Life's Unhelpful Lessons: The Unreconstructed Male is Alive And Well, And Hanging Out in Northwick CLP.

Oh, God, my head hurts. Why do I do it? I am far too old to drink red wine if I'm to stand any chance of avoiding a three day hangover after a night out.

And what the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just order a gin and tonic instead of red wine whenever I go to a Labour Party social? It's pathetic. I only do it to stop members thinking that I'm giving myself airs and graces, just because I work for the MP. As if that was even remotely possible, given my pathetic excuse for a salary.

Talking of which - in an admittedly tangential kind of way - it doesn't seem as if everyone in the Party understands the meaning of the word broke. Greg and I had to spend half the night listening to Pete Carew banging on about his holiday home in France, while Billy Jeffries argued the case for Tuscany.

Local councillors' allowances must be more generous than I thought, that's all I can say. Either that, or being a self-employed consultant with expertise in a pointless subject must pay very well indeed. I made the mistake of asking Pete what the hell life coaching was, and nearly lost the will to live when he explained. Maybe his clients pay him to keep quiet.

I'd happily have followed suit but, when I tried to withdraw another ten pounds from the cash machine, it seemed to have run out of money. Wouldn't you think bankers could at least re-stock the damn things to earn their bonuses?

Mind you, it would have taken more than I earn to pay everyone who was being boring last night to shut up, even if I could have got hold of any cash. Pete and Billy weren't half as bad as some of the other men, including The Boss. He spent the evening assessing the merits of various single malts, and trying to decide which of the new Party members was the most attractive.

"See what I mean?" said Greg. "That's why Andrew was so keen to have all the volunteers invited: he wanted all the young women who've joined the Party since the General Election to be here. He's taking an unhealthy interest in their development, if you ask me."

"Seems he's not the only one," I said. "Who are those two girls over there? Jim Bradley can't take his eyes off them, even though they're young enough to be his grand-daughters."

"That's because someone told him they were lesbians," said Greg. "He's obviously watched too much porn and hasn't grasped that life rarely mirrors art. Probably thinks he'll get to take them home with him afterwards. To discuss our policy agenda while wearing no clothes."

I think that mental image may have been the point at which I decided there was no option but to borrow some money to buy more wine.

"Oh, my God, Greg," I said, when I returned from the bar and gave him his change. "I still feel a bit sick. Do you have to be so crude?"

"That's nothing," he said. "Jim's no worse than the others. Pete Carew keeps asking the girls to stuff envelopes, just so that he can watch them lick the stamps. And then he stands there twirling that ridiculous moustache while they do it. It's bloody horrible to watch."

Eeurgh. Honestly, sometimes I despair of the local Party. Or of the men in it, anyway. Last night was supposed to be about celebrating Debbie Abrahams' win at Oldham and planning the next stage in the fightback against the cuts. And there's a revolution going on in Tunisia, for God's sake, and yet all the men of Northwick *CLP could think about was cleavage!

I said as much to The Boss, who pretended he was listening to me, but obviously wasn't.

"For Christ's sake, Andrew - stop looking down that girl's blouse," I said. "You're supposed to be a role model and, as for the rest of you - haven't you ever heard of feminism?"

"We used to call it women's liberation," said Pete Carew. "And a very good thing it was, too. Especially all the bra burning. Let it all hang loose, that's what I say."

"You wouldn't if you'd ever been stuck in a lift with *Ann Widdecombe," said Greg. "I'm sure that's what originally caused my *PTSD. I still can't go into Portcullis House without getting flashbacks."

At that point, thank God, Joan decided to draw the raffle, so everyone was spared further details about the size of Widdy's bosoms, but Greg still looked a bit stressed by the memory - even when he won the first prize. I don't think he felt that a free life coaching session with Pete was something to look forward to.

When he offered to give it to me instead, I probably should have accepted. It's not as if I've mastered how to run my life, after all.  Especially since it turns out that the cash machine hadn't run out of money as I'd thought - but Max and I had.

Our last twenty quid, and I spent it on giving myself a headache and watching a bunch of voyeurs in action. Some people might consider than money well spent, but I don't think I'm one of them. And nor is Max.

"Bloody hell, Molly. I can't believe you've left us with no money 'til the end of the month," he says when I drag myself out of bed just before lunchtime today. "You don't even like red wine. Or Party socials."

He's right, but I didn't do it on purpose - and there's no need to go on about it now, is there? Not when my head hurts so much. Haven't I been punished enough?

When I stagger to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet in search of Paracetamol, I find that the answer is a resounding no.

If life coaching could teach teenage sons not to take the last tablet and replace the empty packet in the box, I'd book Josh in tomorrow.


*CLP - Constituency Labour Party. Enough said.
*Ann Widdecombe, former Tory MP, well-known for the size of her boobs, amongst other larger-than-life things.
*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Commonly cited by Greg when he wants to take a day off.

Sleep Deprivation Due To Electoral Success. Not To Mention Michael Gove & Norman Lamb.

"Comrades - the fightback has begun!" says The Boss when he arrives this morning.

"Hrmph," says Greg who, like me, stayed up too late last night watching the election result from Oldham East and Saddleworth.

Andrew glares at him, so then Greg tries a bit harder. He punches the air, but so feebly that it comes across as camp, rather than triumphalist.

"You look like shit," says Andrew. Who doesn't look any better himself, but appears not to own a mirror.

I do, and I can confirm that I look the worst of all of us, which I ascribe not only to being knackered, but to the as-yet unresolved trauma of finding myself agreeing with Michael Gove during part of last night's Question Time.

I don't quite know what happened but, one minute he was spouting the usual pompous rubbish in that ghastly voice of his, and the next he'd turned into Pob the Evangelist. For a man who looks like a very cold fish indeed - probably because his adoptive father was something to do with them - I wasn't expecting such passion and intensity.

I suddenly found that I wished Josh's education had reflected Gove's vision, rather than what he actually got: an A-Level in Film Studies and a job at the cinema shovelling popcorn. Then I spent the next hour worrying that I was having a breakdown or some sort of secular crisis of faith, and I couldn't concentrate at all by the time the TV coverage of the election result finally started.

When it did, I couldn't believe who was on the panel. Nor could Max, who took one look and then said what he always says in these circumstances:

"Oh, God. Norman Bloody Lamb."

It's like Groundhog Day. The same series of questions always follow this initial statement. Every single time Norman appears on TV.

"Why the hell doesn't that man even have a house in his constituency?" Max says. "Does he think he's too good to live in the same place as the people he serves?"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" I say. "I don't know. I've never met the man, and I only heard about it from someone else - so don't shout at me."

Mind you, if I think Max's shouting is bad, I'd better keep my Michael Gove epiphany to myself, and hope it wears off when I've had a good night's sleep. The Boss would kill me if he heard about it - even though he's a product of the sort of education to which Gove was referring.

And I'm not likely to get much sleep again tonight. Unless it's due to a drunken coma.

"Drinks this evening to celebrate," says Andrew, once surgery finishes. "Seeing as we couldn't be there in Oldham last night. I'll meet you in the George at 7:00pm. Go and invite everyone in the Party office too, Molly. Make sure you include everyone who's in there."

Then he wanders off to a meeting with the local Patient Liaison group, taking Vicky with him. I don't bother to ask why, as I'm so glad to see the back of her. It's pretty obvious that she didn't stay up too late last night. Dewy skin and bright eyes are occasionally very annoying to behold.

Greg puts his head down on his desk as soon as the door closes behind them. Then he pretends to snore.

"Oh, God," I say. "I know how you feel. I really want an early night tonight. I had no idea what anyone was talking about during surgery, as I kept starting to doze off and then jerking awake just as my head dropped forward."

"I bet that was attractive," says Greg. "But we haven't got a choice, anyway. His Master's Voice has spoken so we've got to go to the pub."

He's right, of course. And just because we're tired doesn't mean that winning the election isn't very good news. As is Andrew's unusual behaviour.

"The Boss even said to invite everyone," I say. "Maybe that means he's finally stopped thinking that everyone in the Party's out to get him?"

"Oh, I don't think that's his motivation," says Greg. "Haven't you been into their office this week?"

"No," I say. "Why?"

"Go and see for yourself."

I haven't got time, though - so I make Greg go and deliver Andrew's message while I try to finish today's surgery letters. By the time I've finally posted them, he's asleep on the sofa in the Oprah Room, though I shall have to go and wake him up soon. It's almost 6:40pm now, and we'll have to leave for the pub in a minute.

I'll just see if concealer will hide the bags under my eyes a bit first, while Greg's not looking. And laughing. There's nothing worse than someone who thinks he's a comedian watching you try to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, after all. Except finding yourself agreeing with a very odd Tory by accident, of course.

You Couldn't Make It Up. Though I Bloody Well Wish I Was.

Oh, dear God. Northwick is far too small and incestuous. No wonder everyone's slept with everyone else. (Though I really hope that only applies to my generation, and not to my children's.)

Mum phones me at work in the morning to ask if I want to meet her for lunch today. I don't particularly, as she's bound to ask me how Dad is, but I agree anyway. Sometimes good manners is such a curse.

I leave work in plenty of time and I'm on my way to the cafe when I spot Miss Chambers standing outside it, so I duck into the nearest doorway and hide. I'd like to retain at least a vestige of my hearing, so I'm not prepared to encounter her voluntarily, not even if it does make me late for an appointment.

I wait for about five minutes, risking the occasional peek around the wall, until I see Miss C start to walk away, thankfully in the opposite direction from where I'm standing.

It's only when I step out from my hiding place that I see that the person she has been talking to is my mother. My mother! How the hell did that happen?

I rush towards Mum, and hustle her into the cafe.

"Be careful, dear," she says. "Mind my broken wrist."

"You're lucky that's all that's wrong with you, if you will go talking to any old nutter you meet in the street," I say. "You need to be much more careful, especially given my job. Though I can't understand how that woman knew you were related to me."

"What woman?" says Mum. "Oh, do you mean Carol? Carol Chambers?"

Oh, good God. It's worse than I thought. They're on first-name terms, and my mother is being groomed by our most nightmare constituent. Probably to punish me for hanging up whenever the screaming starts.

"Yes, Miss Bloody Chambers," I say. "Though I probably shouldn't even confirm her name to you. Constituent confidentiality and all that."

Mum looks at me as if I am the madwoman. There is no justice.

"What are you talking about, Molly?" she says. "Constituent? Do you know Carol, then?"

This whole thing is becoming too surreal for words. Of course I know Miss Chambers, though I wish I bloody didn't. And, anyway, the big question is how she knows Mum, so I ask exactly that.

"She's my new cleaner,"  says Mum. "I had to get one when I broke my wrist. And Carol came with excellent references."

I bet she did. Probably written by a bunch of fellow mentalists. (I can tell I'm losing the plot because I've started thinking in teenage-speak. Politically-incorrect teenage-speak.)

"Well, you'll have to tell her you've changed your mind," I say.

"Don't be silly, Molly. She knows I haven't," says Mum. "She started yesterday and she did a fantastic job. She seems quite obsessional about cleaning, actually."

"And not just about that," I say, under my breath. "Not by a very long chalk."

Then I look at my poor, unsuspecting mother and can't think what to say next, so I pour the tea instead.

"You look awfully pale," says Mum. "Are you feeling all right?"

"No," I say. "I'm not. I can't tell you why, but you have to get rid of that woman. Pronto. Especially before she spots all the family photos."

"Don't be so dramatic, dear," says Mum. "You're getting carried away. And anyway, Carol's already seen them. She said you looked familiar, now I come to think of it."

I think Greg might be right that these are panic attacks and not hot flushes. I just hope he can think of a way to make them stop - because I'm buggered if I can.

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot. And Then Not, Not, Not.

Bloody hell, I've got to do something about Max's snoring. He woke me up God knows how many times last night. By 5:00am I was plotting to kill him, and I wasn't intending it to be quick and painless, either.

Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.

"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."

"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."

I look at him in disbelief.

"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."

"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."

Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.

Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.

Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?

"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."

"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."

Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got  the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.

"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"

"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."

"Oh," says Greg. "Her."

It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.

Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.

"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."

"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."

I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.

By-Election Fever Grips The Office, For A Few Minutes At Least.

The private line's ringing when Greg and I arrive at work this morning, which is never a good start.

"I can't talk to Andrew until I've had a coffee," I say. "I haven't got the energy. You answer it, Greg. Youth is on your side."

Greg pulls a face but does as he's told. For once. Though, in retrospect, I'm not sure that this wasn't a mistake. He listens to The Boss for all of thirty seconds, then says,

"For God's sake, Andrew - you're not campaigning now. It's me you're talking to. And we all know you can never trust the polls."

"What was that about?" I say, as Greg hangs up and rolls his eyes in despair.

"Idiot must have thought he was talking to the Press, or something," says Greg. "Boasting about the latest ComRes poll and saying we were going to win at Oldham, for f*cksake. Has he forgotten you should never write a LibDem off at a by-election?"

That's true, but Greg's just in a mood because he couldn't go and help in the campaign.  He thinks that he's indispensable in an election, especially since The Boss retained his seat against all the odds.

"We need all hands on deck there," he says. "It's a bugger I don't have enough annual leave left to go."

Given that that's because we both had to take most of it to help out in the General Election campaign, I can't say I'm too upset about it. Unlike Greg, who obviously is.

"Why does The Boss have to be so bloody scrupulous about it, all of a sudden?" he says.

"Because he's got to be squeaky clean," I say. "Considering that he's made so many complaints about the LibDems' election expenses over the years. And, anyway, I'd like to save some holiday for something more pleasant than campaigning."

Like a trip to Russia, for example. I don't mention that, though, as Vicky's just arrived. Late, as usual.

"Why don't MPs and Ministers have to take leave in order to campaign?" she says. "Seeing as Constituency Staff have to. It doesn't seem fair."

This may well be the first sensible question that she has ever asked, and it's just a shame that Greg and I don't know the answer. We look blankly at each other, and then shrug - simultaneously.

To anyone with any sensitivity at all, it would be apparent that, as far as we're concerned, the subject's now closed, but Vicky has never been one to take a hint.

"How do they get away with it when they're being paid by the taxpayer?" she says. "There are hordes of MPs descending on Oldham every day."

"Well, except for Tory MPs," says Greg. "Though they will keep denying that they've made a pact with the LibDems not to try too hard to win the seat. Talking of which - did you catch up with The Politics Show last night, Molly?"

"Yes," I say. "I'm sure Chris Grayling didn't even know the name of the Tory candidate. That embarrassed smirk reminded me of Josh when he's in the wrong."

Actually, though, I haven't seen Josh looking guilty for a while. Maybe he's finally growing up, now he's left school and has to face the reality of working life. This ought to be a good thing but, after this evening's events, I think he may be taking it too far. He's gone from irresponsible teenager to Victor Meldrew in the blink of an eye.

When I get home from work, very late after a lengthy lecture from Edmund Beales about how we should all start carrying guns in the UK, Max still isn't back from work. Josh is, but he's ranting like a maniac. Or like Mr Beales, anyway, which is probably pretty much the same thing.

"Smell this," he says, shoving a microwaved meal under my nose.

"Yuck," I say. "What the hell is that? It smells like a chemical spill."

I push the container out of the way, while hoping I haven't got any of whatever it contains on the end of my nose. It really stinks.

"It's Taste The Difference* Chilli Con Carne," says Josh. "I can taste the f*cking difference all right. It's disgusting."

"Well, maybe it's out of date."

Josh looks at me as if I am an idiot, then says,

"I only bought it ten minutes ago. Seeing as neither you nor Dad were here to cook tea, and I haven't eaten all day."

"The service is lousy in this hotel, isn't it?" I say. (You can't always come up with an original response, after all.) "Let me see the packet."

As Josh passes it to me, I notice that there is a vein throbbing in his temple. I've seen that before, but never in a member of my own family, so I really hope my son's not turning into a mad constituent now. That would be all I need.

"Well, the date's okay," I say. "But it says it's new and improved. Maybe that's why it tastes and smells so weird?"

"Humph," says Josh. "I told you I don't like change. Especially when it's always for the worse."

Let's just hope the voters of *Oldham and Saddleworth feel the same way. As long as they don't object to Ed* on those grounds, too.



*For those of you not in the UK; or those of you who are, but who have unaccountably lost all interest in politics: explanation re the Oldham & Saddleworth by-election here.

* Taste The Difference Chilli Con Carne - I can't say Josh recommends it, because he really, really doesn't.

*Ed - Ed Miliband, new(ish) leader of The Labour Party. Opponents would probably claim that a Labour defeat at Oldham was a signal that the electorate are rejecting him. Possibly on the grounds of his perceived resemblance to Wallace. This may, or may not, be true of some within the Party, too.

Steptoe* And Daughter Versus Burlesque And Doctor Zhivago: A Difficult Choice At The Best Of Times.

The morning starts badly when Reg Beales phones first thing.

"Got an answer from the Minister about my HGV licence yet?" he says.

"No, of course not," I say. "I only wrote the letter on Thursday. I shouldn't think I'll hear anything for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more."

Reg does one of those super-exaggerated sighs, and then goes quiet. For ages. Eventually, I can't stand it any longer, so I crack first.

"Are you still there?" I say, though I know he is. I can hear his bloody breathing.

"Yes," says Reg. "I'm thinking."

I can well imagine that this takes every ounce of energy that his brain can muster but, even so, I'm not expecting the eventual outcome of the exercise:

"Right, that's decided it then," he says. "I haven't got time to wait, so I'm going to have to take alternative action."

"Oh, God. Like what?" I say, mindful of recent events in Tucson. I wouldn't put anything past anyone called Beales at the best of times.

"I'll have to get a horse and cart," he says.

Greg thinks it's funny, until I remind him that Reg is part of The Home Delivery Network and that it's therefore likely that future copies of The Phone Directory or Freeman's Catalogue will be accompanied by a large pile of manure.

"Mum won't put up with any of that on her driveway," he says. "And anyway, don't you need a licence to drive a horse?"

"How would I know?" I say. "It's not exactly something we come across very often."

And, anyway, I don't care if you do. That's Reg's problem - or Greg's Mum's - whereas I'm thinking about something much more important: trying to decide what to spend my Christmas money on, once I've taken all my unwanted presents back.

"Sexy underwear," says Johnny, in his first email of the day. "Fast-release. And photogenic, just in case I never get to see you wearing it in the flesh."

So, at lunchtime, I trot dutifully off to the shops. (Note the horse-related imagery - I'm still amused by the idea of Reg riding around in a horse and cart.) Though, actually, I'm not so much trotting as staggering, as I'm rather over-burdened by the coat-stand and book shelf that Max bought me for Christmas.

They probably weigh more than I do, as well as being considerably taller, at least in the case of the coat-stand. Not for the first time, I wonder what Max was thinking when he bought the damned things.

Anyway, once I've returned my presents and got the money back, I head to Primark's underwear section. What the hell has happened to that? The whole place is full of completely over-the-top corsets. It's like Burlesque on acid: a nightmare in pink and black satin. Christina Aguilera and Dita Von Teese have a lot to answer for, though I doubt their corsets were made of polyester.

I can't even bear to try any of it on, as it feels horrible and, anyway, I'd feel stupid wearing it, so I abandon that idea and head for Gap's sale instead. Where I find a huge knitted cardigan coat thing, which is really snuggly and warm. I ignore the fact that it's four sizes too big, because it's £15:00 instead of £65:00. And at least it allows for all the thermal underwear underneath.

I'm quite chuffed with my bargain, until I tell Johnny what I've bought. He's disgusted with me, even though I'd have thought that he of all people would appreciate the need for warm clothing. He tries to persuade me to take the cardigan back and get a corset instead.

"I'd look stupid in one of those," I say. "Like mutton dressed as lamb."

"You're such an idiot," he says. Which I don't think was intended as an insult, so then I start wondering if I did make the right choice. Maybe I wouldn't look as ridiculous in sexy underwear as I think I would?

I'm still dithering when I get home from work, so I decide to see what Max's opinion is.

"I nearly bought a corset today," I say.

"What on earth for?" he says. "You're not fat."

"Not that kind of corset," I say. "A sexy one. But I wasn't sure about it, so I bought a big cardigan instead. It's very warm."

I get it out of the bag and put it on, to demonstrate. It's an awful lot bigger than it seemed in the shop, unless I've shrunk since lunchtime. I don't think I have - but I do look like an extra from Oliver, or a particularly short rag and bone man.

"Hmm," says Max, glancing away from the TV. "Yes, very nice. And much more sensible than a corset."

Honestly, now I know I've made the wrong decision. I may not actually be shrinking, but my self-esteem sure as hell is. Who wants to be sensible instead of sexy? Though at least I can get a job working for Reg Beales if I lose mine.

I'd look the part perfectly, riding along in his cart and ringing a bell, while wearing a cardi big enough for four people. It's a far cry from Lara riding along in the Russian snow and wearing her fur coat, though, isn't it? Probably over a bloody corset and nothing else, now I come to think of it.


*Steptoe - From Steptoe and Son, for those of you too young to remember it. Imagine me in my cardi, with a flat cap on, riding along in Steptoe's cart, and you'll get the picture...

Why Politicians, And Fathers, Should Be Careful What They Say.

Dad must have talked Dinah up. I do wish she wouldn't phone me on Sunday mornings, though - especially to talk about politicians and their aides getting shot.

"Did you hear what happened in Tucson?" she says. "I thought of you and those stupid supermarket surgeries as soon as I heard."

"So did I," I say. "It was terrible. Now can we change the subject, please? Seeing as thinking about it isn't likely to make the prospect of going to work tomorrow any easier to face."

Taking a hint has never been Dinah's forte.

"True," she says. "But you do need to be careful, Mol. There are nutters everywhere - especially in politics. Have you seen what Nadine Dorries has done now? I've just read her blog."

"I know," I say. "I suppose we should be glad Dad's not a politician. God knows how many times we'd have been put through what John Butler's daughter was."

"Huh. I'd tell Dad where to get off if he ever wanted me to issue a statement on his love-life. It's bad enough when he does that thing with putting new step-mothers on the phone to us."

"God, yes," I say, as Dinah and I both light cigarettes in the face of the recollections that that conjures up.

Every time Dad gets a new woman, he phones to tell us all about her, and then insists on putting her on the phone to introduce us. So then we have to make agonisingly strained conversation with someone we've never met and - if we're honest - have absolutely no interest in ever meeting.

Last time he did it to me, with the woman who was to become Stepmother Mk III, he prefaced the handover with,

"Here you are, Molly - speak to your new mother."

"I already have a mother, thank you very much," I said. "And two substitutes in case Mum decides to do a runner."

Only then did I realise that Dad had already passed the phone over, so relations with Stepmother Mk III didn't exactly get off to a good start. Given how long she lasted, I suppose it was probably a portent, not that Dad's sensitive to those. He's the living embodiment of the triumph of hope over experience, which probably explains why Dinah and I are exactly the opposite.

"Suppose we'd better thank our lucky stars Porn-Poon's in Thailand," says Dinah. "At least he can't stick her on the phone very easily. Especially as I get the impression that her English is confined to a fairly narrow subject area. Though, now I come to think of it, Dad did tell me to get Skype last time I spoke to him."

"Oh, bloody hell," I say. "If he wants us to talk to the Thai bride, he'll be bound to want us to go along with this stupid pretence that the relationship is a love match, instead of an economic transaction. I don't think I can do it. Not when I have to deal with so many of them at work as well."

"Well, you'll have to," says Dinah. "According to Dad, it's Romeo and Juliet all over again - but across a cultural divide. Not to mention an age gap that defies belief. As far as he's concerned, you and I are just cynics, Molly - with no appreciation of what it is to be in love. Talking of which, since when do people say they're in a romantic relationship for f*ck's sake?"

So now we're back to Nadine, then. I'm not sure if this is worse, or better.

"I don't know," I say. "I'm married, remember? Romance has become an alien concept."

"Like common sense in middle-aged men," says Dinah. "Look at Paul McCartney."

"What's he got to do with it?"

Sometimes following the thread of a conversation with Dinah is even harder than with the usual suspects, but she never makes allowances.

"Oh, honestly, Molly," she says. "Keep up, for God's sake. Heather Mills and Nadine Dorries were obviously separated at birth. You've only got to look at them."

This makes me laugh for all of two seconds, until I realise that Max probably counts as a middle-aged man. They're probably all susceptible to a lack of common sense. I seem to remember Connie telling me that they can't help it, because it's all down to biology - not that that is any bloody comfort.

Now I'm wondering what Max will say to the press if and when he dumps me for a blonde. Probably something to do with the abuse he suffers by having to live with a woman with an incipient beard and rather tragic underwear. And I can't imagine what Josh will have to say.

Although, on second thoughts, I can: he'd tell me that I need to get a sense of proportion. Things could be much worse, couldn't they? After all, I don't work for an American politician, and I wasn't caught up in yesterday's events at the Tucson Safeway store, thank God. And I'm not the parent of the nine-year-old child who died, or related to the other poor people who were killed and injured.

If evidence was needed to prove that people should be more careful about what they say, then Sarah Palin seems to have just provided it. Both Dad and Nadine Dorries look like rank amateurs in comparison.

Bunny Boiling, The Green Goddess* Of Northwick and Offender Profiling.

The clearest indicator that it's the New Year is that all the single people I know are on a mission, or two missions, actually: to get fit, and to get themselves a boyfriend or girlfriend. The profits of gyms and dating websites must be going through the roof.

I feel quite left out, though I suppose I could always try some form of keep-fit as part of my mission to improve my sex-life. Probably something with a more externally-obvious effect than Kegel exercises. I can hardly wear a sign on my head advertising that I do those, after all.

I decide to experiment with the exercise ball Connie bought for Max a few years ago but, although I finally find it hidden in the cupboard under the stairs, it's gone completely flat and, by the time I've pumped it back up, I'm exhausted.

Then, when I try to sit on it, I promptly roll off backwards and end up stuck between the ball and the wall, while Max tries not to laugh. I don't know what he thinks he's got to laugh about, though - he was so offended that Connie thought he needed to exercise that I don't think he's ever used the damned thing.

"Stop laughing and help me," I say. "I can't get any purchase with my feet. This bloody ball keeps moving."

"Can't," he says, "I'm on the phone. Oh, hi, Sam. How are you, mate?"

Oh, bloody hell. I could be here all day if I can't get a grip - which is not something that's easy to do while stuck atop a giant purple ball. It won't stay in one place long enough for me to gain any equilibrium and I'm still wriggling around ineffectually when Josh comes in to the room.

After he's done his share of pointing and laughing, he finally comes to the rescue and pulls me to my feet. I'm quite touched by this, until he says,

"Mum, aren't you too old to be starting an exercise programme without seeing your doctor first?"

"No," I say, though now Josh has mentioned it, I'm not so sure. Pride does come before a fall - and it's certainly impossible to maintain it after one. Knowing my luck, I'll break a hip next time I fall off, or tear all my stomach muscles simultaneously. Once I can actually find the buggers.

It's probably safer to content myself with searching YouTube for videos on how to use the ball for now - so I join Max on the sofa and open my laptop. This has the added advantage of allowing me to eavesdrop on his conversation with Sam.

"What? You want Molly to do it?" he says. "Are you sure that's wise? You know she's compulsively truthful."

Since when has that been a bad thing, for God's sake? Everyone should try it. Especially husbands. I glare at Max, but he just waves at me dismissively and continues:

"And are you sure you want to keep going with this online dating thing anyway? You know you're a bloody loony magnet. Mol and I watched that Love, Virtually thing on Channel 4 last night and those women scared the shit out of me."

That's true, actually. Max went white when the women using the websites started talking about how they cyber-stalk their dates, and even paler when one of them said that she was "immediately" suspicious of her new boyfriend because he "had sixteen female friends on Facebook". (She didn't say that any of them were Thai, so I don't think we were talking about a Dad-style scenario, either.)

Max kept repeating, "Only sixteen?" and Josh just sat there muttering at the presenter:

"Yes, well, you can't get a long-term relationship out of this, anyway - can you? Not seeing as it's your job to blog about bloody internet dating."

Honestly, Josh is such a cynic. I can't think who he gets it from. I was quite enjoying the whole Bunny-boiling thing myself, as I figured it might make Max far more grateful for what he's got: i.e. me.

I don't think he made the connection, though, so then I had to point it out to him - which rather diluted its effectiveness.

"Well, whatever site those women were on is probably called mentally-disturbed-dating.com," he said. "But I'm sure they're not typical of all the single women out there."

I really didn't like how positive he seemed to be about this at the time, and I still don't when I recall it now. It sounded far too much like the voice of experience, but I haven't got time to think about what it might mean at the moment as, when Max hangs up the phone, he announces that he's just promised that I will write Sam's profile for www.mysinglefriend.com And that I'll have it finished by this evening.

"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Why've I got to do it tonight? It's only another dating site, after all. What's so bloody urgent?"

"Well, Sam says he hasn't had sex in ages," says Max. "Weeks, if not months."

"Perhaps he's finally ready for marriage, then," I say.

It's probably a good job Josh got me off the exercise ball when he did as, judging by his expression, I think Max would have been more than happy to have left me there all night.


*Green Goddess - Diana Moran, purveyor of relentless cheerfulness in the godforsaken early hours, back in the days when I could still find my stomach muscles. This video is worth watching just for her saying, "Take the rhythm, the lovely rhythm." Innocent times, before the advent of www.mentally-disturbed-dating.com

Profit And Loss, And The Significance Of Polo Necks

I'm getting a bit worried about Max's job. Mainly because of the way he behaved when John Lewis announced the rise in their profits the other night.

He re-wound twice to make sure the news report said 9.7%, then put his head in his hands and did nothing but repeat the figure for the rest of the evening.

He's still on about it this morning, when we walk into work together:

"They did say profit - not loss - on the news, didn't they?" he says.

"Yes," I say.

It doesn't look as if this is what Max wanted to hear. He groans, then says:

"Well, how the hell did John Lewis manage that? It can't have been from sales of bloody furniture. God knows we're not selling any."

When I ask if things are that bad, he just shakes his head and changes the subject. To how secure I think my job is, what with the Vicky situation.

"God knows," I say. "She hasn't been in to the office yet this week, so I haven't mentioned her in the hope that I won't talk her up."

That was obviously a decision I should have stuck to. Now I'm starting to believe that I really do have telekinetic powers as, when I arrive at the office, who should be sitting in the Oprah Room? Only Miss Vick the Bloody Hair-Flick. Her smile still looks like a piranha's.

"Morning, Molly," she says. "See you haven't used your beauty salon vouchers yet."

Honestly - what use is telekinesis if it won't work when you try to make someone drop dead? Carrie never had this problem.

I abandon the attempt to kill Vicky by the power of thought, stalk into my office and slam the door. Or I try to, but The Boss has left a pile of papers in the way, so the door just hits those and rebounds in a most unsatisfying manner.

I kick the desk and pretend it's Vicky instead, but that doesn't really make me feel any better, and the day doesn't improve when Greg brings up the subject of Reg and Edmund Beales.

"I've just realised who they look like," he says.

"Each other?" I say.

"Very funny, Molly. Obviously they look like each other - they're bloody twins. But who else?"

I look blank so Greg gives me a clue. Regardless of whether I want one or not.

"Someone who's been in the news recently," he says. "With a bad combover."

"Well, that could apply to any number of middle-aged men," I say. "You'll have to do better than that."

"Christopher Jefferies, you fool. It's obvious."

I tell Greg we're not supposed to be talking about Mr Jefferies if we don't want to upset the Attorney General, and try to change the subject, but Greg's on a roll.

"He looks like all the usual suspects, actually," he says. "Even Miss Chambers."

"Now you're pushing it," I say. "Any resemblance is purely down to Miss C's penchant for polo-necks."

"My point exactly," says Greg. "Dead giveaway. The sartorial equivalent of the Twilight Zone theme. Especially when worn by the elderly. Reg Beales had one on yesterday, if you remember."

I do, but I try not to think about it for the rest of the day. Or about eccentric men. I succeed, until I get home from work and Dad phones.

"Some people are so bloody insensitive," he says, apropos a greeting.

"Yes, I suppose they are," I say. Dad usually being one of them. "Why?"

"I went to see my neighbours last night for a New Year tipple, and told them all about Porn-Poon."

"Ah," I say. "And?"

"They called me a dirty old man! Bloody outrageous."

I have no idea what to say to that - or rather I do, but Dad won't like the result, so I resort to asking another question instead:

"Well, what were they referring to?" I say. Disingenuousness is a key skill in the armoury of an MP's staffer, after all.

"God knows," says Dad. "It was after I told them that everyone looks the same age in the dark."

How I wish he would stop saying that. Now I feel as if I'm going down with the dreaded Norovirus. Nauseous is an understatement.

It's obviously time for a change of subject - which seems to have been the order of the day, now I come to think of it.

"Did you get anything nice for Christmas?" I say.

"Not really. I told everyone that all I wanted for Christmas was my lovely Porn-Poon," says Dad. "But Dinah did buy me a very nice polo-neck jumper."

I must remember to congratulate my sister on her foresight, the next time she phones.

Hacking, Paranoia And A New Use For Green Ink

God, I wish this phone hacking story would go away. It only encourages The Boss's paranoia. Now he's convinced that his calls are being tapped again.

He mentions his theory to a local journalist this morning, despite my frantic head-shaking - but, luckily, the journo doesn't even bother to write it down. Maybe he's already tried listening in to Andrew's calls and only narrowly escaped being bored to death.

It's not as if anyone in their right mind would ever want to listen to an MP's voicemail. Or not to a backbench MP's, anyway. I can hardly bear to do it myself, given the number of demented messages that get left overnight. Usually a combination of incoherent screeching, alien sightings and death threats.

Mind you, I'd be quite happy for The News Of The World to hack into my telephone conversations - if their reporters made themselves useful by speaking to constituents while they were at it. I'd love to see how they'd cope with Miss Chambers, Mr Meeeurghn or even Mr Beales.

Talking of Mr Beales, I have a very nasty shock at lunchtime, when someone calls from the lobby on the intercom.

"I need to speak to my MP," says the man. "It's an emergency."

When I ask for further details, he doesn't reply, so there's no choice but for me to go downstairs and investigate. Well, I suppose there would be a choice if the MP in question didn't have a mouthful of my sandwich and apparently no intention of moving until he's eaten the whole thing. The end of Recess can't come soon enough to stop me starving to death.

When I reach the lobby, there is Mr Beales, pacing round and round in circles and muttering to himself.

"Oh," I say. "I didn't realise it was you. Your voice didn't sound familiar."

"That's because we haven't met," says the man, extending a clammy hand. "Reg Beales. My brother told me to come and see you. Said you'd be able to help."

Oh, dear God. There are two of them? Is there no end to life's cruel jokes?

I stand there like a complete idiot, with my mouth hanging open in disbelief, while Reg continues:

"It's the penalty points system. It's bloody unfair, that's what it is, and it needs changing. Sharpish."

"I've already explained to your brother that there's nothing I can do about his speeding ticket - because he was speeding," I say. "And as for the charge of dangerous driving, he admits himself that he did hit the policeman - "

"I'm not talking about our Edmund," says Reg. "It's me. I've just got another three points for speeding, so now I'm up to twelve. So I'm going to lose my HGV licence and my business if nothing's done. And it's not my fault."

Honestly, it must run in the family. Probably some weird form of ADHD or something. A total inability to learn from experience, or to take responsibility for one's actions. But Reg seems to be expecting a reply, so I try to be patient. (That was another of my stupid New Year's resolutions.)

"So what do you think should be done about it, then?" I say.

"They need to change the rules," says Reg. "HGV drivers should be allowed to get twice as many points as ordinary drivers before they lose their licences, because they have to drive more miles. And it's their livelihoods on the line."

"Not to mention the lives of the general public," I say, under my breath. I can't think of anything more acceptable to add out loud, so I'm quite relieved when Greg walks through the door, and saves me the bother.

He looks at Reg, does a double-take, and then says,

"Molly, we're late for that meeting."

Sometimes, Greg isn't half as daft as he looks. His timely intervention enables me to make a quick escape, although I do have to promise to write to Mike Penning at the DfT to put forward Reg's suggestion about doubling the penalty points allowance for HGV drivers.

I'm just hoping the Minister won't think it's a good idea and decide to implement it. You never can tell with the Coalition, which is a bit unnerving to say the least.

"We need a code," says Greg, when I tell him all about it.

"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "Not you as well. No-one cares what The Boss says when he's on the phone. Half of it's unintelligible anyway."

"No, not to stop hacking, Molly, you loon. To indicate to the Minister that we know that what we've just written is ridiculous, and that the constituent in question is barking mad."

Now that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we should start printing our own letters in green ink. I wonder if it's more expensive than black?

The Added Value of VAT, Annoying Haggling And A Rather Bloody New Year.

"Happy New Year" doesn't have quite the same ring to it when it's followed immediately by, "though I doubt it actually will be." That's what almost all the usual suspects say when they ring today.

I'm still feeling quite positive about 2011, though - given that Max appears to have made it his resolution to have more sex. And with me, as far as I can tell.

Not that things looked very promising on New Year's Eve, which was shaping up to be a total disaster before the clock struck twelve. Max looked knackered when he got home from work - late - and he was in a foul mood.

"What's the matter with you?" I said.

"I'm sick of customers being stroppy, coming in just before closing time, and trying to haggle the price of everything down," he said. "All because they think we're desperate to make sales before the VAT increase."

"Well, I suppose it's understandable," I said. "Isn't it? They know times are tough for retailers and that you need the sales."

"Well, yeah - but it's hardly helpful when the only price they're willing to pay would mean that we made a bloody loss, is it?"

With that, Max promptly fell asleep on the sofa and didn't wake up again until 11:45pm, when he seemed surprised that I wasn't very enthusiastic about his suggestion that we watch the celebrations on television.

Given that the National Lottery draw was on at the time, and that its idiotic presenter always makes me feel murderous even when we have a lottery ticket - which we didn't - I thought I'd been a model of restraint but, even so, you could have cut the tension with a knife by the time Big Ben started to strike.

The situation was only saved by a text from Josh saying, "Happy New Year, motherf*ckers" and advising us that he was staying at Holly's overnight. By the time we'd finished laughing at the first part of the message, it seems Max had realised the implications of the second.

Honestly, trying to maintain a sex-life when you're the parents of teenagers is like being bloody teenagers yourselves. You have to grab every opportunity when it presents itself.

"So Josh is away all night," said Max. "And Connie's not here either. Shall we go to bed?"

"But you've only just woken up," I said.

"Who said anything about sleeping?" said Max. With what I think was unfeigned enthusiasm.

So, for once, fireworks made it to the Bennett bedroom, which was an unexpectedly good start to the New Year, and now I'm clinging to the belief that it was also a portent of great things to come. (Which is not intended as one of those smutty innuendos that seem to be increasingly common on Facebook status updates.)

Constituents don't seem to share my optimism, though. Or my uncharacteristically good humour. They're all consumed with irritation at the rise in VAT instead - as is Greg, who apparently managed to miss a couple of designer bargains when he went shopping on Bank Holiday Monday. Probably through overdoing the haggling.

"Suppose you'll be all right, though - won't you, Molly?" he says. "There's still no VAT on children's clothes."

"Josh and Connie are far too big to wear those," I say. "Don't be daft."

"Yeah, but you're not, are you?"

Greg thinks he's so funny, but this is no laughing matter as far as I'm concerned.

"No, I'm not - but I can't say I fancy wearing things covered in glitter and cartoon characters." I say. "It's already quite hard enough to persuade constituents to take you seriously when you're a woman working in politics as it is. Not to mention MPs. And colleagues with a warped sense of humour."

Greg laughs and pretends to play an imaginary violin, while I scowl at him. What would he know? No-one ever assumes I'm his superior, even though I am, or refers to him as a bloody secretary, after all.

I get my revenge when he takes the next call, though. His face is green by the time he replaces the receiver.

"Who was that?" I say. "You look as if you're going to be sick."

"I may well be," he says. "It was that god-awful Selena Roddick."

Selena is an anarchist feminist activist whose spiritual home will always be Greenham Common. You have to admire her single-mindedness, if not her sense of humour. Or her dress sense.

"What did she want?" I say.

"VAT-exemption for sanitary towels," says Greg. "She's planning on sending George Osborne some used ones to get her point across."

"I'd have thought that would have made you laugh, not go green and look as if you're going to throw up. As long as she's not sending any here as well?"

"No, she isn't. But that wasn't the end of it."

Greg goes on to explain that Selena's considering starting a campaign to force the Coalition's hand:

"Based on passive resistance. She says she's always had a thing about Gandhi."

"So what exactly will that involve?" I say.

"None of you women using any protection at all," says Greg, wincing as he speaks. "She says there'll be a trail of blood until Tampax and sanitary towels are made VAT-free."

Oh, dear God. I can't say I'm looking forward to that. What with everyone sneezing, and the wretched Norovirus, there are far too many rogue bodily fluids flying around already. It seems this VAT increase may lead to all sorts of unintended consequences.

Mind you, I suppose one of those might be an increase in the sexual activity of the nation - or at least of me and Max - seeing as sex was still tax-exempt the last time I looked. Not that it wouldn't qualify as adding value. I might even be prepared to haggle for a better deal myself.

Back To Life, Back To Reality. And Not In A Good Way.

Well, I'm back in the land of the living. Or of the utterly insane, to be more accurate. And I've gone right off politics - if that's what my job actually involves, which I rather doubt. I'm sure I've got more in common with psychiatric social workers than with MPs.

Anyway, the only advantage to having a shitty first day back at work is that now Christmas doesn't seem half as bad as it did at the time.

"What presents did you get, then, Mol?" says Greg, when he arrives this morning.

"A coat-stand, a shelf and a block of Caerphilly cheese," I say.

"Oh," says Greg. Which may well be the shortest sentence he's ever uttered.

At least the cheese had the virtue of being personal, though. And it was only an emergency gift, according to Connie, who was its donor.

"Unlike Dad or Josh, I ordered your proper present weeks before Christmas - and it was something I knew you actually wanted," she said. "And then Amazon couldn't even manage to deliver the bloody thing. I'll never trust them again."

"Well, it has been snowing everywhere," I said. "So I suppose it's been a pretty challenging time."

"Wouldn't have been half so bloody challenging if they'd sent the parcel to the right country," said Connie. "I'm writing a letter of complaint. Want to hear it?"

"No," I said. "I'm on holiday. That would just be like listening to a moaning constituent."

Honestly, I might as well have saved my breath. Connie had already started reading aloud:

"Given that you have inexplicably sent my mother's present to Scotland instead of to England, as per the address given, I fail to see how snow could have been a factor in your incompetence."

I'm still absurdly proud of her use of 'inexplicably' for some reason. Probably because it sums up the whole of the so-called festive season.

It remains inexplicable why Max was already asleep on the sofa by 9:00pm on Christmas Eve when we were supposed to be playing games and bonding as a family; why Connie and Josh had had an enormous row by 11:00am on Christmas Day and why, according to Connie, Max resembles a mis-shapen potato when he's drunk.

"He looks more like someone who's been let out of the day centre without his carer to me," said Josh. "And how can it take him five and a half hours to cook Christmas dinner?"

"Drinking two bottles of wine by yourself can't be rushed," said Max. "And anyway, I'm fine. Now let's crack open that After Dinner Quiz box. Then we can bond like you all said you wanted to."

"Of what is helminthology the study?"

As usual, and without any prior consultation, Josh, the self-appointed Magnus Magnusson* of Northwick, had decided he was going to read out the questions. Democracy is a concept that remains stubbornly beyond his grasp.

"No idea," said Connie and I simultaneously. "Give us a clue."

"Like you two," said Josh.

"Women?" I said.

"Geniuses?" said Connie.

"Parasitic worms," said Josh.

This should have provided an early indicator as to how the rest of the game was going to pan out, and led to pre-emptive action, but I never learn. I must be more of an optimist than I thought.

Josh's next question was directed at Max:

"Dad - what is the oldest vegetable?"

"Molly," said Max. He didn't even miss a beat.

Coming from a man who looks like Mr Potato Head, I'd have been a bit more careful with the plant-based insults if I was him.


*Magnus Magnusson - presenter of BBC Mastermind for twenty-five years, and a lot more polite a quizmaster than Josh.

OUT OF OFFICE REPLY - Molly Bennett, Office of Andrew Sinclair MP.

Thank you for your email addressed to Mr Sinclair.

The Constituency Office is now closed for the Christmas period, and will re-open at 09:00am on Tuesday 4 January 2011.

I will, of course, reply to your enquiry as soon as possible upon my return to work.

Molly Bennett, Senior Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.

PS
What I don't tell you is that Greg and I will be taking it in turns to come in to the office during the week between Christmas and New Year, to check emails, post and answer-phone messages. This is a precaution, just in case any of you have genuine - as opposed to entirely imaginary - emergencies. (Not that there will be very much that we can do for you even if that is the case, given that the staff of every other agency we might need to deal with on your behalf are unlikely to return to work before they absolutely have to...)

PPS
Note that I also don't wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, in case I offend your religious principles. (Though I do hope you have both those things. Even if you don't call them that.)

PPPS I also don't mention that Connie and Josh have banned me from using my laptop over Christmas on the basis that we need to concentrate on bonding as a family. Connie says that she and Josh think it likely that, if we don't make more effort, Max and I will end up splitting up, in what she calls a classic "children leaving the nest" scenario.

Post-Breakfast Coffee at Tiffany's. Or In Northwick, To Be More Accurate.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Thank God today's the last day at work until after the New Year. I don't think I can take much more excitement.

The morning starts badly, when Max informs me that we are not buying each other Christmas presents. Given that I've already bought his, I could have done with this information earlier, and I'm not too impressed that we can apparently afford the gifts he's bought for the girls at work, either.

"Times are hard," he says. "And it's silly to buy something just for the sake of it when we're struggling to pay the bills."

I'm not sure I like his use of "for the sake of it," but I suppose there is a recession on, and we do need to tighten our belts, so I'll just have to see if I can get a refund on the iPod shuffle I bought him from the Apple shop.

Not everyone is being mean about presents, though - as I discover when I arrive at work. As I walk into the lobby, someone grabs me from behind, and puts their hand over my mouth. I panic, and simply can not remember the judo throw Josh taught me, so I resort to kicking backwards instead.

"Hrmph," I say. "Grff!"

"Ssh," says Greg. "And stop wriggling. In here."

Then he pulls me into the loo. The men's loo, for God's sake.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I say, shaking myself free. "And why do men's toilets always smell so bad? It bloody well stinks in here."

"Only place Vicky wouldn't think of snooping," he says. "And the smell is not important. Look at this. I found it behind the sofa in the Oprah Room."

He puts a small box into my hand. It's satin-lined, and the outside is a very pretty shade of turquoise. Although the box is empty, it's the sort of thing that jewellery comes in.

"What is it?" I say. "I've seen something this colour recently, but I can't think where."

"Probably in the restaurant yesterday," says Greg. "It's the box from Vicky's present."

"Oh," I say. "And your point is?"

This reaction is obviously not what Greg was hoping for, as he rummages in my bag for my glasses, opens the case and then shoves them at me.

"For Christ's sake, Molly - put these on, and then look again," he says. "At the writing on the lid."

"Oh," I say again, and then: "Oh, bloody hell, Greg. Tiffany & Co? Andrew bought Vicky's present from Tiffany's?"

"Yeah," says Greg. "Exactly. And I found it behind the sofa, don't forget. So when did it get there? There's no sign of either of them this morning, so they must have come in here last night after we left. When they were so pissed."

"Shit. I think I need a cigarette," I say. "Or even two."

As I stand outside, puffing furiously in defiance of the dirty looks Joan is giving me from the Labour Party office window, a courier van pulls up at the kerb, and then its driver runs out and enters our building. By the time I've finished my second cigarette, he's on his way out again.

"Seems some deliveries are getting through," I say to Greg, when I walk back into the office. "Just seen a courier dropping something off."

"Yes," says Greg. "For you."

He hands me a parcel and then, pointing at the customs declaration, says:

"It would seem it's from Russia. Probably with love."

Oh, my God. It is from Russia. And from Johnny. As I open the padded envelope, a hand-written letter falls out.

Lara 


For you, to remind you of me. I don't need to be reminded of you, as you're on my mind more than is good for me anyway. It's very annoying.


Happy Christmas, and see you in 2011. Let's make that our year. 


Johnny x


Inside the box is a pendant on a heavy chain. It's deep green, figured like Malachite, and looks exactly like a miniature Faberge egg. Greg stares at it, open-mouthed - which is not a good look when one is in the process of eating a Twix.

"Bloody hell," he says. "That looks expensive. Who's it by?"

"God knows," I say. "What does it say on the customs declaration?"

"Jean Schlumberger."

Greg looks at me as if this name should mean something to me. It doesn't.

"Who's she?" I say. "I've never heard of her. She's probably the Katie Price of Russia. And this'll be from their equivalent of QVC. Diamonique, or whatever that stuff's called."

"Don't be daft," says Greg. "Johnny's an oil baron. He's not likely to do his shopping on QVC, is he?"

I don't know about that. Johnny does spend a lot of time bored out of his brains in hotel rooms, though I suppose it's easier to imagine him watching porn, than the shopping channels. But there's no time to think about that now, as the phone starts ringing.

It's Vicky, saying she feels too fragile to come to work today - so it turns out that I have been forced into the men's toilets totally unnecessarily, as she couldn't have over-heard anything we said from her bloody house. I'm still glaring at Greg when The Boss phones and says that he thinks he will work from home today, unless we're too busy and need him for anything.

When I tell him that we aren't and don't, Andrew says that he has decided to hold a big public meeting about the cuts, and wants a venue booked and invitations sent out to other regional MPs, as well as to a long list of other dignitaries. ASAP.

"I want it to take place during the second week of January," he says. "So the invites need to go out today."

"But, Andrew," I say. "None of these people are going to be in their offices now until the fourth of January at the earliest. They probably won't even be able to RSVP in time, and I doubt any of them will be free at such short notice anyway. Even if I can find a suitable venue today."

"Stop making excuses," is The Boss' considered response, whereas a slow-motion V-sign is mine. It's a good job he was only on the phone, and not in the office, or I might have had to kill him.

The phones don't stop ringing after that and, what with the endless calls and the pointless public meeting, we have to work flat-out until it's almost time to close. I'm printing the invitations and really looking forward to leaving the office when the phone rings again. Greg is washing up in the kitchen, so I have no choice but to answer it.

"Hal-lo, Molly," says a very loud voice. "S Novym Godom!"

"Oh, hello, Igor," I say. "Ah, S Novym Godom to you, too. Or however you're supposed to pronounce it. Russian isn't one of my strengths, sorry."

Greg raises his eyebrows at this, and then slaps himself on the forehead, sits back down at his desk and types something into Google. Then he stares at the screen for a few moments, before gesturing at me to get rid of Igor.

This proves as difficult as usual, and Greg is practically jumping up and down by the time I finally put the receiver down.

"What on earth's the matter with you?" I say. "You look even more manic than Igor usually does. And that's saying something."

"I've found out who Jean Schlumberger is," says Greg. "Come and look at this website."

Aargh. I've been so harassed that I've completely forgotten about my egg necklace until now, even though I've been talking to a mad Russian. I'll have to thank Johnny once I've looked at whatever the hell it is that Greg is so desperate for me to see.

"So who is she?" I say, as I sit down on the edge of Greg's desk.

"Not she," says Greg. "He. Jean as in the French man's name."

And with that, he points to this.

Can you believe it - two of Andrew's staff being given Tiffany-related presents in the last twenty-four hours? And I'm not at all sure I like sharing any similarities with Vicky - not to mention how the hell I'm supposed to explain my necklace to Max.

"Tell him Igor gave it to you," says Greg. "Max won't know it probably cost a fortune. If he's even interested."

That's the point, isn't it? I know there's no pleasing me, but I can't help feeling I'd rather have had an inexpensive gift from my husband, if only for the sake of it.

Happy Christmas to one and all. And S Novym Godom, whatever that means. No doubt I'll be back in the New Year, unless I've been sacked or have gone to Russia.

Tommy Cooper, Vince Cable And Keats: Not As Unrelated As One Might Think

Gah. This bloody snow is screwing everything up. Now Johnny says he's not sure if he wants to risk flying in from Moscow next week for what is supposed to be our night of passion. Or evening of passion, anyway.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise," he says. "But I just can't afford to get stuck there between Christmas and New Year. Never seen anything like the cock-up at Heathrow. Bloody pathetic what a few inches of snow causes in the UK."

I refrain from pointing out that the Russian winds aren't exactly helping, but Carlotta and Marie-Louise seem to agree with him about the efficiency of British travel. They have decided not to attempt the journey from London for today's office lunch.

"We really don't want to spend hours sitting in a freezing train, only to have to walk along the railway line to safety, and then hang around for a coach to get us to Northwick," says Carlotta. "And Marie doesn't much feel like spending any more time with The Boss than necessary, anyway, while he's still being so horrible to her."

So, by the time we arrive at Salvatore's for lunch, we're a pretty depleted group: me, Greg, Andrew and bloody Vicky. Mind you, the atmosphere's better than it is at home, as at least The Boss is in a better mood than Max was when I left home this morning.

Andrew is in a very good mood, actually. I've no idea why, unless he's just realised how lucky he is that his penchant for attractive young women hasn't left him in a mess to rival Vince Cable's. So far.

Andrew's even feeling generous, and opens his battered old briefcase with a flourish to reveal a clutch of gifts. I'm suddenly reminded of Tommy Cooper, but I don't say anything, as the presents look pretty promising for a change.

For a start, they don't look book-shaped, so hopefully they don't contain sequels to the matching copies of Cooking With Northwick Piccalilli that Andrew gave me and Greg last year. We were convinced he'd got them free when he was taken on a tour of the factory a few months earlier.

Anyway, I digress. (Must be the hormones, or the thought of Piccalilli.) Andrew hands us all our gifts, and says:

"Ho, ho, ho. Happy Christmas!"

He really does look very pleased with himself.

"Did Trish choose these?" says Greg. "They're ever so well-wrapped."

"No, I bought them," says Andrew. "Although Trish did help out with the packing. I'm no good at that fiddly stuff."

He glances at Vicky, who doesn't seem very impressed with her small package. To be fair, it isn't half as nicely-wrapped as the others and, as she inspects it, a tear in the paper reveals something turquoise underneath.

"Ah, yes. That one," says Andrew. "Trish ran out of time, so I had to wrap yours myself, Vicky. Anyway, hope you all like your presents, and thanks for your hard work this year."

I'd prefer not to be watched while I open mine, after last year's proved virtually impossible to look thrilled about, but The Boss looks so expectant that there's no choice but to get on with the unwrapping. I cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Greg tears the paper off his first, only to find a box of Matchmakers. Cool mint ones, admittedly - but even so, he doesn't exactly look overwhelmed.

"Oh," he says. "Um, yeah. Matchmakers. Thanks, Boss."

"No, no," says Andrew. "Open the box."

He laughs, and nudges Vicky - as if there's any chance of someone as young as she is understanding a reference to Take Your Pick. She doesn't disillusion him, though, and I can't bring myself to, either. There's something almost childish about Andrew's excitement today, and it would feel too cruel to put a dampener on it.

Greg does as he's told, and slides the box lid back.

"Oh," he says again - though this time in an entirely different tone. "HMV vouchers - brilliant! Thanks, Boss."

"Trish thought the boxes would fool you," says Andrew. "Now your turn, Molly."

I'm as chuffed as Greg was when I open my box - originally containing Morny soaps - to find that it too contains vouchers. For Northwick's premier beauty salon.

"Oh, Andrew," I say. "Thank you so much. I've never been to a beauty salon before."

"I should think he can see that," says Vicky, as she puts her package into her bag. Unopened.

"What have you got, Vicky?" says Greg.

"I don't know," she says. "I'll open it later, in private."

I'm expecting The Boss to object, but when I turn towards him, he's winking at her.

The meal's gorgeous - as it always is at Salvatore's - although there are a lot of awkward gaps in the  conversation. I don't know if this is because Greg and I are barely drinking, as we've still got work to do today, or whether it's because Andrew only seems interested in what Vicky has to say. God knows why, as that's as boring the hell, as far as Greg and I can tell from the little we can hear in between her giggling.

Andrew and Vicky are extremely well-oiled by the time Greg and I decide that we're more than ready to go back to the office, and Andrew's trying to persuade Salvatore to ignore the smoking ban and allow the smoking of a pipe.

"Salvo," he shouts. "Join us for a drink - and meet Vicky, a very bella donna."

"Isn't that a poison?" says Greg, as he passes me my coat. "And wouldn't you think he'd be a bit more careful in the company of a giggling young woman?"

"Yes," I say. "You would, wouldn't you?"

Then we both stare at each other in horror, while images of tape recorders and journalists' notebooks swirl through our minds.

"Sod Belladonna," I say. "Let's just hope Vicky doesn't turn out to be La Belle Dame Sans Merci instead."

Chariots Of Fire, And Why Snow, MPs And Alcohol Don't Mix.

God, I'm knackered. I hardly slept a wink last night, because I woke up about an hour after I'd dozed off, and then I just could not get back to sleep. Bloody palpitations.

I think they were probably caused by the nightmare I'd been having just before I awoke. The Boss was driving a chariot through Northwick while dressed in a Roman centurion's outfit, and was making me pull the damn thing - on foot! It wouldn't have been so bad, if he hadn't kept whipping me every time I slowed down to catch my breath.

It definitely wasn't some sort of Freudian reference to my lack of a sex-life, as this was not the kind of whipping that anyone would enjoy, not even those people who apparently like hanging out in dungeons, while dressed in gimp suits. Mentioning no particular professions...

And I wasn't dressed in one of those pervy pony outfits, either, though I did have rather high heels on. It took bloody ages to pull the chariot past the market square, thanks to all the stupid cobbles. Architects never think when they decide on these silly "historic" road surfaces, do they?

After lunch, I realise what the nightmare probably signified: I must have been anticipating the inevitable blow-by-blow account of The Boss's journey back to Northwick after the *House rises for Christmas Recess. He always likes to make it as interactive as possible, and share the joy around.

Andrew's first call sets the scene:

"On my way to the station. Be back before the office closes."

"No need," I say. "There's nothing for you to do. Go straight home when you get off the train."

"Doesn't matter," he says. "I've got lots of stuff to give you to do. See you when I get there."

Greg groans when I recount the conversation, and decides to spend the next hour in the archive cupboard throwing darts at Andrew's photo. Then he returns to his desk, logs on to the Met Office's website and sits staring intently at the screen. For what feels like ages.

"What on earth are you doing?" I say. "You haven't even blinked for the last ten minutes."

 "Taking evasive action. I am willing it to snow as heavily as possible between London and Northwick," he says. "Right now."

I do a sceptical eyebrow raise, but Greg doesn't take any notice:

"Don't just sit there, Mol - help me! Visualise blizzard conditions and concentrate. We need to harness the power of our minds if tomorrow's Christmas lunch isn't to be cancelled because we've got too much work again."

I pretend to co-operate for a couple of seconds, but then I get bored and give up, so it seems that my mind may be rather short on power today. Greg keeps at it, though - and, eventually, it starts to snow again. Rather heavily - so maybe he genuinely possesses some of those telekinetic powers that Max accused me of having.

This is quite a scary thought, but seems to be confirmed when The Boss sends a text saying:

"Mayhem here. Next train cancelled."

Greg cheers loudly at this news, and then nips off to the pub for a celebratory gin. I start to wonder if he's telepathic as well as telekinetic when Andrew's next text makes clear that his thoughts have also turned to alcohol:

"No idea when next train's coming & it's too bloody cold to wait on station. Going for drink in bar."

Oh, dear. This won't end well. The Boss should never be allowed to combine alcohol and train travel but, when I try to phone him to remonstrate, he's turned his bloody mobile off. I don't hear anything more for a good few hours, and we are just about to lock up when the phone starts to ring.

"Leave it," says Greg, who has already put his coat on, and is waiting in the doorway.

"Can't," I say. "It's the bloody private line. Probably his Lordship. You go, and I'll lock up as soon as I've got him off the phone."

Greg waves goodbye, as I pick up the receiver.

"Molly," says Andrew, in a very loud voice. "I'm on the train."

"Ah, right," I say. "Don't shout, though. You sound like Dom Joly."

"I'm not shouting. And who's Don Jorrey?"

Oh, bloody hell. Doesn't Andrew get the simplest cultural reference? And, if that's not shouting, then my name's Igor and I am a singing postman. Which might actually help in situations where you know there's a rant coming, but you can't do anything to prevent it. If I started yodelling about brotherly love, that'd probably stop The Boss in his tracks.

But I don't know any Russian songs - except for this, which probably doesn't count - so I have no option but to sit silently while Andrew yells about the incompetence of Network Rail, the Travel Information Office, and Philip Hammond MP. He doesn't award Mr Hammond his *Rt. Hon, either.

When he finally pauses for breath - or for what sounds rather like a hiccup - I grab my opportunity.

"Andrew, is there anyone else in the compartment with you?" I say.

"Yes," he says. "A load of businessmen who look like bloody bankers and Jon Tiverton from the Northwick Daily Press."

"Well, then, for goodness' sake stop swearing," I say. "And lower your voice! They're probably all journos who are writing down everything you say. Think about what's just happened to Vince Cable."

"Can't hear you," yells Andrew, even louder than before. "But remind me tomorrow never to support this fucking train operator's application for the rail franchise again.

As I sigh and put the phone down, I'm sure I can still hear him shouting: "Bloody wankers."

Well, they say you can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Or even pull his own damned chariot, now I come to think of it.


*House - House of Commons, which rises for the Christmas Recess today, to the joy of constituency staff everywhere.
*Irony - see above statement.
*Rt. Hon - Right Honourable. See here for clarification, as I can't be bothered to explain after the day I've had.

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em - The Bennett Family Round Robin 2010

Oh, dear God - as if it wasn't bad enough that Christmas Recess starts again tomorrow, I'd forgotten that it's the time of year when normally-reasonable friends lose their minds - not to mention all sense of decency.

What is the point of round robins? My in-box is rapidly filling up with them and, to make matters worse, the postman hands me five more of the damned things as I pass him on my way into work this morning.

I read them as soon as I sit down at my desk but, by the time I've finished, I wish I hadn't bothered. Why doesn't anyone ever admit to any failures during the preceding year? And don't they know it's bad manners to boast?

Greg spots my expression and asks me what's up.

"Round robins," I say. "I never have a clue what to say in reply, seeing as it's not as if I've I got anything impressive to report. And, as for the kids, it's probably a case of the less said the better - at least where Josh is concerned."

"Well, you could always try doing a truthful version," says Greg. "Treat it like Writing Honest Letters hour."

So, in the absence of any better suggestions, here's the Bennett Family Round Robin for Christmas 2010:

Dear All,


Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year to you! Or to those of you who don't flaunt your good fortune in the faces of the rest of us, anyway.


Many unexciting changes have occurred in the Bennett household during 2010. There has been a marked decrease in the level of marital sexual activity, even from the baseline set by last year's record low. This may or may not be due to Max having an affair - either with Ellen, our nymphomaniac neighbour, or with an irritatingly faun-like colleague with a penchant for red wine. 


As revenge, I may or may not be having an affair with Johnny Hunter - an International Director of a Global Oil Company who bears an unnerving resemblance to Vladimir Putin. This has not, however, led to any significant increase in my sexual activity, unless you count the virtual kind. (Which most of the time I don't.)


When not stalking my husband, or typing emails to Johnny, I continue to grow an increasingly-convincing beard, and am still dressed almost entirely by Primark, mainly in their thermal underwear. Both these factors may, I suppose, be contributing to the above-mentioned lack of sex.


With regard to the kids: Connie and Josh remain locked in sibling rivalry, and united only by their sense of having been utterly failed by their parents. Connie is spending this year working as an underpaid and overworked intern; has been dumped by her chilli-fetishist boyfriend, and continues to struggle with the definition of normal behaviour. Not to mention with the concept of flexi-time.


Meanwhile, Josh has managed to fail almost all his A-levels and now has a job that seems entirely without prospects, unless you count the odd free cinema ticket. His skateboarding abilities have not improved at all, and nor have his skills in the martial arts. He continues to visit Accident & Emergency rather more often than we would like, though the orthopaedics department always enjoy hearing how his injuries were caused.


As far as my working life goes, I have had no pay rise, no promotion, and no recognition whatsoever, though I do apparently have the distinction of being possibly the lowest-paid member of staff on the House of Commons payroll. I am fully expecting to be replaced by a younger model as soon as The Boss can think of a good enough excuse to get rid of me. 


Max has no sympathy for those of us working in the public sector, however - having had to take two pay cuts during this year alone. He has also ceased to earn any commission, due to the fact that no-one is actually buying any furniture, though this has not discouraged him from spending more and more time at work. Or, at least, that's where he claims to be spending it.


Mum has broken her wrist; had a nasty fall while unaccountably wearing no pants, and has accumulated at least seven more side tables since last year, while Ted continues to enjoy fishing and to avoid lengthy telephone calls like the plague. 


Dad is currently unmarried, though we do not expect this situation to last much longer. Stepmother Mark IV seems likely to be an inappropriately young woman called Porn-Poon, who apparently finds the physiques of seventy-five year old men irresistible. Dad is sure that this has nothing to do with the size of their pensions, or the attractions of a British passport.


Stepmothers Mark I, II and III remain very glad to have divorced Dad and are trying to avoid taking offence at his claims that all the women in the UK are now "too old" for him. 


Sister Dinah remains committed to smoking, swearing, and not listening to a word I say; whilst idiot brother Robin continues to preach compassion while exercising very little of it in practice. He is currently wrestling with the difficult decision of whether to become a Buddhist monk or a rap artist. 


The Labour Party has had its own problems with siblings during the recent leadership election, and the result remains a subject of considerable ill-natured debate within Northwick *CLP. The general public seem less bothered, probably because the ConDems have, of course, been running the country since the General Election. This has made a nice change, as at least it means that there is someone other than the Labour Party to blame for all the things that constituents complain about.


Talking of constituents, the ratio of sane to insane enquiries has definitely taken a turn for the worse, and it has not yet been possible to work out whether the proposed boundary changes will improve or worsen matters. My colleague, Greg, is confident that the detonation of a nuclear bomb over Easemount would alleviate the problem, but has not yet succeeded in obtaining one. His enthusiasm for the project remains undiminished, however.


Meanwhile, The Boss has become convinced that everyone in the Party is out to get him and, if he continues to allow paranoia to dictate his behaviour, this may well prove to be the case - though there is likely to be heated debate as to who will be allowed to take the first shot. I suspect that his wife may decide to render any such discussion academic, if a certain intern isn't soon given her marching orders.


So, all in all, 2010 has been a year of considerable highs and lows. While the lowest of these may well have been the significant birthday I supposedly celebrated back in May, the greatest highlight was undoubtedly surviving anthrax poisoning, and the usual suspects' attempts at strangulation. 


We do hope that all is going as well for you and yours as it is for us, and look forward to seeing you all in 2011.


Lots of love from
Molly, Max, Connie and Josh (Bennett).

Greg says this should do the trick - if having an improved social life is not one of my New Year resolutions. On the basis of the last two events I've attended, this is a risk I'm more than prepared to take.

*CLP - Constituency Labour Party. A rather motley crew, not known for their combined senses of humour.