Publish and be damned. Or splifficated

An encounter between Bad Lindy and Cultured Mummy is a rare event, but one which is always keenly anticipated.

Cultured Mummy tends by inference alone - she rarely has to resort to anything as explicit as overt superiority - to occupy the moral high ground, to the point where most of us assume that if Cath Kidston ever launched a range of pastel-sprigged tents with a be-moraled motif, Cultural Mummy would have hers parked on the topmost peak, virtual steam issuing from the decorative kettle atop the solar-powered living flame effect camp fire.

If Bad Lindy were even aware that a moral highground existed, she'd be well on the way to using it as an off-road motor-yomping track for her 4x4, or having it bulldozed to improve the view.

Cultured M's name is Ra, short for Alexandra. It's not Bad Lindy's favourite type of name, combining poshness and silliness to an equal degree.Today, she arrives at Vicky's house bearing gifts for the kids and a broad smile.

"They're healthy - loads of fruit," she says to Vicky, handing a carrier bag to the eldest with a large wink.

The children disappear at top speed.

"Saw Ra today," says Bad Lindy. "Guess what she was doing?"

It's hard to know. Publically guillotining non-composting enemies of the people and having them recycled as flip-flops? Whipping up biscuits for the school fair that despite their no-fat, no-salt, no-sugar, no-gluten content are beloved by every child for miles around and sell out in minutes?

"No idea," says Vicky.

"I'll give you a clue," says Bad Lindy. "It makes her look like a complete tit."

"Almost anything, then...."

"Nordic walking."

I guess everyone's been there. The moment when the friend you admire, who knows little boutiquey places which treat you as if you're at least semi-human, reads the book as well as the reviews and can name the Iraqi Prime Minister - look, I never said my standards were that high - does something so manifestly aberrant that your friendship tilts alarmingly on its axis. Thus with Cultured Friend Ra.

"She said she was doing it in a group, it was wonderful and she'd never found exercising so painless yet effective. I said that at a distance all those waving sticks made them look like the invasion of the giant insect women from Planet Zog."

"I bet she took it as a compliment," says Vicky.

"She said she'd borrowed the poles to start with, but now she'd just had to dash out and get her own set."

"I said the only reason women bought poles was if they planned career in uphill waltzing in a club. She ignored me - but I don't think she could hear through the funny hat."

They both sigh.

"C***," they chorus together.

There's the sound of running steps and a child appears. "Mum," it says, "Lizzie's just thrown up."

Vicky looks suspiciously at Bad Lindy. "What did you give them?"

"A few Bacardi Breezers is all. Like I said when I arrived, there's virtually nothing in them except fruit. All that Vitamin C is good for them."

"You're going to come upstairs and help clean up. Then you're going to stay while I tell them what I think about drinking Bacardi Breezers."

"They're lucky," says Bad Lindy. "At their age all we had was cider. Kids. They just don't know they're born."

Judging by the sounds upstairs, not only do Vicky's kids know they're born, but they're rather wishing they weren't.