Bad Lindy's excellent weekend

"Lindy's at it again," says Vicky, at the school gates. "Check your texts."

I do, and she's right. Bad Lindy's Motherpucker lip gloss is working overtime. The window cleaner keeps texting her pictures of his pants. Always one to share, she now has more men than she can deal with. Rather than letting them go to waste, she's parcelling up the spares and circulating them to the rest of us.

"Hi there," says my message. "You don't know me. I met your mate Lindy out the other night.....she is well sexy and a great kisser but she told me you are the sexiest person she knows and I really should get in touch with you. Is this true?"

"No," I text back. Experience has taught me that Lindy's men, once fired up, are best not ignored, and can create awkward domestic moments.

I compare texts with Vicky. Give or take the odd syntax error, hers says pretty much the same thing. We look round. Several of the other mothers are also staring at their phones with expressions ranging from horror to bemusement. Lindy has clearly had a very active weekend.

On the way home, I'm just passing Lindy's front door when it opens and there's the sound of a crash. Lindy appears in the doorway.

"My mobile phone's just exploded," she explains. "I've just been having words with India about it."

It seems likely that India is in for a national crisis. In the background, Bad Lindy's parents, both tiny, almost silent people, who are paying her a visit, sit quietly sipping their tea, smiling benignly and totally ignoring the epithets and small bits of plastic that are filling the air around them.

"Did you get my text?" asks Lindy, grinning. "I think you need a bit of pepping up."

At least, with her mobile temporarily out of action, there's limited damage she can do, I think. Wrongly. When I get home, there's another text, from Vicky this time. "Lindy has given mine my address," she says. "Watch out."