Diary of an Unsmug Married Read Online Free PDF Page B

accepted the need for self-improvement’, but I doubt he will. He told me he’d had more than enough of Dinah’s ‘helpful hints’.
    Imagine being interrupted every five minutes while you’re having sex, by someone saying things like, ‘Top tip: get your bearings first’! Max says he’d rather not.
    ‘It’s no wonder Di and John only had one child, is it?’ he says, as he makes room for me on the sofa with an obvious sigh – initially of relief, and then of irritation, when the phone starts ringing yet again.
    ‘My buttock’s still terribly painful,’ says Mum, apropos a greeting.
    Christ! Both parents obsessed by their rear ends. It’s all too much.
    FRIDAY, 28 MAY
    God, I’m depressed. Not only is it Friday, which means that The Boss is here almost all day for his surgery and a seemingly endless series of largely pointless meetings, but I have just worked out that, if I am one of the lowest-paid members of staff on the whole HOC payroll, then that must mean that Greg is being paid more than me.
    He’s half my age, and a f*ckwit – a lovable one, admittedly, but I still have to open all his supposedly finished letters when he’s not looking and vet them before I take them to the post.
    This is a precautionary measure, brought in after last year’s debacle when Greg libelled the LibDem councillor, and then gave the poor man’s home address to our most violent constituent; and yet he is worth more money than me? I think I may have to go on strike.
    I’m a little reluctant to risk direct action, given that there is a recession on, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping everyone else – so I phone Martin and ask him if the union will support me with a mass walk-out if I do strike for a decent wage.
    The answer’s not exactly what I hoped. Martin will apparently be behind me ‘one hundred per cent in spirit’, but asks if I realise that the union has no authority over individual MPs – as they are each, effectively, separate small businesses.
    When I’ve stopped hyperventilating at this unexpected news, I ask Martin a number of questions, not least of which is why I’ve been bothering to pay my union subs for all these years. He seems oddly reluctant to answer, but says that, as The Boss is a left-wing socialist, I surely don’t need the union to persuade him to do the right thing, anyway. How can a union rep be so bloody naive?
    The only highlight of the day is another email from Johnny Hunter, even though he sounds very unimpressed with my job. So am I at the moment, but I would like him to pretend that my working life is slightly more significant in the scheme of things.
    I suppose working for an MP isn’t ever likely to sound very impressive to an International Director of a Global Oil Company – I do like that phrase, hence the random capital letters. Johnny probably has hundreds of MPs in his pocket, metaphorically speaking, of course.
    It’s just a shame that The Boss is unlikely to be powerful enough to merit being one of them, otherwise Johnny might be able to use his influence to get me a pay-rise. It doesn’t look as if the union’s going to be much help with that.
    SATURDAY, 29 MAY
    I do wish The Boss wouldn’t phone me on Saturdays. Or at least not ten times, and not in order to say the same thing on every occasion, even if he is enjoying gossiping about the latest parliamentary sex scandal more than is good for him.
    If Nan was still alive, she’d tell him that pride comes before a fall, but I can’t be bothered to advise him not to tempt fate – I’m too busy worrying about the night out that Max has planned, even though it’s all my fault for complaining that we have no social life.
    I’ve just found out that we’re due to meet his colleagues at a bar, which coincidentally happens to be Josh’s favourite drinking place. This is not promising, as it means that all the women there will be significantly younger than me, if not under-age; and there’ll be acres of highly