Overtures and beginners

"Oh, go on, let me keep watch. They'll never spot me," says Bad Lindy, who has arrived at the concert hall wearing a scarlet jacket and matching leer that is slightly less unobtrusive than a fleet of fire engines, but only just.

There's an hour to go and we're all in position. Vicky is stationed by the entrance and I am in a dark corner with Bad Lindy, who is making strenuous, though so far unsuccessful efforts to disguise herself using native cunning and any raw materials that come to hand: in this instance, an attractive young attendant.

It's already getting crowded when Vicky joins us. "They're over there," she mutters, pointing behind her.

Colin and Ra are in the queue for drinks. They look serious and absorbed. Colin isn't audible, but Ra appears transfixed by whatever it is he's saying, nodding vigorously at intervals and clearly in total agreement.

"Over to you, Lindy," says Vicky. "Aim for his case."

Lindy picks a phone from her pocket, and, using the attendant as cover, wanders behind Colin and Ra. She stoops, briefly, apparently checking to see if she's dropped something, then, as she stands up, very quickly posts the phone inside Colin's briefcase.

"Phase one accomplished," she says, as she arrives back. "I'm going in. Wish me luck."

A few minutes later she calls us. "They must be in love. I've never heard such a load of b******* in my life. Here, I'll hold up the phone."

Colin's small, whiny voice is chewing up the syllables, one by one.

"Now take that remastered HMV version. I thought Isolde was in superb voice," he says, "though the dynamic quality was somewhat lacking."

"I never felt she reached her true pianissimo, especially in her initial entry," says Ra, earnestly.

There's a snort as Bad Lindy's laughter ricochets off the double entendres.

"How did she manage to get so close?" I say. "She must have disguised herself as the entire string section."

"What about that double bass build up to that ominous, surging Liebestod climax. You could almost see them being enveloped by that tsunami of sound." says Colin, "A breathtaking moment."

There's the associated scraping and puffing of an orchestra tuning up, applause for the conductor and singers, and then they're off. The music surges, rises, surges, rises - "God, if it was a bloke you'd be hiding the Viagra," - says Vicky and then dies away temporarily.

"I'm doing it - now," says Lindy. "Bye for now." The phone goes dead. We steal up to one of the auditorium doors and open it a crack.

The music is at it's softest when a sudden, alien sound rings out, so loud that even Vicky and I can hear it.

"Pick up the f***** phone, you c****," it shrieks. And it's coming straight from Colin's briefcase.