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and is that why we have no sex? Oh, my God.

CHAPTER TWO
    June
    (Which, appropriately enough, rhymes with ‘loon’.)
    TUESDAY, 1 JUNE
    Greg tries very hard to distract me from worrying about Max and the blonde James Blunt by spending the morning holding forth about how badly MPs’ staff are paid. (Some of us rather more than others, actually.) Then, in the afternoon, he proposes his latest economic theory: that every pound he pays in tax goes direct to Liverpool to be spent on shell-suits.
    ‘Maybe you should check that with the Chancellor of the Exchequer before you broadcast it to anyone else,’ I say. ‘Just to make sure that you’re right about it.’
    ‘Don’t be silly, Molly,’ says Greg. ‘I’d be accused of being politically incorrect if I did that. Which I’m not – am I?’
    ‘No,’ I say, not because he isn’t, but because it’s obviously the answer that is required. Never say I don’t try my best to give people what they want – unless their name is Mr Beales.
    He phones just before the office closes for the day. ‘Has your boss written my reference for the court yet?’ he says.
    ‘What reference?’ I say, but then wish I hadn’t. There are some things a person is far better off not knowing. Such as the fact that Andrew has – apparently – agreed to write to the judge on Mr Beales’ behalf.
    ‘But why?’ I say. (I can’t help myself.) ‘What on earth has he agreed to do that for?’
    ‘To confirm the excellence of my photographs, of course,’ says Mr Beales, who may be the world’s worst photographer, but who still knows far more about the subject than Andrew does.
    WEDNESDAY, 2 JUNE
    I am reading the local paper for references (favourable or otherwise) to The Boss, when I come across the wedding photographs section. There are twelve photos, mainly of plumpish, blonde-streaked women marrying shiny-faced, gel-haired men. Four couples are, however, headless.
    I look at the picture credits. Sure enough, the decapitated newly-weds are attributed to one Edmund Beales, so I photocopy the page and fax it to the House of Commons – marked for the urgent attention of The Boss – together with a copy of the draft reference for Mr B. I scrawl, ‘Re-think advised’ across the top.
    Then Greg takes the original page from the paper, masks out the credits with dollops of Tippex, and sticks it onto the wall. He says that, from now on, our team-building activity will no longer be darts, with a photo of The Boss denoting the bull’s-eye, as this is ‘too dangerous to hardworking people’. (Greg’s eye-patch is still in place.) From now on, the game is to be: Guess which Photos Are the Work of Mr Beales?
    After the next five people to visit the office identify the correct photographs without any hesitation, Greg admits defeat, and heads for the pub for a medicinal gin. Upon his return, he decides to avoid further references to the abject failure of the Mr Beales game by decreeing that we will watch PMQs fn1 online.
    The whole Commons Chamber is already full of MPs hoping to appear dynamic in front of their constituents on live television. We can’t find The Boss, though, until I finally spot him half-way along the opposition benches. He is sitting slumped in his seat.
    ‘Oh, Christ,’ says Greg.
    We both know all too well what usually happens next, so I send Andrew a text saying, ‘Sit up straight!’
    Within the next five minutes Mr Beales, Miss Chambers and Miss Harpenden all phone to complain that The Boss is not taking his duty to the taxpayer seriously, as he is ‘obviously taking a nap’. Miss Harpenden adds that, in such an old building, there could easily be rats running around his feet while he sleeps, putting him at risk of plague.
    Meanwhile, there is no reply at all from Andrew to my text, so I send another five in quick succession. They all say the same thing – ‘Wake up!’ – but have no discernible effect, as he sinks lower and lower in his seat, and the calls from