Filth on a stick

"Did I tell you I was being stalked?" says Bad Lindy.

"You did," says Vicky, "I assumed it was attention-seeking and ignored you."

"I can't think why," says Lindy, with as much dignity as anyone sporting a non-attention seeking microskirt, microshirt, maxi cleavage and very little of anything else can muster. "In fact, I reckon I'm fast on the way to becoming a victim."

If my mouth is as wide open with surprise as Vicky's, you could pop in several elephants and couple of suburban housing developments apiece and they wouldn't even touch the sides.

"That would be after a total redefinition of the word 'victim' to include Vlad the Impaler and Stalin, then, would it?" asks Vicky. "Even then I think you'd be stretching it."

"Seriously," says Lindy. "I've had a very odd text. Frankly, I think it's filth."

Given the fact that Lindy has amassed so much male groin material that she's of setting up 'I-Giblet' - an online rival to I-tunes, but without the music, taste or variety, this is, if anything, more amazing still.

"Go on then," says Vicky. "Let's see."

It takes a while to locate the offending text, as Lindy's nostalgic wander through the sunny uplands that constitute her text archive reveals a cornucopia of giblets that bring back memories. Finally -

"- Look at this," she says.

A blurry, stick-like object, thick at one end, curved at the other is being lovingly fondled by a pair of hands.

"Disgusting, I call it," says Lindy. "Mind you, I'd be interested to know just how he achieved that angle."

A vague memory is stirring in my head.

"Forward it to me," I say, "I'm going to ask Ra. It's not what you think it is."

An hour later, I'm knocking on Cultured Mum's door. She answers it wearing a surgical mask across her nose and mouth.

"Gluten allergy," she says, lowering it to talk to me. "Just been diagnosed. If I cook with wheat flour, I have to avoid inhaling any of the particles or I swell up. You should see my stomach. On bad days it's up and down like a - oh, goodness, I can't think of a suitable metaphor."

"I can," I say, thinking of Bad Lindy. "Anyway, what happens if you need to blow your nose?"

"I've got Tom to build me a little circulating hankerchief on a roll. It works really well except I keep drying the dishes on it by mistake. I'm researching this idea I've got for a cookery book. I was going to call it 'Reaction-free Cuisine'"

"They'll be fighting to publish it," I assure her, then show her the text. Within seconds, either the colour's drained from her face or she's quickly dusted herself in icing sugar.

"A crumhorn. Oh, my God. It's Colin's favourite early music instrument. I recognise the hands. And just when Tom and I have got things on an even keel. We're booked in for his and hers allergen testing next week."

"Colin?" I say, slowly. "Now that is a surprise."

And leaving her to fend off the toxic wheat particles unaided, I make my way slowly back home.