep hoping she'll catch pneumonia like my Nan always warned me would happen if you walked around with your bosoms hanging out all over the place.
"And no Russian friends?" says Greg. "Close friends? Take your time before you answer."
"I don't need to. I don't know any Russians." Vicky rolls her eyes."Now do you mind if I get on with what I'm doing?"
Greg makes a great show of writing down her answers in his notebook, but she doesn't seem to notice, as she's too busy concentrating on trying to mend one of her fake nails. When she decides that the task is beyond her, she phones for an "emergency appointment" at the nail bar, and buggers off to lunch.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but then Greg starts on me while I'm making coffee.
"Of course, we already know that we have someone with Russian connections working in the office, don't we, Molly?" he says.
He gives me one of those horrible meaningful looks he usually reserves for when The Boss makes one of his wilder claims to the media.
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "I hardly think one disastrous date with a UK citizen who just happens to work in Russia counts as exposing myself to bribery and corruption. And, anyway, Johnny takes absolutely no interest in my job whatsoever. He's as unimpressed with it as I am. More, probably."
"Ah, yes - but you have always wondered what a man as rich and successful as he is could possibly see in you, haven't you?" says Greg. Somewhat insensitively, if you ask me.
"Thanks," I say, though not at all in the same tone as Vicky used earlier.
"Just food for thought," he says.
I glare at him, before passing him his coffee and spilling some on the letter he's just printed out. Accidentally on purpose. Hopefully that'll shut him up for the rest of the day.
Famous last words. Just after it gets dark, Greg comes into my office and walks to the window. He peers out, before diving to the floor.
"Get down! They're out there, Mol," he says, in a very loud whisper. "Waiting for you."
"Who?" I say. "Not Mr X and his cronies?"
I slide under my desk, banging my head in the process. Greg laughs.
"MI5" he says. "Look - dark car, and a man in a dark suit, speaking into his sleeve."
When I've managed to disentangle myself from the printer lead, I stand up and approach the window. Very carefully.
"For Christ's sake, Greg," I say. "That's Phil Ashbury, the Unison guy. He's got a meeting with Joan at 5:00pm. And he's just putting his gloves on."
"Or so he'd like you to think," says Greg, who isn't half as funny as he thinks he is.
I'm a bit unnerved now, though. I mean, what if MI5 are following everyone with a Russian connection? And how embarrassing would it be if they read my emails? They'd probably nominate me and Johnny for one of those bad sex awards after last week's woeful virtual performance.
I want to talk to Johnny about it, but I daren't. What if he's only softening me up before trying to find out everything I know? I bet it'll only be a matter of time before he starts asking me all about The Boss' position on cycle helmets.
I knew someone successful fancying me was too good to be true. Or anyone fancying me, for that matter. It's a shame no-one wants to take me out to dinner to cheer me up. Even an MP would do, the way I'm feeling, and it doesn't get much more desperate than that.
Sunday, 5 December 2010
Spinelessness In The Face Of Provocation.
I am knackered. I know I've said it before but, honestly, snoring really should be grounds for divorce. I finally drag myself out of bed mid-morning, but just can't be bothered to get dressed. It's too cold to undress first, anyway.
So I'm still sitting around in my thermals and hideous fleece nightshirt - attractively topped off with both my own and Max's dressing gowns - at lunchtime, when the doorbell rings. Then Max invites Ellen to come in, the idiot.
I glare at him, while she produces a gift-wrapped plant pot and hands it to me.
"This is for you, Molly," she says. "As a thank-you for the loan of the car last weekend."
I'm not exactly sure what comes out of my mouth next, but it's something along the lines of, "Humph."
Gracious is my middle name where nymphomaniac neighbours are concerned. And I don't like Christmas cactuses anyway (or should that be cacti?). They never bloody flower, just sit there promising much and delivering very little. A bit like certain governments I could mention.
My lack of enthusiasm must be obvious, because Ellen says,
"Max said you weren't very happy about him lending it to me - but it was all my fault. You mustn't blame him."
She pats Max on the arm at the same time as saying this, and it's all I can do not to swat her hand away. And what gives her the right to tell me when to be cross with my own husband?
"Humph," I say again.
I'm getting grumpier by the minute, but in the absence of any proof that she is sleeping with Max, there's nothing I can do but try to pull myself together, which is challenging in this outfit.
Luckily, Ellen is off to do her Christmas shopping, so she doesn't stay long. I'm so relieved that I manage to avoid asking why she hasn't already done it, given that her school has been closed since the first hint of snow.
After she's gone, I unwrap the cactus and put it on the table, and then I start to feel a bit guilty for being so rude to her, despite the restraint I showed about school closures. What if she isn't up to anything with Max? That'd make me the bad guy - especially if you take Johnny into account. Thank God I didn't have virtual sex with him the other day.
If I told idiot brother Robin about it, he'd no doubt start going on about karma, so I decide I'd better try and compensate for any of the bad stuff I may have earned, just in case. I shall lure Max into having real sex by virtue of wearing my new(ish) underwear in his honour.
Putting thermals on top of lace does rather spoil the effect but, as long as I whip them off quickly tonight, Max probably won't even notice what I'm wearing until I get down to my bra and knickers. Then speed will be of the essence if I'm to avoid freezing to death.
The safest bet is probably to turn the electric blanket up to maximum temperature, and dive in to bed as fast as I can. This should avert hypothermia, as long as we don't disturb the covers too much after that. Now the whole thing's starting to sound like a military operation, which could be a bit depressing if I thought about it too much.
I decide not to think about it too much and am very nice to Max for the rest of the day instead. I don't even remark on the whole bottle of wine he downs while he's cooking dinner. He does, though. As he drains his glass, he says,
"Don't worry, Mol. I know I always snore when I've had a drink - so I'll sleep in Connie's room tonight."
Oh, for God's sake. Begging would be far too humiliating, so it seems that the only thing I'm going to score today is a bloody cactus. And even that's been cultivated to remove its prickles.
There'd be a joke there, if I was in the mood to make it.
So I'm still sitting around in my thermals and hideous fleece nightshirt - attractively topped off with both my own and Max's dressing gowns - at lunchtime, when the doorbell rings. Then Max invites Ellen to come in, the idiot.
I glare at him, while she produces a gift-wrapped plant pot and hands it to me.
"This is for you, Molly," she says. "As a thank-you for the loan of the car last weekend."
I'm not exactly sure what comes out of my mouth next, but it's something along the lines of, "Humph."
Gracious is my middle name where nymphomaniac neighbours are concerned. And I don't like Christmas cactuses anyway (or should that be cacti?). They never bloody flower, just sit there promising much and delivering very little. A bit like certain governments I could mention.
My lack of enthusiasm must be obvious, because Ellen says,
"Max said you weren't very happy about him lending it to me - but it was all my fault. You mustn't blame him."
She pats Max on the arm at the same time as saying this, and it's all I can do not to swat her hand away. And what gives her the right to tell me when to be cross with my own husband?
"Humph," I say again.
I'm getting grumpier by the minute, but in the absence of any proof that she is sleeping with Max, there's nothing I can do but try to pull myself together, which is challenging in this outfit.
Luckily, Ellen is off to do her Christmas shopping, so she doesn't stay long. I'm so relieved that I manage to avoid asking why she hasn't already done it, given that her school has been closed since the first hint of snow.
After she's gone, I unwrap the cactus and put it on the table, and then I start to feel a bit guilty for being so rude to her, despite the restraint I showed about school closures. What if she isn't up to anything with Max? That'd make me the bad guy - especially if you take Johnny into account. Thank God I didn't have virtual sex with him the other day.
If I told idiot brother Robin about it, he'd no doubt start going on about karma, so I decide I'd better try and compensate for any of the bad stuff I may have earned, just in case. I shall lure Max into having real sex by virtue of wearing my new(ish) underwear in his honour.
Putting thermals on top of lace does rather spoil the effect but, as long as I whip them off quickly tonight, Max probably won't even notice what I'm wearing until I get down to my bra and knickers. Then speed will be of the essence if I'm to avoid freezing to death.
The safest bet is probably to turn the electric blanket up to maximum temperature, and dive in to bed as fast as I can. This should avert hypothermia, as long as we don't disturb the covers too much after that. Now the whole thing's starting to sound like a military operation, which could be a bit depressing if I thought about it too much.
I decide not to think about it too much and am very nice to Max for the rest of the day instead. I don't even remark on the whole bottle of wine he downs while he's cooking dinner. He does, though. As he drains his glass, he says,
"Don't worry, Mol. I know I always snore when I've had a drink - so I'll sleep in Connie's room tonight."
Oh, for God's sake. Begging would be far too humiliating, so it seems that the only thing I'm going to score today is a bloody cactus. And even that's been cultivated to remove its prickles.
There'd be a joke there, if I was in the mood to make it.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Insect-Induced Hypothermia - Which Could Only Happen To Connie.
Oh, my God. I am so fed up of wearing all my clothes at once, and even some of Max's. Including in bed. This may have something to do with my lack of a sex-life, but I can't help that. I haven't stopped shivering for weeks.
Connie has to go one better, though. She phones this afternoon and, when I ask how she is, simply says:
"Hypothermic."
"Don't exaggerate," I say. "You sound like Dinah."
"I'm not exaggerating," says Connie. "I nearly died of cold during the night."
Given that she made Max and I buy her a million-tog duvet before she left home, I somehow doubt that - and say so.
"Yeah, well, I couldn't use it, could I?" she says, as if I should have known.
Why do children always think their parents are psychic? When I ask Connie why she couldn't sleep under her quilt, things become absolutely no clearer.
"Because of the spider," she says. "On the bedroom ceiling."
Connie is terrified of spiders, due to some unspecified childhood trauma, which probably had something to do with Josh. Most things trace back to him, as far as she's concerned - but, even so, I'm still confused.
"What's that got to do with your duvet?" I say. "You usually just trap spiders under a glass and wait for someone else to get rid of them."
Connie explains that she couldn't get to sleep while the spider was walking around above her head, so she decided she had to get it down somehow. This was a challenge, as Connie has the same trouble with high ceilings as I do but, eventually, she managed it.
"I flicked it off the ceiling with a pair of tights," she says. "But then it landed on my bed."
"Well, why didn't you just flick it off that as well, then?" I say. "Job done."
"That's what I was going to do," says Connie. "But you know I don't like hurting anything - so I wrapped it up in the quilt and tried to shake it outside instead."
"Well, for God's sake, Connie, there was no reason why you couldn't use your bedding once the spider had gone. Even Gillian McKeith wouldn't have made that much fuss."
"She would have done if she'd dropped the f*cking quilt out of the window as well," says Connie. "Into a huge puddle."
Connie has to go one better, though. She phones this afternoon and, when I ask how she is, simply says:
"Hypothermic."
"Don't exaggerate," I say. "You sound like Dinah."
"I'm not exaggerating," says Connie. "I nearly died of cold during the night."
Given that she made Max and I buy her a million-tog duvet before she left home, I somehow doubt that - and say so.
"Yeah, well, I couldn't use it, could I?" she says, as if I should have known.
Why do children always think their parents are psychic? When I ask Connie why she couldn't sleep under her quilt, things become absolutely no clearer.
"Because of the spider," she says. "On the bedroom ceiling."
Connie is terrified of spiders, due to some unspecified childhood trauma, which probably had something to do with Josh. Most things trace back to him, as far as she's concerned - but, even so, I'm still confused.
"What's that got to do with your duvet?" I say. "You usually just trap spiders under a glass and wait for someone else to get rid of them."
Connie explains that she couldn't get to sleep while the spider was walking around above her head, so she decided she had to get it down somehow. This was a challenge, as Connie has the same trouble with high ceilings as I do but, eventually, she managed it.
"I flicked it off the ceiling with a pair of tights," she says. "But then it landed on my bed."
"Well, why didn't you just flick it off that as well, then?" I say. "Job done."
"That's what I was going to do," says Connie. "But you know I don't like hurting anything - so I wrapped it up in the quilt and tried to shake it outside instead."
"Well, for God's sake, Connie, there was no reason why you couldn't use your bedding once the spider had gone. Even Gillian McKeith wouldn't have made that much fuss."
"She would have done if she'd dropped the f*cking quilt out of the window as well," says Connie. "Into a huge puddle."
Friday, 3 December 2010
A Nice Surprise, Apparently.
We have a surprise visitor today, shortly after surgery finishes. Andrew and Vicky are closeted in the Oprah Room, doing whatever it is that they do in there, and Greg and I are working away at our desks, when Trish walks in.
"Hi, guys," she says. "Thought I'd drop by and say hello."
Her eyes are going in all directions, and she looks awfully stressed. A bit like I do, actually.
"Hi," say Greg and I, simultaneously. Then we both fall silent.
"Where's Andrew?" says Trish. "Thought I'd surprise him and take him out for lunch."
I'm just about to answer, when there's a loud bump from the Oprah Room, followed by Vicky's piercing giggle.
"I recognise that voice," says Trish. "In here, is he? With Victoria?"
I reach the door just before Trish does, and knock very loudly before opening it.
"Andrew," I say. "Guess who's here! Your lovely wife."
Trish pushes past me, and I beat a hasty retreat.
"I'd like a word with my husband, Victoria," she says. "So if you wouldn't mind..."
"Oh," says Vicky. "I was just going to the loo anyway. To freshen up before I head home."
She comes stumbling out, clutching those stupid shoes, and slams the door behind her. Then she stalks straight out of the office - as well as you can stalk while barefoot.
As soon as she's gone, Greg and I put our ears to the door of the Oprah Room.
"Sod it," I say. "I still can't hear properly, thanks to Miss Bloody Chambers."
"I think they're talking in whispers anyway," says Greg. "Or hisses."
After about half an hour, Andrew and Trish come out, both looking rather flustered.
"Going to take my wife out for lunch," says The Boss. "Might go home after that, if you can manage without me?"
"Molly can manage anything, " says Trish. "As I shouldn't have to remind you."
I think she means that in a good way, so I feel a nice warm glow which lasts until she says,
"Anyway, Molly. Call me next week so that we can discuss that thing."
"What thing?" I say. So much for being able to manage any situation. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"You know - that thing." Trish winks, then continues: "Our discussion about what the staff would like for Christmas. I think Andrew needs to improve upon what he bought you last year, at least for his permanent staff."
"Oh, my mum thought he'd chosen well, " says Greg. "I gave her my copy of Cooking With Northwick Piccalilli. She a fan of keeping things local."
"Very commendable," says Trish. "If more people appreciated the value of what's available where we live, we'd all be better off. And there's nothing like a home-cooked meal - is there, Andrew?"
You've got to admire that woman's way with metaphor. Not to mention with flirty hair-flickers.
"Hi, guys," she says. "Thought I'd drop by and say hello."
Her eyes are going in all directions, and she looks awfully stressed. A bit like I do, actually.
"Hi," say Greg and I, simultaneously. Then we both fall silent.
"Where's Andrew?" says Trish. "Thought I'd surprise him and take him out for lunch."
I'm just about to answer, when there's a loud bump from the Oprah Room, followed by Vicky's piercing giggle.
"I recognise that voice," says Trish. "In here, is he? With Victoria?"
I reach the door just before Trish does, and knock very loudly before opening it.
"Andrew," I say. "Guess who's here! Your lovely wife."
Trish pushes past me, and I beat a hasty retreat.
"I'd like a word with my husband, Victoria," she says. "So if you wouldn't mind..."
"Oh," says Vicky. "I was just going to the loo anyway. To freshen up before I head home."
She comes stumbling out, clutching those stupid shoes, and slams the door behind her. Then she stalks straight out of the office - as well as you can stalk while barefoot.
As soon as she's gone, Greg and I put our ears to the door of the Oprah Room.
"Sod it," I say. "I still can't hear properly, thanks to Miss Bloody Chambers."
"I think they're talking in whispers anyway," says Greg. "Or hisses."
After about half an hour, Andrew and Trish come out, both looking rather flustered.
"Going to take my wife out for lunch," says The Boss. "Might go home after that, if you can manage without me?"
"Molly can manage anything, " says Trish. "As I shouldn't have to remind you."
I think she means that in a good way, so I feel a nice warm glow which lasts until she says,
"Anyway, Molly. Call me next week so that we can discuss that thing."
"What thing?" I say. So much for being able to manage any situation. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"You know - that thing." Trish winks, then continues: "Our discussion about what the staff would like for Christmas. I think Andrew needs to improve upon what he bought you last year, at least for his permanent staff."
"Oh, my mum thought he'd chosen well, " says Greg. "I gave her my copy of Cooking With Northwick Piccalilli. She a fan of keeping things local."
"Very commendable," says Trish. "If more people appreciated the value of what's available where we live, we'd all be better off. And there's nothing like a home-cooked meal - is there, Andrew?"
You've got to admire that woman's way with metaphor. Not to mention with flirty hair-flickers.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Turn On, Tune In, And Cop Out. (I Wish.)
Lightbulb moments are vastly over-rated. I've just had two of them and neither was enjoyable.
In the morning, Mr X phones to complain about his new council flat. Or, more specifically, about the lack of light bulbs in his new council flat. (I'm calling him Mr X because I'm too scared to risk naming him.)
Let's just say the conversation does not go well. My attempts to explain that he is expected to provide and fit his own light bulbs is interpreted as a combination of racism and discrimination; and then Mr X says that this is how he's been being treated ever since he arrived in the UK. From a previously war-torn part of Eastern Europe, which I'm also not willing to name.
Mr X is very het-up and becoming increasingly difficult to understand, so my asking him to repeat every other sentence really doesn't help. Eventually, he loses patience and starts yelling at me. Luckily the pitch isn't as ear-shattering as that which Miss Chambers can achieve, but what he says is much more worrying.
He's threatening to bomb the local housing office if he is not provided with light bulbs by the end of the day. I'd ignore it if he was one of the usual suspects, as they wouldn't have the faintest idea how to build a bomb - but Mr X seems an altogether different kettle of fish.
The detail he gives - not to mention the organisation of which he claims to be a member - makes his threat sound alarmingly credible, so now I am faced with a dilemma.
"Greg," I say. "I think I'm going to have to breach confidentiality again."
After I've explained why, Greg goes off on a rant about how refugees from war zones should be made to undergo counselling as part of the asylum process, so that they realise that they don't have to operate in the same way as may have become necessary in their homeland.
"Yeah, well - not helpful at this point," I say. "I don't think I'm likely to get Mr X any psychological help by this afternoon. I'll have to phone The Boss and get his permission to share the information instead."
"Huh. Good luck with that," says Greg. "Don't you remember what he was like about Mr Humphries? You got a right bollocking - just for giving a statement to the Police."
"Well, this time more people's lives might be on the line if I do nothing. So I haven't got any choice, have I?"
Honestly, imagine how cool it must be to have the sort of job where the biggest emergency you face is a collapsing bedstead. Not mentioning anyone's job in particular.
I pick up the phone and dial Andrew's number. There's no answer, so then I try his mobile - which goes straight to answer-phone. Brilliant. Mr X is probably assembling his bomb right this minute, while lots of unsuspecting housing officers sit calmly typing and drinking fruit tea.
I call Marie-Louise, who tells me that Andrew is in back-to-back meetings for the rest of the day, and has left his pager in the office. For God's sake - I give up. There's nothing for it but to make an executive decision, so I ring the Council and speak to the Head of Housing Services. Off the record, though I never really trust that anyone will honour that particular phrase.
After all that, it turns out that I needn't have worried. Or risked a bollocking. Apparently, Mr X phoned the Council and made the same threats, before he even called me. So the Police have been notified already, and the Housing Office is in the process of being evacuated.
All that's left for me to do is to try to extract a promise that someone from either the Police or the Council will let me know the outcome, but I don't have much faith that this will actually happen. Nor does Greg.
"They always bloody well forget about us," he says. "So I'm not leaving anything to chance."
He spends ages building a barricade in front of the door in case Mr X escapes the clutches of the Police and comes here to take his revenge. Joan knocks it down five minutes later when she comes in to ask for an up-to-date photo of The Boss for a newsletter. She says she didn't even notice it was there.
We're all so jumpy by now that no-one wants to answer the phone, in case it's Mr X again, so we decide to do it on a rota basis. Greg says he'll go first, Vicky's to go next, and then it'll be my turn. And so on for the rest of the day - or that's the theory, anyway.
After Greg takes the first call - from Steve Ellington - the phone rings again.
"Your turn, Vicky," I say.
She shakes her head, and stray hairs go flying everywhere as usual.
"Count me out," she says. "I'm only a volunteer."
So it's my turn again. This time the caller's a lovely old lady called Mrs Worthington, who sounds very frail, but is scrupulously polite.
"So sorry to bother you, dear," she says. "But I don't know where else to turn."
"Don't worry about that," I say. "How can we help?"
"It's the lightbulbs in my flat."
For one insane moment, I imagine that Mr X has kidnapped Mrs Worthington and is holding her hostage until he is given a stock of lightbulbs, but then all becomes clear.
Mrs W tells me that she was widowed last year, very shortly after she and her late husband had exchanged their council house in the South East for a smaller one in Northwick - which has much higher ceilings.
As if the stress of bereavement and moving wasn't bad enough, she recently had a fall and is now barely able to walk, let alone climb on to a stool or use a ladder to reach the light-fittings.
"The last bulb went yesterday," she says. "And I don't know any of my neighbours, so I don't feel I can ask them for help. I don't like to bother people, and Fred and I were never blessed with any children."
"When you say 'the last bulb' - which room is it that has no lighting?" I say. Cooking by candlelight might be a bit hazardous, to say the least.
"Oh, all of them now, dear," she says. "That's why I had to phone you. I couldn't think who else to contact."
How desperately sad is that? When I finally get home - after checking behind me all the way to make sure Mr X isn't lurking in the shadows - I make a cup of tea, sit down and contemplate the height of our ceilings.
Then I climb onto a chair and try to reach the light fitting. It's miles away, so I try standing on the table, but I still can't reach the damned thing. Josh walks in and looks at me.
"What the hell are you doing, Mum?" he says.
"Trying to change a light bulb," I say. "By myself."
"You've got no chance of managing that. You're far too short. And anyway, this bulb's still working."
"That's not the point," I say. "I'm assessing the situation."
"Hopeless," is Josh's cruel verdict.
If he ever moves out, and then Max leaves me for James Bloody Blunt, I'll never see artificial light again.
In the morning, Mr X phones to complain about his new council flat. Or, more specifically, about the lack of light bulbs in his new council flat. (I'm calling him Mr X because I'm too scared to risk naming him.)
Let's just say the conversation does not go well. My attempts to explain that he is expected to provide and fit his own light bulbs is interpreted as a combination of racism and discrimination; and then Mr X says that this is how he's been being treated ever since he arrived in the UK. From a previously war-torn part of Eastern Europe, which I'm also not willing to name.
Mr X is very het-up and becoming increasingly difficult to understand, so my asking him to repeat every other sentence really doesn't help. Eventually, he loses patience and starts yelling at me. Luckily the pitch isn't as ear-shattering as that which Miss Chambers can achieve, but what he says is much more worrying.
He's threatening to bomb the local housing office if he is not provided with light bulbs by the end of the day. I'd ignore it if he was one of the usual suspects, as they wouldn't have the faintest idea how to build a bomb - but Mr X seems an altogether different kettle of fish.
The detail he gives - not to mention the organisation of which he claims to be a member - makes his threat sound alarmingly credible, so now I am faced with a dilemma.
"Greg," I say. "I think I'm going to have to breach confidentiality again."
After I've explained why, Greg goes off on a rant about how refugees from war zones should be made to undergo counselling as part of the asylum process, so that they realise that they don't have to operate in the same way as may have become necessary in their homeland.
"Yeah, well - not helpful at this point," I say. "I don't think I'm likely to get Mr X any psychological help by this afternoon. I'll have to phone The Boss and get his permission to share the information instead."
"Huh. Good luck with that," says Greg. "Don't you remember what he was like about Mr Humphries? You got a right bollocking - just for giving a statement to the Police."
"Well, this time more people's lives might be on the line if I do nothing. So I haven't got any choice, have I?"
Honestly, imagine how cool it must be to have the sort of job where the biggest emergency you face is a collapsing bedstead. Not mentioning anyone's job in particular.
I pick up the phone and dial Andrew's number. There's no answer, so then I try his mobile - which goes straight to answer-phone. Brilliant. Mr X is probably assembling his bomb right this minute, while lots of unsuspecting housing officers sit calmly typing and drinking fruit tea.
I call Marie-Louise, who tells me that Andrew is in back-to-back meetings for the rest of the day, and has left his pager in the office. For God's sake - I give up. There's nothing for it but to make an executive decision, so I ring the Council and speak to the Head of Housing Services. Off the record, though I never really trust that anyone will honour that particular phrase.
After all that, it turns out that I needn't have worried. Or risked a bollocking. Apparently, Mr X phoned the Council and made the same threats, before he even called me. So the Police have been notified already, and the Housing Office is in the process of being evacuated.
All that's left for me to do is to try to extract a promise that someone from either the Police or the Council will let me know the outcome, but I don't have much faith that this will actually happen. Nor does Greg.
"They always bloody well forget about us," he says. "So I'm not leaving anything to chance."
He spends ages building a barricade in front of the door in case Mr X escapes the clutches of the Police and comes here to take his revenge. Joan knocks it down five minutes later when she comes in to ask for an up-to-date photo of The Boss for a newsletter. She says she didn't even notice it was there.
We're all so jumpy by now that no-one wants to answer the phone, in case it's Mr X again, so we decide to do it on a rota basis. Greg says he'll go first, Vicky's to go next, and then it'll be my turn. And so on for the rest of the day - or that's the theory, anyway.
After Greg takes the first call - from Steve Ellington - the phone rings again.
"Your turn, Vicky," I say.
She shakes her head, and stray hairs go flying everywhere as usual.
"Count me out," she says. "I'm only a volunteer."
So it's my turn again. This time the caller's a lovely old lady called Mrs Worthington, who sounds very frail, but is scrupulously polite.
"So sorry to bother you, dear," she says. "But I don't know where else to turn."
"Don't worry about that," I say. "How can we help?"
"It's the lightbulbs in my flat."
For one insane moment, I imagine that Mr X has kidnapped Mrs Worthington and is holding her hostage until he is given a stock of lightbulbs, but then all becomes clear.
Mrs W tells me that she was widowed last year, very shortly after she and her late husband had exchanged their council house in the South East for a smaller one in Northwick - which has much higher ceilings.
As if the stress of bereavement and moving wasn't bad enough, she recently had a fall and is now barely able to walk, let alone climb on to a stool or use a ladder to reach the light-fittings.
"The last bulb went yesterday," she says. "And I don't know any of my neighbours, so I don't feel I can ask them for help. I don't like to bother people, and Fred and I were never blessed with any children."
"When you say 'the last bulb' - which room is it that has no lighting?" I say. Cooking by candlelight might be a bit hazardous, to say the least.
"Oh, all of them now, dear," she says. "That's why I had to phone you. I couldn't think who else to contact."
How desperately sad is that? When I finally get home - after checking behind me all the way to make sure Mr X isn't lurking in the shadows - I make a cup of tea, sit down and contemplate the height of our ceilings.
Then I climb onto a chair and try to reach the light fitting. It's miles away, so I try standing on the table, but I still can't reach the damned thing. Josh walks in and looks at me.
"What the hell are you doing, Mum?" he says.
"Trying to change a light bulb," I say. "By myself."
"You've got no chance of managing that. You're far too short. And anyway, this bulb's still working."
"That's not the point," I say. "I'm assessing the situation."
"Hopeless," is Josh's cruel verdict.
If he ever moves out, and then Max leaves me for James Bloody Blunt, I'll never see artificial light again.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Why Being The Pack Leader Means Different Things In Thailand And Russia
This Wikileaks thing just goes on and on, doesn't it? And everyone seems so surprised by what's coming out. Greg and I just don't get it - what did people think happened behind the scenes?
"One minute everyone's a conspiracy theorist," he says," and the next they're shocked at what governments get up to. You'd think people never watched Spooks."
"I know," I say. "But at least these leaked cables make The Boss' faux-pas look pretty minor."
"Oh, I reckon Andrew'd give his princely namesake a run for his money in the tactless stakes," says Greg.
Maybe The Boss has got more in common than he thought with the monarchy he claims to despise, though I bet he'd rather be like Putin. Talking of whom, Johnny emails me after lunch and says,
"You can call me Alpha Dog from now on. And I'm ordering you to have virtual sex with me right now."
It's odd how Johnny's bossiness is so sexy when Max's isn't. At least, it's not when it involves him making unilateral decisions to lend nymphomaniacs our car. I'm still stewing about that, when Johnny gets impatient, and sends another email:
"Tell me what you're wearing."
"Jacket, cardigan, woolly dress, t-shirt, and four - no five - thermal vests," I say. "Oh, and gloves and my coat. The boiler's still broken."
"Ah, well, I've got a conference call in five minutes," he says. "There probably isn't time for you to take all that off, let alone get down and dirty. Not with the speed you're typing at."
Honestly, I'm doing the best I can under difficult circumstances.
"Yes, well, Mr International Director of a Global Oil Company," I say. "I bet you have no idea what it's like to be cold. You just pocket the profits extracted from chilly mortals like me, while expecting virtual sex acts in sub-zero temperatures."
"Oh, don't start going all socialist on me again, woman," says Johnny. "We've got better things to do. And we're short of time, as I keep trying to impress upon you."
He's right, so I try to get into the spirit of the thing, but his odd language is bothering me.
"Since when do you say things like 'down and dirty'?" I say.
"Since I became the leader of the pack," he says.
This kills all desire stone dead. Has Johnny forgotten the ongoing trauma of my Dad's recent transformation into the Gary Glitter of Dorset? I wait ten minutes and then reply:
"Sorry, had to take an urgent call from Julian Assange. He's investigating leaks from oil companies."
That'll teach Johnny, though the usual suspects must be telepathic as they immediately start phoning and wanting to discuss what Assange is up to, and I'm bored stiff with the whole thing by the time I get home from work. It's just a pity that the rest of my family aren't.
First Mum phones to ask me whether I think the stories are true, and then Connie calls to ask the same thing.
"Yes," I say. "Probably. Now change the subject and tell me all your news."
"Well, I had an email from Grandad earlier today," says Connie. "He says he's homesick but he can't come home."
"Why?" I say. "Has Porn-Poon cleaned him out? Can't he even afford a plane ticket back from Thailand now?"
"No," says Connie. " I don't think it's that. He misses Dorset, but says that all the women in this UK are too old for him."
I am trying very hard not to think about Gary Glitter - for the second time today - but I can't help myself.
"What - all of them?" I say.
"Apparently," says Connie.
Oh, for Goodness' sake. The entire female population of this country is too old for a man of seventy-five? I despair. And I bet Stepmothers Mark I, II and III would too, not to mention Mum.
"Anyway," says Connie. "I spoke to one of the neurologists at work about it this afternoon. Described how Grandad's behaving and all that."
"And what did this neurologist say?" I ask.
"That it sounded a bit like frontal lobe dementia," says Connie. "It can cause complete disinhibition. But don't worry, I don't think it's hereditary."
Funnily enough, that thought hadn't occurred to me. Unless it doesn't just apply to a fetish for young Thai girls, and Putin lookalikes are included. I'd better phone Connie back and check.
"One minute everyone's a conspiracy theorist," he says," and the next they're shocked at what governments get up to. You'd think people never watched Spooks."
"I know," I say. "But at least these leaked cables make The Boss' faux-pas look pretty minor."
"Oh, I reckon Andrew'd give his princely namesake a run for his money in the tactless stakes," says Greg.
Maybe The Boss has got more in common than he thought with the monarchy he claims to despise, though I bet he'd rather be like Putin. Talking of whom, Johnny emails me after lunch and says,
"You can call me Alpha Dog from now on. And I'm ordering you to have virtual sex with me right now."
It's odd how Johnny's bossiness is so sexy when Max's isn't. At least, it's not when it involves him making unilateral decisions to lend nymphomaniacs our car. I'm still stewing about that, when Johnny gets impatient, and sends another email:
"Tell me what you're wearing."
"Jacket, cardigan, woolly dress, t-shirt, and four - no five - thermal vests," I say. "Oh, and gloves and my coat. The boiler's still broken."
"Ah, well, I've got a conference call in five minutes," he says. "There probably isn't time for you to take all that off, let alone get down and dirty. Not with the speed you're typing at."
Honestly, I'm doing the best I can under difficult circumstances.
"Yes, well, Mr International Director of a Global Oil Company," I say. "I bet you have no idea what it's like to be cold. You just pocket the profits extracted from chilly mortals like me, while expecting virtual sex acts in sub-zero temperatures."
"Oh, don't start going all socialist on me again, woman," says Johnny. "We've got better things to do. And we're short of time, as I keep trying to impress upon you."
He's right, so I try to get into the spirit of the thing, but his odd language is bothering me.
"Since when do you say things like 'down and dirty'?" I say.
"Since I became the leader of the pack," he says.
This kills all desire stone dead. Has Johnny forgotten the ongoing trauma of my Dad's recent transformation into the Gary Glitter of Dorset? I wait ten minutes and then reply:
"Sorry, had to take an urgent call from Julian Assange. He's investigating leaks from oil companies."
That'll teach Johnny, though the usual suspects must be telepathic as they immediately start phoning and wanting to discuss what Assange is up to, and I'm bored stiff with the whole thing by the time I get home from work. It's just a pity that the rest of my family aren't.
First Mum phones to ask me whether I think the stories are true, and then Connie calls to ask the same thing.
"Yes," I say. "Probably. Now change the subject and tell me all your news."
"Well, I had an email from Grandad earlier today," says Connie. "He says he's homesick but he can't come home."
"Why?" I say. "Has Porn-Poon cleaned him out? Can't he even afford a plane ticket back from Thailand now?"
"No," says Connie. " I don't think it's that. He misses Dorset, but says that all the women in this UK are too old for him."
I am trying very hard not to think about Gary Glitter - for the second time today - but I can't help myself.
"What - all of them?" I say.
"Apparently," says Connie.
Oh, for Goodness' sake. The entire female population of this country is too old for a man of seventy-five? I despair. And I bet Stepmothers Mark I, II and III would too, not to mention Mum.
"Anyway," says Connie. "I spoke to one of the neurologists at work about it this afternoon. Described how Grandad's behaving and all that."
"And what did this neurologist say?" I ask.
"That it sounded a bit like frontal lobe dementia," says Connie. "It can cause complete disinhibition. But don't worry, I don't think it's hereditary."
Funnily enough, that thought hadn't occurred to me. Unless it doesn't just apply to a fetish for young Thai girls, and Putin lookalikes are included. I'd better phone Connie back and check.
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Festive Madness, And Rash Assumptions About Possible Uses For Batteries.
Oh, dear God. Our local pound shop is selling "Sexy Santa" outfits. I've just had the most traumatic experience in there.
I'm walking around looking for where the batteries have been moved to, when I hear a familiar voice.
"Look at this!" says a man who is almost completely hidden behind a fake Christmas tree.
I'm so mindlessly obedient that I do as he tells me. Oh, Christ, it's Richard Levinson, the man who says he's too refined to live on a council estate.
"This'd put a smile on Santa's face, wouldn't it?" he says.
He's got such a carrying voice that everyone in the shop is looking in our direction by now. For one very long moment, I am convinced that Richard is talking to me, and am paralysed by horror. Has it really come to this?
I look down at the floor, and try to will myself to disappear into it. Which, as usual, doesn't work. When I look up again, Richard's still holding the packet and shaking it at everyone who walks past.
"Ooh - if I was a few years younger, I'd buy one myself," says an elderly woman, whose voice I also recognise. It's Miss Harpenden, of all people. She of the flying rat fame.
To his credit, Richard shudders but doesn't actually reply to Miss H's horrible suggestion. He's too busy waving the "Sexy Santa" set at another woman - a younger one, who seems to be trying very hard to ignore him.
By now, I'm feeling quite panicky. What the hell have I walked into? It's like a re-make of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. All we need now are Miss Chambers and Mr Beales and we'll have the full set. Of people who aren't the full set, if you see what I mean.
I'm walking around looking for where the batteries have been moved to, when I hear a familiar voice.
"Look at this!" says a man who is almost completely hidden behind a fake Christmas tree.
I'm so mindlessly obedient that I do as he tells me. Oh, Christ, it's Richard Levinson, the man who says he's too refined to live on a council estate.
"This'd put a smile on Santa's face, wouldn't it?" he says.
He's got such a carrying voice that everyone in the shop is looking in our direction by now. For one very long moment, I am convinced that Richard is talking to me, and am paralysed by horror. Has it really come to this?
I look down at the floor, and try to will myself to disappear into it. Which, as usual, doesn't work. When I look up again, Richard's still holding the packet and shaking it at everyone who walks past.
"Ooh - if I was a few years younger, I'd buy one myself," says an elderly woman, whose voice I also recognise. It's Miss Harpenden, of all people. She of the flying rat fame.
To his credit, Richard shudders but doesn't actually reply to Miss H's horrible suggestion. He's too busy waving the "Sexy Santa" set at another woman - a younger one, who seems to be trying very hard to ignore him.
By now, I'm feeling quite panicky. What the hell have I walked into? It's like a re-make of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. All we need now are Miss Chambers and Mr Beales and we'll have the full set. Of people who aren't the full set, if you see what I mean.
Whoever the younger woman is, she's having none of it. She turns her back on Richard, and says,
"For God's sake, put that down. Now. If you think I'm wearing that, you've got another bloody think coming."
So this must be Richard's elusive fiancee, the one with the nasty skin condition. I can't say I blame her for being so pissed off. Even without rampant sores, it'd be a challenge to look alluring in a red polyester bra and knickers, bizarrely topped off with fuzzy red reindeer antlers that light up. Maybe the lack of a hat is why the set is so cheap.
The woman starts to walk away but, by now, half the population of Northwick seems to be getting involved. Some people are so nosy.
"Ah, go on, love," says another man. "Make the lad's Christmas."
This receives no response whatsoever, so then Richard, who never knows when to keep quiet, says,
"Forget Christmas, I was thinking about tonight."
His fiancee looks him up and down, very slowly, then says, "You can fuck off."
With that, she abandons her basket of pan scourers and perfumed candles, and walks out of the shop. Several women start to clap, then stop as suddenly as they started.
Richard looks at his audience, makes one of those "what can you do?" gestures with his hands, then puts the Santa set back on the shelf. Although he tries to look as if he's strolling when he leaves the shop, everyone can tell that he's running.
When I get back to work, and tell Greg about my lunchtime shopping experience, I realise that, after all that, I've forgotten to buy the bloody batteries.
"Don't worry," he says. "I'm going to get a sandwich so I'll pop up there and get them for you. Then I can check the shop's not running regular day-trips from the loony bin."
When he returns, I'm busy talking to Joan, who's hassling me to choose what I want from the Christmas lunch menu of the local pub. I really don't think smearing salmon in chestnut pesto counts as festive, and everything else looks bloody horrible, but Joan's insistent that I have to choose something.
"This combined office 'do' might be the only Christmas lunch you get for work," she says. "If Andrew finds a reason to cancel your proper one again."
"Oh, I don't think he will this year," I say. "Vicky's already bought a new dress for it."
Joan pulls a face that is worth a hundred words - even better than her usual imitation of the bus driver from South Park - then advises me to order one of everything, on the grounds that The Boss will eat anything anyone else doesn't want, and probably some of what they do.
By this time, I've forgotten to ask what else was in the enormous Pound-Den carrier bag Greg was carrying, and I remain in the dark until we're locking up at the end of the day, when he passes it to me.
"Here's your batteries, Mol," he says. "Pay me back tomorrow."
"What's this?" I say, pulling out a large present encased in the tackiest Christmas gift wrap you're ever seen. Santa's nose is redder than The Boss's and alarmingly phallic.
"Just a little early Christmas or birthday present for Max," he says. "I hope it fits you."
"Oh, for God's sake, Greg. Tell me you haven't?" I say, but when I try to give the parcel back to him, he just taps his nose, and says,
"Keep an open mind, Mol. Might render those batteries redundant."
Honestly, how much humiliation can women be expected to take? And, anyway, I bet you need batteries for glowing antlers.
"For God's sake, put that down. Now. If you think I'm wearing that, you've got another bloody think coming."
So this must be Richard's elusive fiancee, the one with the nasty skin condition. I can't say I blame her for being so pissed off. Even without rampant sores, it'd be a challenge to look alluring in a red polyester bra and knickers, bizarrely topped off with fuzzy red reindeer antlers that light up. Maybe the lack of a hat is why the set is so cheap.
The woman starts to walk away but, by now, half the population of Northwick seems to be getting involved. Some people are so nosy.
"Ah, go on, love," says another man. "Make the lad's Christmas."
This receives no response whatsoever, so then Richard, who never knows when to keep quiet, says,
"Forget Christmas, I was thinking about tonight."
His fiancee looks him up and down, very slowly, then says, "You can fuck off."
With that, she abandons her basket of pan scourers and perfumed candles, and walks out of the shop. Several women start to clap, then stop as suddenly as they started.
Richard looks at his audience, makes one of those "what can you do?" gestures with his hands, then puts the Santa set back on the shelf. Although he tries to look as if he's strolling when he leaves the shop, everyone can tell that he's running.
When I get back to work, and tell Greg about my lunchtime shopping experience, I realise that, after all that, I've forgotten to buy the bloody batteries.
"Don't worry," he says. "I'm going to get a sandwich so I'll pop up there and get them for you. Then I can check the shop's not running regular day-trips from the loony bin."
When he returns, I'm busy talking to Joan, who's hassling me to choose what I want from the Christmas lunch menu of the local pub. I really don't think smearing salmon in chestnut pesto counts as festive, and everything else looks bloody horrible, but Joan's insistent that I have to choose something.
"This combined office 'do' might be the only Christmas lunch you get for work," she says. "If Andrew finds a reason to cancel your proper one again."
"Oh, I don't think he will this year," I say. "Vicky's already bought a new dress for it."
Joan pulls a face that is worth a hundred words - even better than her usual imitation of the bus driver from South Park - then advises me to order one of everything, on the grounds that The Boss will eat anything anyone else doesn't want, and probably some of what they do.
By this time, I've forgotten to ask what else was in the enormous Pound-Den carrier bag Greg was carrying, and I remain in the dark until we're locking up at the end of the day, when he passes it to me.
"Here's your batteries, Mol," he says. "Pay me back tomorrow."
"What's this?" I say, pulling out a large present encased in the tackiest Christmas gift wrap you're ever seen. Santa's nose is redder than The Boss's and alarmingly phallic.
"Just a little early Christmas or birthday present for Max," he says. "I hope it fits you."
"Oh, for God's sake, Greg. Tell me you haven't?" I say, but when I try to give the parcel back to him, he just taps his nose, and says,
"Keep an open mind, Mol. Might render those batteries redundant."
Honestly, how much humiliation can women be expected to take? And, anyway, I bet you need batteries for glowing antlers.
Monday, 29 November 2010
Cruising, Insulation, And How To Make The Big Society Work
It's still bloody freezing, and I'm thinking about giving up shaving my legs. I need all the warmth I can get and it's not as if anyone's likely to notice, is it? Not unless I ever have to be decontaminated again. (Thank God that didn't happen during cold weather.)
It turns out that George's so-called boiler repair was a temporary fix at best, as the damned thing isn't working again today. Now he says it'll be days before the problem is solved as he needs to order a part. Greg is even more annoyed than I am.
"How do these idiots get jobs?" he says. "We need to find out, before Vicky manages to get rid of us."
"God knows," I say. "I have no idea what we could do instead. Hurry up and think of something."
Greg spends the rest of the morning trying to type while wearing insulated gloves. I can't bear to check the results, but he says it's far easier to hit all the keys at once and then delete the letters you don't want, than it is to try to hit one letter at a time.
Making coffee proves rather more of a challenge, though. There's a lot of crashing and swearing from the kitchen, before Greg comes back into the office and puts a half-empty mug on my desk.
"Sorted," he says.
"Arguable," I say. "There's hardly any coffee in here, and you've forgotten the milk."
"Couldn't risk spilling that as well," he says. "Too smelly. And, anyway, I'm not talking about the coffee. How d'you fancy cruising for a living?"
"Wouldn't be much of a living," I say. "I don't think money usually changes hands. The sex is seen as payment in itself."
This seems a reasonable assumption given that I have a less than fulfilling sex life, but Greg disregards it:
"Not that sort of cruising, Molly, you dingbat. The seafaring kind. Apparently we can do that while claiming Jobseeker's."
I look blank, until Greg starts searching through the pages of the weekend's newspapers, completely decimating them in the process. Licking the fingers of his gloves doesn't work half as well as those damp sponges they used to have in Post Offices.
Eventually he passes me a copy of this.
"I thought we could be the on-board entertainment," he says. "I could rap and you could be the joke act."
"Actually," I say, "Your rapping would cover both bases. I'd be redundant before I'd even started."
You don't always have to take insults lying down, after all.
At least the subject of cruising makes a change from talking about snow, which isn't half as interesting a topic of conversation as the Media would have you believe. Not that this stops constituents from phoning up to complain about it.
"My bloody road still hasn't been gritted," says Mr Beales. "No-one's taking any notice of what Andrew said in the paper."
He has no idea what a relief that is, but he carries on without waiting for me to respond:
"And keeping an eye on that traffic policeman's bloody impossible in this weather. I can't even get my car out of the drive."
"In some countries it's apparently the law to clear the frontage of your property yourself," I say. "Though not in the UK, of course."
This may seem irrelevant, but I do know what I'm doing. At least when I'm at work.
"Well, those Health & Safety nutters wouldn't allow that here, would they?" says Mr Beales. "But you've given me an idea - I'll do the whole cul de sac myself and let the buggers prosecute me if they dare."
Then - thank God - he rings off, very pleased with himself. I'm quite pleased with myself, too: I know I shouldn't blow my own trumpet, but sometimes I am a genius.
Mr Beales - rebel without a cause - has just proved the effectiveness of the technique I used to use on Josh and Connie when they were younger: making something unappealing seem forbidden. David Cameron should try it, if he really wants the usual suspects to become part of The Big Society.
Though if that ever happens, I think the rest of us will have to leave the country. By cruise ship if necessary.
It turns out that George's so-called boiler repair was a temporary fix at best, as the damned thing isn't working again today. Now he says it'll be days before the problem is solved as he needs to order a part. Greg is even more annoyed than I am.
"How do these idiots get jobs?" he says. "We need to find out, before Vicky manages to get rid of us."
"God knows," I say. "I have no idea what we could do instead. Hurry up and think of something."
Greg spends the rest of the morning trying to type while wearing insulated gloves. I can't bear to check the results, but he says it's far easier to hit all the keys at once and then delete the letters you don't want, than it is to try to hit one letter at a time.
Making coffee proves rather more of a challenge, though. There's a lot of crashing and swearing from the kitchen, before Greg comes back into the office and puts a half-empty mug on my desk.
"Sorted," he says.
"Arguable," I say. "There's hardly any coffee in here, and you've forgotten the milk."
"Couldn't risk spilling that as well," he says. "Too smelly. And, anyway, I'm not talking about the coffee. How d'you fancy cruising for a living?"
"Wouldn't be much of a living," I say. "I don't think money usually changes hands. The sex is seen as payment in itself."
This seems a reasonable assumption given that I have a less than fulfilling sex life, but Greg disregards it:
"Not that sort of cruising, Molly, you dingbat. The seafaring kind. Apparently we can do that while claiming Jobseeker's."
I look blank, until Greg starts searching through the pages of the weekend's newspapers, completely decimating them in the process. Licking the fingers of his gloves doesn't work half as well as those damp sponges they used to have in Post Offices.
Eventually he passes me a copy of this.
"I thought we could be the on-board entertainment," he says. "I could rap and you could be the joke act."
"Actually," I say, "Your rapping would cover both bases. I'd be redundant before I'd even started."
You don't always have to take insults lying down, after all.
At least the subject of cruising makes a change from talking about snow, which isn't half as interesting a topic of conversation as the Media would have you believe. Not that this stops constituents from phoning up to complain about it.
"My bloody road still hasn't been gritted," says Mr Beales. "No-one's taking any notice of what Andrew said in the paper."
He has no idea what a relief that is, but he carries on without waiting for me to respond:
"And keeping an eye on that traffic policeman's bloody impossible in this weather. I can't even get my car out of the drive."
"In some countries it's apparently the law to clear the frontage of your property yourself," I say. "Though not in the UK, of course."
This may seem irrelevant, but I do know what I'm doing. At least when I'm at work.
"Well, those Health & Safety nutters wouldn't allow that here, would they?" says Mr Beales. "But you've given me an idea - I'll do the whole cul de sac myself and let the buggers prosecute me if they dare."
Then - thank God - he rings off, very pleased with himself. I'm quite pleased with myself, too: I know I shouldn't blow my own trumpet, but sometimes I am a genius.
Mr Beales - rebel without a cause - has just proved the effectiveness of the technique I used to use on Josh and Connie when they were younger: making something unappealing seem forbidden. David Cameron should try it, if he really wants the usual suspects to become part of The Big Society.
Though if that ever happens, I think the rest of us will have to leave the country. By cruise ship if necessary.
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Attempting Not To Shoot The Cigar-Smoking Messenger, And The Return Of The Russian Dream.
I'm still so annoyed about the car that I decide I've got to talk to someone else about it, so I phone David after lunch. Now I wish I hadn't.
When I've finally finished describing all the weird Ellen-related incidents there have been over the last six months, my best friend just says,
"Well, I know you've wasted your potential, Mol, but I never had you down as stupid."
"What d'you mean?" I say, trying not to sound hurt.
"It's bloody obvious what's going on. You'd be the first to say that if it was happening to someone else."
David exhales noisily. I bet he's smoking one of those stupid Cuban cigars he bought on his show-off stag week. For a moment, I hope he chokes on it, until I recall that I did ask him to give me his honest opinion. He's just wrong, that's all.
"But I haven't got any proof," I say. "And Max always goes beyond the call of duty to help people."
"Humph," says David. "If I were you, I'd come here for a visit, while you decide what to do next. Leave Max to stew."
I say I'll think about it, but I know I won't really. Leave the field clear for Ellen? That'd really make me stupid, wouldn't it? And, anyway, it's nearly bloody Christmas, I haven't got any money and David will probably be all superior and annoying if I do go. Better to stay here and confront the situation.
At least, that's what I'm planning to do, until Josh looks out of the window and says,
"Looks like Russia out there."
"It does," I say. "Pretty, isn't it?"
It's odd how much more appealing wearing a fur coat and minus ten temperatures seem, all of a sudden. I must ask Johnny whether he'd consult his wife before lending someone the family car - if it was their only one, of course. He'll have to use his imagination there.
When I've finally finished describing all the weird Ellen-related incidents there have been over the last six months, my best friend just says,
"Well, I know you've wasted your potential, Mol, but I never had you down as stupid."
"What d'you mean?" I say, trying not to sound hurt.
"It's bloody obvious what's going on. You'd be the first to say that if it was happening to someone else."
David exhales noisily. I bet he's smoking one of those stupid Cuban cigars he bought on his show-off stag week. For a moment, I hope he chokes on it, until I recall that I did ask him to give me his honest opinion. He's just wrong, that's all.
"But I haven't got any proof," I say. "And Max always goes beyond the call of duty to help people."
"Humph," says David. "If I were you, I'd come here for a visit, while you decide what to do next. Leave Max to stew."
I say I'll think about it, but I know I won't really. Leave the field clear for Ellen? That'd really make me stupid, wouldn't it? And, anyway, it's nearly bloody Christmas, I haven't got any money and David will probably be all superior and annoying if I do go. Better to stay here and confront the situation.
At least, that's what I'm planning to do, until Josh looks out of the window and says,
"Looks like Russia out there."
"It does," I say. "Pretty, isn't it?"
It's odd how much more appealing wearing a fur coat and minus ten temperatures seem, all of a sudden. I must ask Johnny whether he'd consult his wife before lending someone the family car - if it was their only one, of course. He'll have to use his imagination there.
Saturday, 27 November 2010
Skinny Jeans, Neighbourly Behaviour & An Apparent Inability To Use The Phone
I am knackered after last night's stint in Casualty, though I'd really like some of their zero tolerance posters for use in the office. We could exclude at least a quarter of constituents if we implemented something similar.
Tolerance is in short supply at home today, though I'm not sure who is the grumpiest: me or Josh. He's disgusted that he has to wear a brace to support his kneecap, particularly as it won't fit under his skinny jeans.
"I don't know what you're moaning about," I say. "Wearing them was probably what caused your kneecap to dislocate in the first place. They're ridiculously tight."
"Don't be stupid, Mum," he says. "They're probably better than a brace - seeing as they cover the whole leg."
"Well, if you don't do as the doctor told you, and it dislocates again over the weekend, you'll have to hop to the hospital. I can't afford any more bloody taxis."
Max looks very uncomfortable when I say this, but he still hasn't volunteered how Ellen happens to have been lent our car without me even knowing about it. He always leaves it to me to broach contentious subjects.
It turns out that her car has broken down, and that Max offered to lend her ours so she could visit her mother this weekend.
"But why didn't you consult me first?" I say. "It is our car, after all. And I am your wife - or I was, the last time I looked."
"There wasn't time," he says. "Ellen was supposed to get to a family party by 8:00pm, and didn't realise her car was buggered until nearly 5:30pm. You weren't even home, so I couldn't ask you first."
"Ever heard of Alexander F*cking Graham Bell?" I say.
Max glares at me, before deciding to go on the offensive.
"I knew you'd be awkward about it if I asked you, anyway," he says. "I was just trying to be neighbourly."
"Being husbandly would make a nice change."
Josh says, "Oooh!" which doesn't help at all, so I stomp off into the living room.
Walking out of the house would have been preferable, but I'd be bound to bugger over in the snow and ruin my dramatic exit. There must be another way to make the same point, given some creative thinking.
I turn on the TV for inspiration. Sod my rule about never watching it in the daytime to avoid brain death: this is an emergency. Max must be able to hear it, because he comes into the room, and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. Some people just can't take a hint, can they?
When I press Play on an old recording of an episode of Swedish Wallander, he gets up and walks out again.
"Bloody subtitles," he says.
Now he knows how it feels to have trouble working out what the hell is going on.
Tolerance is in short supply at home today, though I'm not sure who is the grumpiest: me or Josh. He's disgusted that he has to wear a brace to support his kneecap, particularly as it won't fit under his skinny jeans.
"I don't know what you're moaning about," I say. "Wearing them was probably what caused your kneecap to dislocate in the first place. They're ridiculously tight."
"Don't be stupid, Mum," he says. "They're probably better than a brace - seeing as they cover the whole leg."
"Well, if you don't do as the doctor told you, and it dislocates again over the weekend, you'll have to hop to the hospital. I can't afford any more bloody taxis."
Max looks very uncomfortable when I say this, but he still hasn't volunteered how Ellen happens to have been lent our car without me even knowing about it. He always leaves it to me to broach contentious subjects.
It turns out that her car has broken down, and that Max offered to lend her ours so she could visit her mother this weekend.
"But why didn't you consult me first?" I say. "It is our car, after all. And I am your wife - or I was, the last time I looked."
"There wasn't time," he says. "Ellen was supposed to get to a family party by 8:00pm, and didn't realise her car was buggered until nearly 5:30pm. You weren't even home, so I couldn't ask you first."
"Ever heard of Alexander F*cking Graham Bell?" I say.
Max glares at me, before deciding to go on the offensive.
"I knew you'd be awkward about it if I asked you, anyway," he says. "I was just trying to be neighbourly."
"Being husbandly would make a nice change."
Josh says, "Oooh!" which doesn't help at all, so I stomp off into the living room.
Walking out of the house would have been preferable, but I'd be bound to bugger over in the snow and ruin my dramatic exit. There must be another way to make the same point, given some creative thinking.
I turn on the TV for inspiration. Sod my rule about never watching it in the daytime to avoid brain death: this is an emergency. Max must be able to hear it, because he comes into the room, and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. Some people just can't take a hint, can they?
When I press Play on an old recording of an episode of Swedish Wallander, he gets up and walks out again.
"Bloody subtitles," he says.
Now he knows how it feels to have trouble working out what the hell is going on.
Friday, 26 November 2010
Bratz, Back-Stabbing, And Some Significant Omissions.
The Boss spends all day going on about how the Party needs to pull together to support Ed Miliband.
"Got to stop those bloody Blairites going behind his back," he says. "Unity, that's the thing."
"Have you had some sort of revelation?" says Greg. "Thought you believed in debate. You certainly seemed to when Blair was PM."
"Different times," says Andrew. "Loyalty's what counts now."
Honestly, that man is almost as shameless as Sarah Palin.
Talking of people going behind your back, I get a nasty surprise when I open the box of Christmas cards that has just arrived from the printer.
"What the hell?" I say, as I stare in disbelief at the most hideous card I have ever seen. "This isn't the one I chose."
"Oh, Vicky didn't like that," says Andrew. "Did you, Vicks? Said it wasn't pretty enough."
So much for the only perk of my job: choosing which entry wins in The Boss' annual "Design a Christmas card" competition. It's usually the highlight of my year. To add insult to injury, the new design stinks.
Instead of the quirky, imaginative one I chose, which was drawn by an autistic child in the special unit at Easemount First School, we now have a complete travesty of a card, courtesy of a twelve-year-old pupil at Northwick High School for Girls. Which is allegedly an Arts Academy. Let's just say that you wouldn't have to go further than the Bratz counter to spot her inspiration.
I'm so cross that I take revenge by giving Vicky the responsibility for handling the rest of the process, including updating the mailing list and printing the labels. She stops smirking pretty quickly at that point - and she hasn't even had the fun of trying to get Andrew to remember to sign all the cards in time to post them yet.
At least it's Josh's night off from the cinema, so that'll cheer me up. I don't seem to have seen him for weeks, so I'm looking forward to it but, when I get home, he's running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.
"I thought you were staying in tonight," I say.
"Nah," he says. "Don't be daft, Mum. I'm not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I'm taking Holly for a pizza and then we're going to see a film. Might as well get some use out of all these free tickets."
Then he goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which I contemplate the side of Max's head while he snores on the sofa. This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when Max's mobile starts ringing.
He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing. (I hate bloody Nokias and late-night phone-calls always make me nervous, and clumsy.)
"Mum," says Josh. "Where's Dad?"
"Asleep," I say. "Why? Are you okay? You sound funny."
"No, I'm not," he says. "Can you get him to come and pick me up? I can't walk."
"Why? Now what's happened?" I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.
"I think I've dislocated my knee. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it's bloody agony again. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me."
"Oh, for God's sake, Josh. Okay - but Dad won't be able to come. He's had too much wine to drive," I say. "Stay put 'til I get there."
Honestly, Josh is so accident-prone that we might as well get a season ticket for A&E. And it's going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That'll teach me to complain about doing nothing in the evenings.
I fish the keys out of Max's pocket, grab my coat and bag, and power walk to the car - but it isn't there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there's still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody hell.
There's nothing for it but to go back home.
"Max. Max! Wake up! The car's been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E," I say, while calling for a cab.
He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I'll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I've finished explaining that, the cab's outside.
"Max - you'll have to phone the Police and report the theft," I say. "I've got to go."
"Um," he says. "Yes, um."
"Yes, um, what? Hurry up - the meter's running!"
"Well, the car hasn't exactly been stolen," he says.
He won't meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He's still staring very hard at the floor when he answers:
"I may have lent it to someone for the weekend."
"Who?" I say, as the taxi driver beeps his horn for about the hundredth time.
"Ellen," he says.
I slam the door so hard on my way out that I think I may have shattered the glass.
So now here I am in the hospital cafe, typing on Holly's laptop and waiting for Josh to come out of X-Ray. Maybe I should ask the Radiologist to check if my heart is broken while she's at it.
"Got to stop those bloody Blairites going behind his back," he says. "Unity, that's the thing."
"Have you had some sort of revelation?" says Greg. "Thought you believed in debate. You certainly seemed to when Blair was PM."
"Different times," says Andrew. "Loyalty's what counts now."
Honestly, that man is almost as shameless as Sarah Palin.
Talking of people going behind your back, I get a nasty surprise when I open the box of Christmas cards that has just arrived from the printer.
"What the hell?" I say, as I stare in disbelief at the most hideous card I have ever seen. "This isn't the one I chose."
"Oh, Vicky didn't like that," says Andrew. "Did you, Vicks? Said it wasn't pretty enough."
So much for the only perk of my job: choosing which entry wins in The Boss' annual "Design a Christmas card" competition. It's usually the highlight of my year. To add insult to injury, the new design stinks.
Instead of the quirky, imaginative one I chose, which was drawn by an autistic child in the special unit at Easemount First School, we now have a complete travesty of a card, courtesy of a twelve-year-old pupil at Northwick High School for Girls. Which is allegedly an Arts Academy. Let's just say that you wouldn't have to go further than the Bratz counter to spot her inspiration.
I'm so cross that I take revenge by giving Vicky the responsibility for handling the rest of the process, including updating the mailing list and printing the labels. She stops smirking pretty quickly at that point - and she hasn't even had the fun of trying to get Andrew to remember to sign all the cards in time to post them yet.
At least it's Josh's night off from the cinema, so that'll cheer me up. I don't seem to have seen him for weeks, so I'm looking forward to it but, when I get home, he's running around like a lunatic getting ready to go out.
"I thought you were staying in tonight," I say.
"Nah," he says. "Don't be daft, Mum. I'm not a tragic oldie with no social life like you and Dad. I'm taking Holly for a pizza and then we're going to see a film. Might as well get some use out of all these free tickets."
Then he goes out, leaving his geriatric parents to their usual exciting Friday night, during which I contemplate the side of Max's head while he snores on the sofa. This goes on until just before 11:00pm, when Max's mobile starts ringing.
He continues to sleep while I try to work out how to answer the damned thing. (I hate bloody Nokias and late-night phone-calls always make me nervous, and clumsy.)
"Mum," says Josh. "Where's Dad?"
"Asleep," I say. "Why? Are you okay? You sound funny."
"No, I'm not," he says. "Can you get him to come and pick me up? I can't walk."
"Why? Now what's happened?" I say, trying to wake Max at the same time by prodding him with my foot. Unsuccessfully.
"I think I've dislocated my knee. Smacked it on the table when I got up, and it's bloody agony again. Just like when that skateboard ramp collapsed under me."
"Oh, for God's sake, Josh. Okay - but Dad won't be able to come. He's had too much wine to drive," I say. "Stay put 'til I get there."
Honestly, Josh is so accident-prone that we might as well get a season ticket for A&E. And it's going to be like a war zone in there at this time on a Friday night. That'll teach me to complain about doing nothing in the evenings.
I fish the keys out of Max's pocket, grab my coat and bag, and power walk to the car - but it isn't there. I run up and down our road a few times, then check the side streets in case Max has had to park further afield than usual, but there's still no sign of it anywhere. Bloody, bloody hell.
There's nothing for it but to go back home.
"Max. Max! Wake up! The car's been stolen and I need to get Josh to A&E," I say, while calling for a cab.
He finally starts to stir when I phone Josh to warn him that I'll have to pick him up in a taxi because the car is missing. By the time I've finished explaining that, the cab's outside.
"Max - you'll have to phone the Police and report the theft," I say. "I've got to go."
"Um," he says. "Yes, um."
"Yes, um, what? Hurry up - the meter's running!"
"Well, the car hasn't exactly been stolen," he says.
He won't meet my eyes when I ask what he means, so I repeat the question, rather louder this time. He's still staring very hard at the floor when he answers:
"I may have lent it to someone for the weekend."
"Who?" I say, as the taxi driver beeps his horn for about the hundredth time.
"Ellen," he says.
I slam the door so hard on my way out that I think I may have shattered the glass.
So now here I am in the hospital cafe, typing on Holly's laptop and waiting for Josh to come out of X-Ray. Maybe I should ask the Radiologist to check if my heart is broken while she's at it.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Julie Christie, And Why A Certain MP Should Avoid The Subject Of Winter.
Talk about over-compensating for my boring life. My dreams are getting more and more exciting by the minute.
I spent last night playing Lara to Johnny's Doctor Zhivago. Admittedly, Johnny did look rather more like Omar Sharif than he does in real life, and was a lot more romantic, but I did enjoy being Julie Christie. She really knows how to wear a fur coat without turning into an Ewok.
The dream is so convincing that, when I wake up, I still think I'm Julie until I look in the mirror. Then I'm distraught to find that it's not her face that looks back at me, but my usual one, incipient beard and all. Now I wish I hadn't mentioned Ewoks.
If I do manage to grow fur all over my body, though, at least I'll be better-adapted for cold weather. I'm so angry with bloody British Gas about their price rises. Seven per cent! It's a national scandal. I'd write to my MP about it, if I wouldn't have to answer my own letter.
Since the announcement of the increase, Max has become obsessed with the cost of fuel and, even though I try to adjust the thermostat when he isn't looking, he always notices and turns it down again. Then I have to blame the whole thing on Josh and the irresponsibility of youth.
God knows how the poorest are going to cope if we have a hard winter. The hospitals and mortuaries will be full of people who were too scared to turn their heating on at all. Or who have injuries caused by falling downstairs or setting themselves on fire while wearing a Slanket.
Mind you, I'm still considering buying one, despite the risks. It's too much being cold at home as well as at work. The office is freezing at the best of times, but when I arrive today, I discover that the boiler has broken down.
Greg and I are freezing our arses off, and have to keep our coats on all morning - but Vicky says that she will "work" from home. Apparently, she can't risk low temperatures, due to her chilblains.
"Think she's confusing them with bunions," says Greg. "Caused by those stupid bloody shoes."
"She says they're a political statement," I say. "Due to the red soles."
Talking of political statements, it turns out that Andrew has been at it again - holding forth to the local press without speaking to me first. He's told them that he's going to do everything he can to ensure that Northwick County Council have enough grit this year.
You'd think he have the sense to stay schtum on the subject of winter after last year's fiasco, but he seems to have forgotten all about that. George - the boiler repair man - remembers it well enough, though.
"See your boss is going on about snow again," he says, when he arrives after lunch. "It's in the paper. I'd ha' thought he'd ha' learned his lesson, wouldn't you?"
"Indeed," I say.
There's absolutely no point denying that Andrew made some rather ill-informed comments during last winter's white-out.
"Bloody funny, that were. Talking about what a nightmare Northwick's drivers were having when it turned out he weren't even in the country at the time."
"Hmm," I say.
I do wish the bloody phone would ring. Or there'd be a fire alarm. Or something. But nothing happens to interrupt George's flow:
"It wouldn't ha' mattered, would it - not if he hadn't pretended it took him two hours to drive home from the office that night? What a twonk he must be."
Hearing Greg snort with laughter, I decide it's time to take evasive action.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" I say. "Seeing as it looks as if mending the boiler's going to be a long job."
By the time I've made it, I'm hoping that the subject of Andrew will have been dropped, but no such luck. George carries on where he left off when I return from the kitchen and pass him a mug.
"Cheers," he says. "So, tell me something, ducks. Your boss - have an opinion on everything, does he?"
"Well, I wouldn't say that. Though he does like to take an interest in anything that affects his constituents." I turn my back and pick up a pen. "Now, I really must get on with some work."
"I'll tell you what I think," he says, slurping his tea. "That man will do anything to get his name in the paper."
"Couldn't agree more," says Greg, under his breath. Which is still visible, due to the bloody cold.
I spent last night playing Lara to Johnny's Doctor Zhivago. Admittedly, Johnny did look rather more like Omar Sharif than he does in real life, and was a lot more romantic, but I did enjoy being Julie Christie. She really knows how to wear a fur coat without turning into an Ewok.
The dream is so convincing that, when I wake up, I still think I'm Julie until I look in the mirror. Then I'm distraught to find that it's not her face that looks back at me, but my usual one, incipient beard and all. Now I wish I hadn't mentioned Ewoks.
If I do manage to grow fur all over my body, though, at least I'll be better-adapted for cold weather. I'm so angry with bloody British Gas about their price rises. Seven per cent! It's a national scandal. I'd write to my MP about it, if I wouldn't have to answer my own letter.
Since the announcement of the increase, Max has become obsessed with the cost of fuel and, even though I try to adjust the thermostat when he isn't looking, he always notices and turns it down again. Then I have to blame the whole thing on Josh and the irresponsibility of youth.
God knows how the poorest are going to cope if we have a hard winter. The hospitals and mortuaries will be full of people who were too scared to turn their heating on at all. Or who have injuries caused by falling downstairs or setting themselves on fire while wearing a Slanket.
Mind you, I'm still considering buying one, despite the risks. It's too much being cold at home as well as at work. The office is freezing at the best of times, but when I arrive today, I discover that the boiler has broken down.
Greg and I are freezing our arses off, and have to keep our coats on all morning - but Vicky says that she will "work" from home. Apparently, she can't risk low temperatures, due to her chilblains.
"Think she's confusing them with bunions," says Greg. "Caused by those stupid bloody shoes."
"She says they're a political statement," I say. "Due to the red soles."
Talking of political statements, it turns out that Andrew has been at it again - holding forth to the local press without speaking to me first. He's told them that he's going to do everything he can to ensure that Northwick County Council have enough grit this year.
You'd think he have the sense to stay schtum on the subject of winter after last year's fiasco, but he seems to have forgotten all about that. George - the boiler repair man - remembers it well enough, though.
"See your boss is going on about snow again," he says, when he arrives after lunch. "It's in the paper. I'd ha' thought he'd ha' learned his lesson, wouldn't you?"
"Indeed," I say.
There's absolutely no point denying that Andrew made some rather ill-informed comments during last winter's white-out.
"Bloody funny, that were. Talking about what a nightmare Northwick's drivers were having when it turned out he weren't even in the country at the time."
"Hmm," I say.
I do wish the bloody phone would ring. Or there'd be a fire alarm. Or something. But nothing happens to interrupt George's flow:
"It wouldn't ha' mattered, would it - not if he hadn't pretended it took him two hours to drive home from the office that night? What a twonk he must be."
Hearing Greg snort with laughter, I decide it's time to take evasive action.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" I say. "Seeing as it looks as if mending the boiler's going to be a long job."
By the time I've made it, I'm hoping that the subject of Andrew will have been dropped, but no such luck. George carries on where he left off when I return from the kitchen and pass him a mug.
"Cheers," he says. "So, tell me something, ducks. Your boss - have an opinion on everything, does he?"
"Well, I wouldn't say that. Though he does like to take an interest in anything that affects his constituents." I turn my back and pick up a pen. "Now, I really must get on with some work."
"I'll tell you what I think," he says, slurping his tea. "That man will do anything to get his name in the paper."
"Couldn't agree more," says Greg, under his breath. Which is still visible, due to the bloody cold.
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