A came of scruples

"I've got a text," says Cultured Mum.

"Oh no," I say. "Look, if it's a giblet picture, I can explain. It's all Bad Lindy's fault. Nothing to do with me -"

"Giblets?" says Cultured Mum. "Why would Bad Lindy send me pictures of giblets without the recipe? And it's months till Christmas"

"Why, indeed?" I agree, heartily. "So what's this text, then."

She shows me.

"This is fast turning into a came of scruples. C."

"A came of scruples?" I ask. "What's that? Some advanced musical expression?"

"I think Colin must mean 'game'. I've only just introduced him to texting and his fingers are so muscular from all that crumhorn practice that he has difficulty pressing the right letters. Anyway, what do I write back?"

"I've got no idea. How about suggesting a game of football? Then we could all come and watch."

She looks at me for a moment as if stunned by the brutal realisation that such enormous levels of insensitivity can be packed into a perfectly average body.

"This is my life we're talking about,"

In a way, it's reassuring to discover that Cultured Mum is relying on those same well-worn cliches that the rest of us have been picking over for years. It's also intensely depressing.

"Colin isn't your life," I say. "Tom and the children are your life. Think of Colin as an interlude. Heard once then totally forgotten."

"Or the theme music to a completely new series."

This is worse than I thought. I can only think of one person who might be able to save their marriage. That's assuming I can bear to meddle, which I usually can't.

"He's the most devoted son, you know. He lives with his mother."

Right, that's it. The final straw.

That evening, I get out my phone and send a text to Bad Lindy.

Ignition sequence has commenced.