Hurrah for constituency weeks! It's been a long time coming; we have clawed our way through committee weeks, groped our way through group weeks, ploughed through plenary, but finally, finally we have made it, blood stained and dishevelled, to the promised land. All the MEPs have shoved off back home leaving the Parliament beatifically quiet, a bit like that grove I sometimes ride I Should Rococo through back home when I'm feeling contemplative, only with facebook and coffee. And with no MEPs about to stop us every five minutes to ask for the email address of some ex-prime minister or minor royal, or to find out everything there is to know about bleached coral, we assistants have finally been able to get on with our real business: that of running the EU. Five whole days of being able to highlight the pertinent info in a committee report in green and yellow (as required). Sometimes, this is as exciting as the European Parliament gets. This is one of those times, but I'm not complaining.

The nice thing about constituency week (apart from the fact that my ruler is once again lined up with the edge of my desk.. bliss), is that there's been a little more time in the day to catch up with the gossip back home. Of course Tory Bear is my first port of call for all my gossiping needs, but I have to admit, I'm a little confused by this Liam Byrne kerfuffle. You mean there are MPs out there who don't demand soup and that everyone laughs at their jokes? I may have to alert Jackie – sorry – Mrs Foster's office to this interesting new development. A mutiny may ensue.

Now I come to think of it, it seems to have been the week for odd goings on. Did Gordon Brown really win an award for World Statesman of the Year? Were Kissinger and Bono really present? Was he really hailed as a hero for stabilising the world economy, and showing compassionate leadership? Combined with the almost eerie quietness of Parliament (although the canteen is still heaving at lunchtime – why? Why? Who are these people?), reading this story rather made me feel a little strange in a detached sort of way, rather like that time Jenny brought back that cake from Amsterdam that smelled a little like Rococo's food supplements. I had suspected that I'd dreamt the whole sorry episode, but no mere nightmare could be that ghastly.

Nevermind, I spent much of Thursday afternoon introducing the Americans on the floor to the delights of Yes Minister and Spitting Image. It was a sort of cultural exchange: they've had me watching the Daily Show all week with that awful socialist Jon Stewart, so I got my own back with the Chicken Song. It served two wonderful purposes: a) cleared the eerie cobwebs of Brown's award which were still clinging to my mind, and b) totally baffled the Americans. What more could you ask of a comedy song on a rainy Thursday afternoon during constituency week?

Ed: Well quite.