The Myth Of Chocolate, Undercover Operations And Does Size Matter?

"Thanks for the photo," says Johnny, in his first email of the day. "I miss you. Though I don't much like the hat you're wearing."

"It's a political statement," I say. "I am taking on all the big tax-dodging companies."

"Oh," he says, "So I take it you won't be sleeping with me, then?"

Bugger. I hadn't thought of that. I am doomed to have no sex-life between now and death. Which sometimes can't come soon enough, especially when Miss Chambers has already phoned twice this morning. I'd quite happily pepper-spray her, now I come to think of it.

"How many millions in dirty oil money do your lot hide away, then?" I say. "Just out of interest."

"I couldn't possibly comment," says Johnny. "To quote you and your lot. But you could always go under cover and investigate me as part of your campaign. While wearing no clothes, of course. Anything less - or rather, more - would immediately make me suspicious and you'd be rumbled before you'd discovered anything at all."

Honestly, has Johnny no idea how distracting that sort of thinking is? I do wish Max would stay awake at night a bit more often. In fact, it's probably his fault I am at the mercy of a smooth-talking oil baron, so I don't need to feel quite so horribly guilty. A woman has needs, after all. And not for chocolate, either - no matter what Cadbury and Lindt may try to claim.

Anyway, first I'm a bit distracted by the image Johnny's conjured up, and then the phones go mad before I can reply to him, so my needs go unmet, as usual, while I deal with Miss Emms and her psychotic guinea pig, and Edmund Beales' rapidly-increasing obsession with all things high-visibility. I bloody well hope no *CPNs are going to be made redundant, that's all I can say.

The usual suspects take up so much of the afternoon that, by the time I send Johnny another email saying, "I'm back - where are you?", I get an Out-Of-Office reply advising me that he's now en route to an ex-Soviet Union country whose name I can't even begin to pronounce. And where woolly hats would definitely be an absolute necessity - even when naked and working undercover.

I hold that thought while Greg shuts down his computer and rushes off to a branch meeting. Then I put my hat back on, and lock up - while praying that Josh will be out for the evening, and that Max will actually stay awake for more than five minutes.

You never know, investigating his company might pay off, too. Seeing as it could also be avoiding tax - even if on a much smaller scale than Johnny's.

Talking of relative size, I wonder if the fact that Max is tall and Johnny isn't has anything to do with why one of them is so much more of a go-getter than the other? As well as signifying other, less immediately-obvious (albeit rather important) physical differences?

Maybe I'll start my revolution at home. Just until I get the hang of it.


*CPNs - Community Psychiatric Nurses. There aren't enough of them to manage the usual suspects. Not by a long chalk.