share the embarrassment if I tell the truth. Even so, he’s really not amused when I answer the gynaecologist’s question about whether I can think of anything that might be causing the problem by suggesting: ‘Rust?’
She laughs, though, and then says there’s nothing to worry about – but Max is still not talking to me when we get home, and things are frosty until the doorbell rings. It’s Annoying Ellen, oh joy. That’s three times she’s borrowed the damned corkscrew this week.
After she left last time, Max said, ‘She’s always so cheerful .’
I said that I’d be bloody cheerful, too, if I had a huge house, all paid for, tons of alimony and the kids home for only one week in two – not to mention a succession of toy-boys. Max looked even more pained at the mention of toy-boys than he did at the rust.
WEDNESDAY, 9 JUNE
The morning’s post brings more death-threat letters, still addressed to The Boss, and still written in red ink. He’s being so annoying that I’d write some myself if I thought there was the remotest chance that he’d ever read the buggers.
He phones first thing this morning, to tell us to keep Friday lunchtime free: ‘I’ve re-booked the restaurant for our work Christmas lunch,’ he says. ‘Be there, or be square.’
For God’s sake. This is the lunch that was originally scheduled for the day before Christmas Eve – the one that The Boss cancelled at the last minute, after deciding that Greg and I had far too much work to finish to be able to spare two hours to celebrate. Which we did, but only because Andrew had just created it.
Then, to add insult to injury, he said he’d pop into the restaurant while he was passing, and cancel the reservation in person. Two hours later, he phoned me to say that he’d met ‘two lovely ladies in the street’ and had asked them to join him for lunch, seeing as Greg and I ‘couldn’t make it’. When he started to enthuse about what they were all eating, I’d had enough, so I hung up.
So now Greg and I aren’t exactly in the mood for Christmas dinner, especially not in June, but Andrew hangs up on me when I tell him so. Then Greg does a lot of creative swearing about unreasonable bosses, while I decide to re-think my position on the red-ink letters and fax them through to Westminster, implying that I think they are far more serious than usual.
I even contemplate forging one which suggests that the author knows The Boss’ home address, but chicken out at the last minute. You never know – I might have to hand them over to Special Branch at some point, and then I’d probably get the blame for sending all of them. If I’m still alive to hand anything over, that is – which Officer Sexy seems to find an unlikely proposition.
He arrives mid-afternoon, but his appearance doesn’t really live up to his voice. This is almost as disappointing as he seems to find our non-existent security arrangements, though at least he writes a report recommending lots of changes, so I suppose that’s something.
He even says that, if The Boss doesn’t comply with the recommendations, the police will have to think carefully about whether they can be held responsible for ensuring our safety in future.
‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘There’s a bit of a problem with one of your suggestions, at least. The Boss considers CCTV an invasion of constituents’ privacy.’
Officer Sexy just stares at me for what feels like ages. Then he gives a little shake of the head, and says, ‘This is Andrew Sinclair’s office, isn’t it?’
When I confirm that it is indeed, he says that he would never have thought that The Boss was camera-shy, given that he appears on local television at every opportunity. There is no denying or explaining this, of course, not without casting further doubt on The Boss’ sanity.
‘Well, I hope Mr Sinclair is grateful for the risks you people run on his behalf,’ says Officer Sexy, as he gathers up his paperwork in readiness to
She laughs, though, and then says there’s nothing to worry about – but Max is still not talking to me when we get home, and things are frosty until the doorbell rings. It’s Annoying Ellen, oh joy. That’s three times she’s borrowed the damned corkscrew this week.
After she left last time, Max said, ‘She’s always so cheerful .’
I said that I’d be bloody cheerful, too, if I had a huge house, all paid for, tons of alimony and the kids home for only one week in two – not to mention a succession of toy-boys. Max looked even more pained at the mention of toy-boys than he did at the rust.
WEDNESDAY, 9 JUNE
The morning’s post brings more death-threat letters, still addressed to The Boss, and still written in red ink. He’s being so annoying that I’d write some myself if I thought there was the remotest chance that he’d ever read the buggers.
He phones first thing this morning, to tell us to keep Friday lunchtime free: ‘I’ve re-booked the restaurant for our work Christmas lunch,’ he says. ‘Be there, or be square.’
For God’s sake. This is the lunch that was originally scheduled for the day before Christmas Eve – the one that The Boss cancelled at the last minute, after deciding that Greg and I had far too much work to finish to be able to spare two hours to celebrate. Which we did, but only because Andrew had just created it.
Then, to add insult to injury, he said he’d pop into the restaurant while he was passing, and cancel the reservation in person. Two hours later, he phoned me to say that he’d met ‘two lovely ladies in the street’ and had asked them to join him for lunch, seeing as Greg and I ‘couldn’t make it’. When he started to enthuse about what they were all eating, I’d had enough, so I hung up.
So now Greg and I aren’t exactly in the mood for Christmas dinner, especially not in June, but Andrew hangs up on me when I tell him so. Then Greg does a lot of creative swearing about unreasonable bosses, while I decide to re-think my position on the red-ink letters and fax them through to Westminster, implying that I think they are far more serious than usual.
I even contemplate forging one which suggests that the author knows The Boss’ home address, but chicken out at the last minute. You never know – I might have to hand them over to Special Branch at some point, and then I’d probably get the blame for sending all of them. If I’m still alive to hand anything over, that is – which Officer Sexy seems to find an unlikely proposition.
He arrives mid-afternoon, but his appearance doesn’t really live up to his voice. This is almost as disappointing as he seems to find our non-existent security arrangements, though at least he writes a report recommending lots of changes, so I suppose that’s something.
He even says that, if The Boss doesn’t comply with the recommendations, the police will have to think carefully about whether they can be held responsible for ensuring our safety in future.
‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘There’s a bit of a problem with one of your suggestions, at least. The Boss considers CCTV an invasion of constituents’ privacy.’
Officer Sexy just stares at me for what feels like ages. Then he gives a little shake of the head, and says, ‘This is Andrew Sinclair’s office, isn’t it?’
When I confirm that it is indeed, he says that he would never have thought that The Boss was camera-shy, given that he appears on local television at every opportunity. There is no denying or explaining this, of course, not without casting further doubt on The Boss’ sanity.
‘Well, I hope Mr Sinclair is grateful for the risks you people run on his behalf,’ says Officer Sexy, as he gathers up his paperwork in readiness to
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