Not the balcony scene

"I thought you said nobody could fail to be moved by Beethoven," says Vicky, as we stand up straight again.

"I did," says Ra. "But yelling 'Da da da Da,' repeatedly through Bad Lindy's letterbox is a more liberal interpretation of his oeuvre than I had in mind."

The front door remains obstinately shut.

"Time for Plan B," says Vicky.

"Must we?" I say.

"It's the only way," says Vicky. "Come on."

It's only after we've yelled, "Special delivery for Bad Lindy - and just wait till you see where they want you to sign for him,' at the tops of our voices, twice, that anything happens and even then it's only a window that opens.

"Go away," calls Bad Lindy, "Or I'll show you my scars."

"What scars?" says Ra

"Botched hemorrhoids op," says Vicky.

"Would she really do that?" says Ra, in awed tones.

"Oh yes," says Vicky. "Ask anyone at the magistrate's court. They all had to have post-traumatic stress counselling when she presented them as evidence, but they still did her for parking in a disabled slot."

"Oh, God," says Ra, looking distinctly ill. "And Tom chose to go in there with her?"

"Choice and free will are relative terms with Bad Lindy," I say."She's a predestination sorta gal."

"Tom," calls Ra through the letter box. "Can you hear me? Please let me in. I need to talk to you. I can't get the petrol cap on the estate to lock and we're surrounded by clouds of petrol vapour whenever I do more than 15 miles an hour. The children were both late for their recorder lessons yesterday."

"Talk about making someone feel wanted," mutters Vicky to me. "If I were him I'd tell her to sod off."

"Please, Tom," says Ra. "All my computer settings keep saying they're in an error configuration and flashing at me. What do I do?"

The window opens again.

"Is that really all I am to you?" says Tom. "A computer mending, fuel-cap fixing seven day a week handyman."

Ra thinks for a moment.

"Well, yes," she says "Mainly. Though, of course, it's not all. By any means. You're...you're....Oh, Tom, this is too difficult. Please let me talk to you face to face."

"You are talking to me face to face."

"No she's not. From down here, all she can see is the underneath of your chins and slightly up one nostril," calls Vicky. "It's not your best profile, take it from me."

"Oh, all right, Ra," says Tom, crossly. "And will the harpies be coming in with you?"

"Love you too," calls Vicky. "You bloody bet we are, with a welcome like that. Start slicing the lemon drizzle cake."

The door is unbolted. Tom's chins and nostrils, now presented from a more flattering perspective loom round the frame.

"You'd better come in," he says.