Keeping score

All about us, top executives, refreshed from their holidays and sporting just a dash of bronze tan - not so much Greek God as lightly grilled organic steak - are springing into their top of the range executive cars, ready to take on the world and every sales target it can throw at them.

Francis, in contrast, is reluctantly packing his briefcase as he prepares to start the low-paid, low-status job from which there is no escape bar death - or, of course, redundancy, assuming of course that he hasn't exceeded the government limit for farewell lunches in any calendar year.

He polishes his oldish but still serviceable car, keeping a just audible and slightly depressed tally of the rust spots that are erupting through the paintwork like a motorised version of teen acne.

"It must be puberty," I say, brightly, bringing him a cup of coffee as he rubs away at let another blemish on the bonnet, hoping against hope that it will turn out to be a bug smear.

It's not just the work. Francis, once again, has been trying his hand at growing vegetables, a prime example of hope over experience if ever there was one. Our colony of Kung fu slugs, which last year demolished four courgette plants, spikes and all, with barely a belch between them, is now in search of more exciting gourmet eating experiences and has settled on Francis's pumpkin plants.

These started off in a cold frame. The slugs bunked down under the wooden supports and charged up the stems as night fell. He moved the plants on top of the cold frame. The slugs acquired binoculars and moved with them.

Now the pumpkins are four feet up, perched precariously on the sloping roof of the wood shed. Joining them for capuccino and brunch early this morning was a fine, brown slug.

"How do they do it?" asks Francis, in despair.

"I reckon they've got a lookout who shins up a tree and blows a whistle to the others when he spots them," I say.

When Bad Lindy phones to unveil her Secret Weapon in the Colin/Ra saga, he is less than receptive.

"There's some sort of screeching and a lot of swearing," he says. "Must be for you."

"I have got the best ring tones," shrieks Bad Lindy "You gotta listen. If these don't show Wagner for the musical retard he is, I'll eat -"

"It's all right," I say hastily, "I'll use my imagination."

"I reckon just one of these will blow those two apart like dynamite on a fish farm. Hang on, I'll turn the volume up."

There's a pause, then:

"Don't move, you're surrounded by armed bastards," fills the air.

"It's from 'Life on Mars'" says Lindy. "Isn't it brilliant?"

"Keep going," I say.

"OK," she says. "This is Alan Partidge."

Another pause, then "I am hung like a donkey," bores into my eardrums.

"Not sure," I say. "In their current mood, it might just encourage them. And it doesn't really accessorise terribly well with 'The ride of the Valkyrie'."

"What about this, then?"

I jump back two feet.

"Pick up the f***** phone, you c****," yells an aggressive voice.

"Artistic, subtle, very you - but what are you going to do with it?" I ask.

"Colin doesn't know it yet," says Bad Lindy, "But he's about to get a state of the art phone. Just in time for the concert."