Bad Lindy's party favours

Frances, rendered miserable by another rejection, has opted for an evening pacing up and down in front of the tv and refusing to be braced by logic, optimism or alcohol. "All anyone will want to talk about is work, especially the men," he says. I know I should stay with him, radiating love and kind words, but stocks are running low, so - yes, selfishly - I decide to go to the party and beam positive thoughts telepathically to him at intervals from the cricket club where it's being held.

When I arrive, the room resembles a before scene from 'one man and his dog'. Half a dozen guests are corralled at one end and Bad Lindy is on her own at the other, throwing peanuts in the air and keeping count of how many end up down her cleavage.

"I didn't know you were that friendly with Andy and Karen," I say. She leers at me. "I'm not," she says. 'Fifty five, fifty six. Whoops. Sixty. The dry-roasted ones just fall out of your mouth, don't they?"

Bad Lindy party etiquette is always a tricky issue, akin to the Bad Fairy scene at the beginnning of Sleeping Beauty. Invite her, and she'll turn up, drink all the drink, insult the women and then end with a virtuoso display of man rustling. Don't invite her and she'll turn up, drink all the drink, insult the women, take a man into the Ladies as hostage then then disappear into the darkness with another one tucked under her arm for later, like a late night kebab.

Seeing Bad Lindy neutralised by another woman, some of the guests advance closer, like timid woodland animals. Half an hour later, Bad Lindy has them eating out of her hand. More accurately, she has a small crowd of men all trying to help her get those troublesome peanuts out of her cleavage again. Her top is still on, but the men and, judging by her desperate looks, the hostess, all know that it's only a matter of time before a particularly hard to reach peanut necessitates its removal.

"How's Francis?" says a voice beside me. It's Lionel, who is something boring in the City. I explain, briefly. "I'd love to be made redundant," he says. I look at him incredulously. "No, really," he says. "With all that time on my hands, I could do wonders for my golf handicap." He has the smug look of somebody who knows that, boring and highly paid as he is, Francis' situation is one he'll never experience.

I am consumed by rage. "Excuse me for a moment," I say. I go over to Bad Lindy. "Lionel was just talking to me about you," I say. "Reading between the lines, I think he's very attracted."

Bad Lindy's eyes light up, Terminator style. She stands up, men and peanuts dropping off her in all directions. The next thing I hear is a small, surprised squeak as Lionel, smug expression and all, is engulfed by Bad Lindy's embonpoint.

As he is dragged into a corner, wife too stunned to work out a rescue plan, I raise a glass to Francis and all the other sad bastards out there. Cheers, the lot of you.