Performance nerve

"Offered: two clown dolls. One with a scary laugh, the other with china head," reads Vicky, over my shoulder, as I delete Freecycle messages. "Sounds like Bad Lindy and me. Or a souvenir edition of the Spice Girls. And there I was hoping for Charlie's Angels."

Vicky and I are trying discover a way of acquiring tickets to the Wagner concert that Colin and Ra will be attending. Bad Lindy, who can survive in a woman-only atmosphere for a maximum of 30 minutes before requiring an emergency giblet infusion has gone to investigate an interesting-looking hole in the road which comes accessorised with a full set of even more interesting-looking workmen.

"I thought you were aiming to turn us into a sort of rapid response emotional task force," says Vicky. "It's more like a headless chicken brigade. And I'm getting bored."

She looks out of the window on to the road. "Oh, the first one's is missing his shirt. And he's fighting Bad Lindy for control. And....oh, I don't think she should have done that. I'd better let her in."

Bad Lindy appears, breathless and triumphant, clutching a T-shirt. "I always love the souvenirs," she says. "Look, are you getting this flaming concert sorted, or not?"

"It's a sell out," I say, gloomily.

"Why can't I just talk to Ra, anyway? Say on a dark night, just her, me, the moonlight and a couple of incriminating texts that I threaten to tell Tom about. That would do it."

"It's too risky. I think she'd just tell you to go ahead."

"Can you get hold of texts?" I ask, temporarily diverted. Lindy looks modestly downwards. "There's nothing like getting to know a really good fixer. I'll tell you about it sometime. Incidentally, he can arrange tickets, now I come to think of it."

We restrain ourselves from giving her a good slap only by thinking about hard she'd be likely to slap us back.

Two minutes later, she snaps her phone shut.

"Sorted. But I'm afraid he can only get hold of one ticket. Says the punter won't be able to make it. Apparently, he'll be very ill that evening. Shame, really."

"Don't even ask," Vicky mouths at me. "That's fine. You can go in, show Colin in his true colours and we'll wait outside."

"How much of his true colours do you want to show?" asks Lindy. "It's a concert hall, not a butcher's."

"No giblets," says Vicky, firmly.

"Probably just as well," says Lindy. "Well, a girl's got to draw the line somewhere."