Free Diary of an Unsmug Married by Polly James Page A

decided to take the day off sick with his self-diagnosed Post-Traumatic Stress. He might as well have come into work, seeing as I seem to be the psychiatrist on call, at least as far as the usual suspects are concerned.
    Honestly, when Mrs Thatcher’s government got rid of long-stay wards for the mentally-ill, to be replaced by ‘Care in the Community’, it didn’t seem a bad idea at the time – until it become apparent that the two central planks of this new approach were conspicuous by their total absence: Care and Community.
    Now we – MPs and their staff – seem to be expected to plug the gap left by this minor oversight, so I decide to keep a tally of how many sane enquiries we get in a day.
    Today’s result is nine. Out of a total of thirty-three phone calls, and thirty-nine letters – and not including any emails at all. I don’t count the five Greg sends me, asking whether he really is the ugliest man in Lichford, so I think it’s pretty safe to rest my case.
    TUESDAY, 15 JUNE
    Mr Meeeeurghn has been convicted of murder . To add insult to my injured faith in human nature, it transpires that he can’t have his passport back because he is on bail and, anyway, he doesn’t need it to go home – because he can’t go home. His country of origin won’t let him back in. God knows what he did there, but my faith in the public has taken yet another blow.
    I email Greg and tell him that I don’t care if he is still traumatised, I need him back at work tomorrow to save me from plunging into a suicidal depression, caused by dealing with people with unpronounceable names who turn out not to be half as nice as they appear.
    It’s much harder to cope with such disappointments when you’re on your own – although there is one piece of good news today: The Boss has approved a new security door! Admittedly, it’s only a replacement for the one that Steve Ellington broke on his way out this morning, but even so.
    The viewing panel’s shattered, and the frame is all bent out of shape – but there wasn’t a mark on Steve’s forehead. God knows what his head is made of, but it’s something a hell of a lot stronger than my nerves. They are feeling completely shredded, especially after Johnny sends me an email in which he says that he loves my photo, but that I look tired and ‘in need of a massage’. What on earth ? Maybe the oil spill saga’s starting to mess with his mind now, or he and I are locked in a delusional co-dependency.
    I have no idea what the last part of that sentence means, but I quite like the sound of it. I got the bit about co-dependency from Sam, who told me that one of his internet dates had said it about their relationship, just before she dumped him for a used car salesman. (I’ve warned him over and over again to rule out any woman who lists ‘self-help books’ in the Preferred Reading category of her dating profile, but he never listens to a word I say. Like some other males that I could mention.)
    Max is about as far from being co-dependent as it’s possible to be this evening – with me, anyway. He barely says a word and looks very tired, so I leave him in front of the TV and catch up on personal correspondence at the computer instead. This doesn’t include emailing Johnny, as I still haven’t decided how to respond to him yet, but Greg replies to my earlier suicidal message thus:
    What about drinkypoos and a little outing after work tomorrow night? To include pizza and gin, then gin, gin and gin? I have a pent-up rage that needs dealing with, and minority groups will no doubt suffer.
    I ask Greg where we’re going, but he won’t say, and just tells me to put together a list of all our craziest constituents. (He defines these as the people in whose company I hear The Twilight Zone theme, which means it’ll take me hours to comply.)
    I tell Max that I have a date with another man, to see how he reacts – but he seems unbothered, presumably on the basis that he thinks I