Bad Lindy - siding with the angels

"Do you think the NSPCC would back a campaign to reward infanticide with cash prizes?" says Vicky, wearily, looking round her kitchen, which appears to have been ransacked by troupe of of small, not very bright but incredibly well-armed mercenaries who are just honing their pillaging skills. "Just wait for Christmas. I'm going to franchise King Herod grottos with henchman helpers instead of elves. Think it'll catch on?"

Given all those advertisements that encourage you to text a number if you believe in children, but say nothing about what to do if you don't, I think this is unlikely, and say so.

There's the sound of footsteps followed by a muffled thud.

"Checking giblets on phone, didn't see step again," translates Vicky, raising her voice above the swearing. She lets Bad Lindy in, just in time to stop her dispensing with the tired old convention of opening the door and instead coming straight through the wood, cartoon fashion.

Bad Lindy stumbles to a chair, still clutching her phone. "God, he's gorgeous," she says. "Look at this."

"Who is he, and which bits are on display?" asks Vicky.

Bad Lindy looks as hurt as it's possible to get with lips slathered in so much Motherpucker Lip Gloss that they're not so much bee stung as savaged by several nests of hornets. "He's a fireman, Vicky, and he's in uniform." She takes another look. "Well, at least, half of him is."

"No, thank you," we chorus, righteously, pulling our eyes away from the phone screen.

We get down to the real topic of conversation - Cultured Mum and Colin - and the unlikely nomination of Bad Lindy, queen of bad behaviour, as champion of fidelity, marriage, and traditional values. There's only one problem. It's not a role she wants to take on.

"You've got to be joking," she says. "Why should I care what she gets up to? She's a snotty cow, anyway."

This is all true. And Ra's habit - she puts it down to nerves rather than innate pretention - of answering questions with questions or, on very bad days, of coming up with a mot juste, prefaced with, "As Flaubert put it......." is singularly annoying.

But the thought of living with Ra's interminable agonising about her emotional turmoil for days, weeks or months, in any language at all, is almost unbearable. And there's a practical dimension. Emotional destruction is catching. We've all experienced the pack of cards effect that one failed marriage can have, creating a wake that takes every other fragile relationship with it, too.

"Everyone's allowed the occasional flirtation," says Vicky. "But never with anyone called Colin. And falling in love is absolutely not on. If she goes, so will all the rest. Before you know it the place'll be stuffed with private detectives and court orders."

"Divorce just means more choice for the rest of us," says Bad Lindy. "Can't a bad thing."

We look at her.

"Oh, all right," she says. "What am I supposed to be doing, anyway? And what do I get out of it?"

"Well," says Vicky. "You know that really nice plumber I wouldn't let you near because I wanted to get the central heating sorted out?"

"Yes.." says Bad Lindy.

"Well, he's coming back in two week's time to sort out a problem with the timer. And I'm prepared to let you know when. If you do the business for us first."

"And what does that involve?"

"Well," I say. "Been listening to any Wagner recently?"