Flat pack men

Bad Lindy arrives while I'm at Vicky's house, struggling to put a flat pack chest of drawers together.

"What a waste of time," she says, eyeing our efforts.

Admittedly, we are at that difficult, in-between Frankenstein stage.

Nuts and bolts are piled appetisingly in a bowl like nibbles at a Terminator reunion party, and there's so much surplus wood - each bit, apparently, so vital to the structural integrity of the piece that if you insert it incorrectly the entire structure will immediately crumble to dust - that you could give everyone in the country free kindling at Christmas with enough left over to make a small, perfectly formed Wicker man.

Since the piano incident, I've been superstitiously reluctant to invite Bad Lindy round. As well as realistically reluctant. Leave her alone with your partner at the front door to say goodbye and there's always the risk she'll assume he's the leaving present, stuff him in a goody bag and take off.

"Can't you help instead of criticising?" asks Vicky.

Bad Lindy takes no notice.

"Now if men came flat-packed, there'd be some point," she says.

"Or plumbers," I say. "Or good electricians."

"And then you could decide what tools you wanted to accessorise them with," says Vicky. "It could be quite fun. Oh, f- this. I'll finish it later. Let's open some wine."