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Stupid Blogger is down
Humph. Wrote last night’s post as usual - and on my birthday, too - only for Blogger to swallow it, and then implode. I will be back when Blogger is.
Message from Gregory Duke, Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair MP & Unfortunate Colleague of Molly Bloody Bennett
Dear Constituent (or non-constituent whom The Boss insists upon dealing with in direct contravention of Parliamentary protocol),
Thank you for your email/telephone call/letter/abusive verbal assault at the Pharmacy counter in Boots; and for your insistence that it should be Molly Bennett who deals with your case.
Please note that Molly remains sequestered in a hotel in the lap of taxpayer-funded luxury that is also known as jury service, thus leaving her entire workload of cases to me. This is most inconsiderate of her, as I am a busy man with far better things to do in the run-up to Nick Clegg’s rather self-interested AV vote; not to mention that I have a new and somewhat demanding poet girlfriend.
Whilst we do indeed have an intern, as you correctly point out, her only talents appear to be looking vaguely pretty, and flicking her hair in a thoroughly annoying fashion. Thus I do not think you would be happy for her to attempt to deal with the (non) issue you have raised, which leaves me as your only hope until Molly’s return to work.
As a result, I wish to remind constituents that, whatever Andrew Sinclair MP may promise you at supermarket surgeries, there is only so much that can actually be done to bring inventions intended to run the world’s appliances on nothing more than water to world attention; nothing at all that mere humans can do about aliens and the often uncomfortable places into which they insert their probes; and very little that I personally wish to do about potholes and puddles.
The latter would be best dealt with by your local councillors, who have far too much time on their hands if you ask me; whilst the former two issues could be easily remedied by taking prescription medicines as prescribed by psychiatrists. Or by talking to your counsellor. (Please note the distinction between councillors and counsellors - hushed voices and sympathetic manners not being quite as common amongst members of Northwick Town Council as they are amongst the caring professions. Nor do councillors provide boxes of tissues as standard.)
I will continue to be happy to help those of you with genuine problems - probably no more than 20% of the total at a guess - and shall endeavour to deal with your enquiries in strict order of priority. I am - contrary to public opinion - a caring individual, and have no wish to see constituents suffer eviction from their homes; unfair deportation from the UK, or neglect while in hospital.
With reference to the above, I should clarify that I do not, however, consider it negligent for GPs and hospital consultants to insist that overweight constituents lose weight prior to gastric band surgery; nor do I accept that obesity is always genetic. Not unless those living in the third world have completely different DNA to the rest of us. Thus, the criteria I use for assessing whether a case is urgent or not will continue to be unaffected by how loud you shout while on the telephone to this office.
Like you, I hope that Molly will be back at work very soon but, in the meantime, it would be in all our interests to try to exert some telekinetic force, in order to persuade her to stop pretending to be Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men, and to accept that the defendant is not guilty; even if the basis for this assumption on the part of her fellow jurors appears to rely on nothing more than the fact that he is well-spoken, and that his parents drive to court in a rather nice Mercedes every morning.
AARGH. Molly has been sequestered.
Expect uncharacteristic silence for the next few days, while she sits in judgement upon her peers. Well, not her peers, exactly - she certainly hopes some of them aren’t…
The Harsh Realities Of Life, And The Inability To Do Anything Useful About Them In The Absence Of Criminal Connections.
Max sounds awful when he wakes up this morning, and he takes so long getting up that I’m ready to leave before he’s even dressed.
“Aren’t you going in to work today?” I say.
“Don’t know if I can be bloody bothered,” he says. “Seeing as my skills are irrelevant. They’d probably sell more if I wasn’t there, and I doubt the customers would even notice.”
“Oh, I should think Mrs Bloom would,” I say - before I remember that I’m not actually sure if she even exists, or whether she’s just Max’s cover story for the affair he may or may not be having with Annoying Ellen. Or with the homicidal faun. Life can be so confusing sometimes.
I’m not the only one struggling with the harsh realities of life here in Northwick, though - which I know are as nothing compared to the situation in Japan, but I’m trying to focus on stuff that I can actually do something about. Given that the only alternative seems to be 24-hour news-induced sleep deprivation, an overwhelming sense of powerlessness and a lower than usual tolerance for fuckwittage.
Not that I’m implying that the latter’s true of poor old Mr Edmonds’ behaviour - though he certainly thinks he’s been an idiot, and isn’t at all his usual self when he arrives for his surgery appointment. His eyes are reddened and he looks much frailer than the last time we saw him, despite the fact that he has worn a suit for the occasion. It’s a bit shiny at the elbows and knees, and hangs loose upon his frame.
“I can’t believe it,” he says, as soon as he enters the room. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Please sit down,” I say, helping him in to a chair. “And then you can tell us what the problem is.”
“I just hope Mr Sinclair can help me,” he says. “Seeing as nobody else will. They just say there’s no fool like an old fool - and they might be right, an’ all.”
Then he makes a sound that is halfway between a hiccup and a sob, which he tries to mask by burying his face in a large white handkerchief.
“Take your time,” says The Boss, while looking surreptitiously at his watch. He hates it when constituents cry. So do I, but it’s a hazard of the job, isn’t it? Especially when some people view their MP as a last resort, unlike the usual bloody suspects who’d think nothing of calling us for advice on how to brush their teeth. Or something even less savoury.
I glare at Andrew, who pulls his sleeve back down and resigns himself to waiting it out until, eventually, Mr E blows his nose and marshals his thoughts.
“The Police don’t believe me,” he says. “Even though they must know that Darren’s a wrong ‘un, seeing as everybody did. Apart from me, apparently. My life savings - and they’re all gone.”
He then goes on to explain that he still hasn’t made any real friends on the estate to which he moved when his wife died a few years ago.
“You know what people are like these days,” he says. “They sometimes say hello when they pass by my house, but they’re all busy with their own lives, aren’t they? And I’m a lot older than most of them.”
This loneliness turns out to have played right into the hands of the loathsome Darren. He owns a small garage at the edge of the estate, and was one of the few people to do more than pass the time of day with Mr E - who was a mechanic in his youth, and says that he still loves cars and the smell of oil.
“We’d just chat about motors, and sometimes he’d say, ‘Want a cuppa, Grandpa?’ and -“
Mr Edmonds seems to lose his thread for a minute, and then he squares his shoulders and looks straight at me.
“It sounds stupid, now,” he says. “But it was nice, you know, to have a friend. Or that’s what I thought he was.”
Honestly, some people are such shits, aren’t they? It turns out that Darren just happened to discover that Mr Edmonds had withdrawn all his money from the bank after the run on Northern Rock. And - like the considerate friend he was - he decided to “advise” Mr E of the risks, though scared the shit out of him might be a better description.
“I couldn’t sleep a wink after he warned me what would happen if word got around and someone broke in while I was in bed.” says Mr E.
He looks so apologetic, that it’s as if he’s expecting us to tell him off. I’m certainly not going to, but I glance over at Andrew, just to make sure that he isn’t about to give a crime prevention lecture. (He hasn’t been the same since he started attending those Neighbourhood Policing events.)
Luckily, and although he’s fidgeting in his seat, for once he senses when not to hold forth, and gestures for me to speak instead.
“So what did this Darren suggest you do about it?” I say, though I’ve got a horrible feeling I already know.
“He said he had a safe in the garage, and that my money would be much more secure in there. ‘I’m here every day, or at the end of the phone,’ he said. ‘So you can get at it whenever you want to. I probably work longer hours than the banks!’”
Our Darren’s obviously not stupid, is he? Even I’d have been tempted by that sales pitch - especially if I thought I could get a cup of tea and a friendly chat whenever I had to withdraw some cash - instead of a snotty text from the bank like the one that arrived this morning. God knows how Max and I are going to manage to clear the accidental overdraft now. We’ll probably be as broke as Mr E by the end of the month, once they add those bloody awful daily charges.
But this isn’t time to be thinking about me. I’m supposed to be helping someone else.
“So what happened then?” I say. “Did you give Darren the money to look after for you?”
“Yes,” says Mr E. “And it was all fine, until last week when I wanted to withdraw some to pay the last instalment of my Council Tax.”
Now he’s crying again, but he’s determined not to stop talking this time - not until he’s told us everything.
“So I walked round to the garage, and asked Darren if I could get some of my money out of the safe,” he says. “And he just looked at me like he didn’t know me from Adam and said, “Sorry, mate - do I know you? And what money are you talking about?’”
Honestly, aren’t some people shits? The Boss and I are both so livid about the whole thing that, after Mr Edmonds leaves - having been promised that I’ll speak to the Police as soon as today’s surgery has ended - we both take a couple of large swigs from a bottle of Igor’s vodka that has mysteriously found its way into Andrew’s briefcase. And then we take a couple more.
“Christ,” I say. “What kind of society are we turning into?”
“I don’t know,” says Andrew. “But the Japanese put us to shame, don’t they? There they are - short of food, water, and with death and destruction on every side - and yet they wait in line, treat each other with courtesy and barely complain. And what have we got? The Darrens of this bloody world, taking advantage of a lonely old man.”
“Yes,” I say. “Who really only wanted a friend.”
I might be able to see that clearly but, when I start making enquiries on Mr Edmond’s behalf, it turns out that it’s not just Japan that I’m powerless to help. He didn’t get a receipt from Darren, or a signed receipt, and so there’s no proof that a crime was even committed, and nothing that the Police can do. Not while Darren continues to claim that Mr E is senile, and that there never was any agreement to “look after” his money.
“Shame none of us know a good forger,” says The Boss. ”Then we could create a receipt. Set a thief to catch a thief.”
Which sounds much worse in the light of the expenses scandal than it might otherwise have done.
PROBLEMS WITH BLOGGER
There seem to be problems with my blog loading via Blogger and am waiting for Blogger Help to come up with a fix.
Tonight’s post therefore may not load, for which apologies. Will find another way to blog if problem isn’t quickly resolved - probably via Posterous itself.
Have already cleared my cache and deleted all cookies but, if anyone has any other tips for dealing with this, please mail me at mid-wifecrisis@hotmail.co.uk
Thanks!
Molly
Total Politics Blog Awards 2010.
Thanks so much to those of you who voted.
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