Diary of an Unsmug Married Read Online Free PDF Page A

bankrupt me. Maybe I could get a job in Primark, and cut Miss Chambers out of the equation?
    I am cheered by this prospect until I return to my desk, to find twenty-eight messages on the answer-phone. I was only gone for an hour, for God’s sake! Nineteen are from Miss Chambers, becoming ever more glass-shattering with every one.
    The other nine are from The Boss, who wants to know if there’s anything we need to speak to him about. There isn’t, as always – so I’d better find him something safe and uncontroversial to do for the rest of the day, before he gets bored and starts giving opinions to the press on anything they ask.
    With the thought of that terrifying possibility, today is fast shaping up to be a double Primark day … I wonder what they pay their staff? It can’t possibly be much less than I earn now, but I suppose I really ought to check.
    I phone the union, and ask how my earnings compare to shop work.
    ‘Well, as you’re one of the very lowest-paid employees on the House of Commons payroll, Molly, I’d get that Primark application in pronto, if I were you,’ says Martin, rather too brightly if you ask me.
    I’m so stunned that I put the phone down without even remembering to say goodbye. One of the lowest paid? Lowest paid? In the whole House of Commons? A place full of cleaners and catering staff, many imported from the Philippines, and yet I have the honour of being the lowest paid? For putting up with the likes of Miss Chambers all day?
    I am collecting a Primark application form on my way home, if they’re still open then. I have a degree and specialist training, and I am too damned good to be working for an MP.
    WEDNESDAY, 26 MAY
    I’m almost too depressed to write. Primark has no vacancies – and all that discount’s gone out of the window as well. It looks as if I’m stuck with The Boss for the foreseeable future, or at least until IPSA’s fn14 cuts cost me my job.
    To make things worse, Mr Beales writes in with yet another problem – the third one in the last ten days. One of his clients won’t pay for her wedding photographs, and Mr Beales encloses copies to illustrate his point. After I’ve taken a look at them, I’m not surprised the poor woman won’t pay: a number of the guests are headless, along with the groom.
    I am surprised by one new development, however – Greg and I have always thought that Mr Beales was a school photographer. He seemed well suited for this, in that he most closely resembles a paedophile or, at best, a serial killer. (Greg says that all paedophiles are easily identified by the double bar across the bridge of their metal-framed glasses.)
    Anyway, whatever he is, I really can’t be bothered with Mr Beales today, so I just dump his letter and photos into the otherwise-empty filing tray marked ‘Show to The Boss’.
    The rest of the day passes without incident until, in the evening, I get another email from Johnny Hunter. A long one, this time suggesting I reply to his email address at work – and the tone is very friendly, if a little boastful. He’s only an International Director for a global oil company!
    He’s also married, with four children much younger than mine, which is presumably why he and his wife have managed rather more impressive careers than working for a backbench MP.
    Johnny goes on to say that it is ‘the help’ that enables him and his wife to keep flying across the globe with their demanding jobs, by ensuring that their children are well-cared for at the same time. He also says that he can’t afford to downsize to spend more time with his family, as ‘you know what school fees are like’.
    I am a gutless hypocrite. I do not say in my reply that of course I do not know, because I am politically (and financially) opposed to private schools; work for a Labour MP, and have put both my kids through the wringer of the state school system because it teaches them important life skills . (Well, that’s what Max and I always tell