Moderate support

So far, Francis has met fifteen headhunters and ten prospective employers. In adddition to Mr Tosser, he's been turned down by two companies for being over-qualified; one vinyl flooring company for being under-excited, and by Posh Headhunter for not having enough hair - at least, in the right places.

This week, he's going back to see the merging companies which are now so involved with each other that they're almost ready to consummate the relationship with a candlelit announcement for two and a short but moving exchange of ringtones by the chairmen. But, like dippy lovers everywhere, the sheer excitement of the thing - should the new logo feature both the bride and groom's names? - is making them horribly indecisive, especially about the sort of employee they should be hiring together. Senior....or not? Experienced ..... or not? Oooh, it's so difficult to choose, they giggle.

While they mull over the candidates like a box of assorted chocolates, Francis' nerves are a little strained. I try to keep my questions light but supportive, wondering just when it was that a sports bra became the best role model available to me.

"So, what's the toughest question you've been asked so far?" I say.

"This one," says Francis.

Forget sports bras. I think we may be talking hernia trusses.

I know how to please my man. In a matter of seconds, I have transformed myself into a miracle of erotic desire and he has forgotten all his troubles, at least during the sultry half hour we spend together.

As if. This is mid-afternoon weekend reality with three children and two pets, all of whom see the remotest sign of tenderness as a challenge to their attention-seeking abilities that must not go unanswered. And the only way I'm going to achieve transformation into an erotic anything is with a blowtorch and a large crate of miracle filler.

Instead, the phone rings with a litany of things we've forgotten. In seconds, I've knocked back a few Dylithium crystals and am preparing to cross the universe via an intricate network of wormholes so that Leo can be delivered on time to the football training session that started half an hour ago; Beth can be at the other end of the galaxy to listen to a friend charming the locals with her wind band and Deborah can open channels of communication with alien lifeforms by cross-universe screaming.

Having triumphantly negotiated the time/space continuum, thanks to graduating with distinction in module three of the Government's enlightened new training scheme for mothers, "Your child remains government property and must be surrendered upon demand," I am a few miles from home when smoke begins to pour out from underneath the dashboard.

We're passing a government building at the time. Because of the bomb fun of the last few days, police are everywhere, checking cars and noting numberplates. Mindful of Vicky's recent car-burning exploits, I pull in, wondering if the car has Al-Quaeda sympathies. Either that, or it resents the new ban on smoking and has taken to consuming 40 a day in public places just to get its point across.

I get out and am completely ignored. I call Francis who arrives, opens the bonnet, checks the wiring and re-starts the engine, looking both weary and slightly disbelieving. This is the point when I want the car to belch one more tiny, but conclusive blob of smoke from under the dashboard so I can yell, 'Exhibit A'. Nothing happens. Fortunately, the smell of old burning remains.

"Hmmm," says Francis. "It's got a plastic aroma, with undertones of rubber." He sounds like a wine taster. "I think it's simply something that got caught on the manifold."

He sounds so authoritative that that some weak, feeble heroine of yesteryear, all I can do is simper up at him like a girlie weed.

Vicky replies to an earlier text.

"Is ure car ablaze? Honestly, that's sooo last wk! And its my job. Get a disaster of your own, u tight bitch."

I show it to Francis and he laughs as he drives us home. It's clear that the whole incident has made him feel a lot better, if only for the fact that I still have no clue exactly what a manifold is.