Diary of an Unsmug Married by Polly James Read Free Book Online

disgruntled constituents continue.
    After half an hour or so, I’m pretty sure I can see a trickle of drool on The Boss’ chin. That man’s becoming more of a liability by the day, though there are people far more dangerous than him on the loose. While the Prime Minister has been taking questions, a man armed with a shotgun has run amok in a small town up north, and has already killed several people, and injured considerably more.
    ‘Greg,’ I say, ‘we have to wake The Boss up now. It looks terrible when he sleeps through an event of national significance.’
    ‘Ssh, Molly!’ Greg waves at me to go away. ‘I am waiting to see if the new Minister to the Treasury is going to use the question I proposed he should ask the PM. He invited suggestions on Twitter, you see.’
    ‘Let’s hope The Boss never starts doing that,’ I say, refusing to budge. ‘And, anyway, Greg – you don’t even live in the Minister’s constituency, so what did you want him to ask on your behalf?’
    ‘I merely required specific details as to the percentage of my tax that is spent on shell-suits,’ says Greg. ‘I changed my mind about wanting to know. It’s an important issue, after all.’
    He leans forward and turns up the volume on his computer, as a subtle hint that I, less subtly, refuse to take.
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Greg,’ I say, ‘Don’t you think today’s terrible events should take precedence over clothing?’
    ‘I bet the man with the gun is wearing a bloody shell-suit,’ says Greg, to whom the concept of political correctness is becoming ever more alien by the day.
    THURSDAY, 3 JUNE
    What on earth do the girls in the Westminster office do ? Are they completely hopeless? Just before lunchtime, I receive an email from Carlotta saying that she’s booked Mr Beales in for tomorrow’s surgery, as Greg and I aren’t answering the phone.
    Wrong, you dingbat. Greg and I are screening the calls – which is a completely different thing – with the sole aim of avoiding having to give Mr Beales yet another surgery appointment so soon after the last one.
    We do try to leave the odd slot free for people with real problems, but it’s a constant battle, even without the ‘help’ of the girls in London. Not that Carlotta accepts that this is the case. She says she is going to complain about us to The Boss – for abdicating our responsibilities.
    ‘I should not have to speak to people who are so rude that they make me cry,’ she says.
    It turns out that she doesn’t mean Greg, but Mr Beales, though I can’t believe that she thinks he’s rude. He’s a rank amateur compared to most of the usual suspects – and doesn’t she realise that she wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for those ‘nasty constituents’ anyway?
    ‘Those people are for you and Greg to deal with,’ she says. ‘I have Andrew’s speeches to write, as well as important research to do.’
    ‘Carlotta, Andrew’s a backbencher, for God’s sake, and no one in the Commons ever listens to a word he says,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t really need a researcher, let alone one who writes speeches. Or he wouldn’t , if he’d shut up occasionally. He could easily manage with just Marie-Louise in London, doing his diary.’
    This doesn’t go down very well, and Carlotta does one of those exaggerated Spanish sighs that she’s so good at.
    Sighing’s one of the few things she is good at, now I come to think of it – the value of Andrew’s London-based staff being mainly decorative as far as anyone can tell. And I do wish both she and Marie-Louise would use pseudonyms when they talk to constituents. At least that would stop the usual suspects moaning that The Boss only employs ‘foreigners’ in his Westminster office. He doesn’t, though he does insist on long legs and an appearance which won’t embarrass him at the Cinnamon Club. (It may be a coincidence, but I’ve just realised that neither Greg nor I have ever been invited there .)
    I probably