Breakfast coarse

'Had a good time at the sleepover?' I ask Deborah, as I collect her from Vicky's house.
'It was great,' she says. 'We stole all the DVDs with sex and violence, pretended we were asleep, then watched them till 3.15 am. Actually, we didn't need to pretend because Vicky had gone to sleep on the kitchen floor. And guess what we had for breakfast?'
Chez Vicky, it's anyone's guess.
White wine and nachos?' I venture. 'Vodka smoothies? Coco Pop crudites?'
'Breast pancakes, of course,' says Deborah brightly.
'Well, of course,' I say, looking back down the street to see if a social services SWAT team is even now breaking down Vicky's door.
Not that much later, I call Vicky to ask when exactly it was that she decided on anatomically correct portion control as the way forward in children's catering.
'It's a special mould,' she says, sounding, for her, a tad shamefaced. 'Lindy gave it to me ages ago and I'd shoved it in a drawer and forgotten about it. Little buggers nicked it. Still, it could have been worse,' she says.
'Why?'
'They didn't look in the other drawer. If they had, it would have been penis on toast, instead.'

Music and movement

"- so I hope you'll all take great care of it as it's a very special instrument that's been in my family for a very long time," says Sasha. "Don't you agree, Mrs Philistine?"

There's a pause as one of the teaching assistants, under instructions, prods me with the business end of a yellow and black HB school pencil, jolting me abruptly out of my sun-drenched, Sasha-less reverie and back to the grim reality of assembly.

I nod, dumbly, while the word 'instrument' - the only one to have reached me, conjures up visions of Sasha admiring her heirloom collection of various torture devices, all mellow wood and gleaming metal, buffed up with nowhere to go.

"What instrument?" I hiss.

"The piano, silly. Haven't you noticed it's different? Sasha's donated it to the school," the teaching assistant hisses back. Given a heavy drinking session with Vicky and Bad Lindy last night, causing every object in my line of vision to splinter agonisingly into zig zag lines - something that, in Sasha's case, can only be a blessing - it's as much as I can bear to open my eyes at all, let alone get them to focus.

"And now, let's have our hymn," says Sasha. "Something really uplifting. I think 'Morning has broken,' would be nice. Sorry - what was that, Mrs Philistine?'

"Just a bit of dry retching, Sasha. Nothing to worry about," I think of saying, but instead stifle my groans as I shuffle cautiously and agonisingly over to the piano.

It's during the opening verse that I begin to suspect that it's not just the morning that's having problems.

The piano normally cowers against the wall as if terrified, though, given the treatment it receives at my hands, who can blame it?

As my right foot aims, optimistically, for the loud pedal and, as usual, misses, thumping the wooden base instead, there's a juddering, creaking sound as if the piano is attempting to join in. Suddenly it's pressed up close against both my knees, like an attention-seeking labrador. "Down, Spot," I mutter - but it has no effect. Blackbird may indeed have spoken, like the first bird - but he's clearly not the only one.

And it's only just started. At 'Praise for the springing, fresh from the word,' I pump up the volume and the piano shifts a foot to the left. I follow it, lagging two beats and several keys behind.

'Sprung in completeness where His feet pass,' and there's a jolt to the right. I lunge again, hitting a random, though nicely arranged, bunch of black notes.

'Born of the one light, Eden saw play.' I can only be glad Eden isn't around now, as the piano hits the back wall again, though only temporarily and I fall on top of it.
I'm just getting the hang of what's coming to resemble a slightly unusual take on 'Simon Says,' when the hymn ends, after a third verse that sounds as if the Musique Concrete movement, acting en masse, has taken out Christina Rosetti with a length of lead piping and then fired the various body parts from a series of cannons.

"You seem to be struggling," says Sasha, after the school has filed out.

"Not at all," I say, wondering if there's a way of luring the piano back to the wall by using a particularly attractive little glockenspiel as bait. "It's just that the piano's particularly lively today. It's got a fine range, hasn't it. I'd say it could be as much as 20 feet."

There's a pause, during which I wonder whether I can get away with asking her to sign a request form to fit 360 degree castors to the piano stool together with sat nav.

"I see the problem," announces Sasha, inspecting the piano base. "The lock hasn't been applied to the moving wheels. I'll call the site manager and we'll get it sorted out within the hour. Obviously you'd worked that out."

"Obviously," I echo. "Mind you, leave it like this and it could add a whole new dimension to music and movement."

Over exposed

In the few days we've been away, my in-box has, as usual, been filled with messages from well wishers, all of them from Megadik.

"Things to tell a naked woman," is the title of one typically well meant, though unecessary piece of advice. In my case, "Stop it, Lindy," or "Did you realise you were doing the school run without on your clothes on?" do the trick every time.

There are also many, many photographs, all, according to the caption, on loan from satisfied customers.

They have an initial shock value but once I've pressed the delete key and held it down, retrieved my toast and marmite fingers from the keyboard and mopped up the spilled tea, it starts to wear off.

Given the attention paid to the composition (none); the focus (excitably blurred) and the central feature (elaboration unnecessary) it is obvious that they are the work of a recent though unlikely to be award-winning graduate from the Bad Lindy School of Giblet Photography (slogan 'No pictures knowingly taken above the waist')

I forward the picture on to her. "Were you responsible for this?" I ask, somewhat ambiguously.

"No," comes the reply, a few minutes later. "But pass me his phone number and I'd be more than happy to take him in hand."

Half measures

"Have a glass of wine and tell me which bedroom design firm I should go with," says Vicky. "What would you like to drink?"

"Anything as long it's cold and you fish out the sawdust first. You don't think you're getting a bit design obsessed?"

"Of course not. Now listen to this one. "'When we come to create your dream bedroom, closet or home office, we don't start with a tape measure. We start with a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit.'"

We look at each other.

"Is that a boast or a warning? Do you think they've had complaints from customers refusing to let them across the threshhold until they show that they're fully trained to handle asbestos and shortbread selections? And what have they got against tape measures? I mean, have you ever tried to measure a bedroom with a ginger biscuit, let alone a cup of tea?" asks Vicky.

"No," I say, laughing derisively. "Far too soggy. Just the same with Gypsy Creams. Everyone knows that when precision's required, nothing beats flapjacks. Given that they set rock hard you can mark them out in centimetres - though the syrup does tend to absorb the ink after a while. And I'm told that if you weld a couple together, you can even improvise a mitre block. Believe me, Vicky,all the best bedroom designers use them. This lot are clearly massively behind the times when it comes to tool kit biscuit ware. I wouldn't touch them with a bargepole."

"I think you're right," says Vicky, shutting the catalogue with a snap and picking up the next.

"This one sounds more like it. 'We'll talk about what you love, what you hate and what your innermost dreams are for your most personal space.'" She pales and double checks the cover.

"Bloody hell," she says. "You know, for a moment there, I thought I'd got hold of Lindy's list of New Year's resolutions."

Thin end of the wedgie

"You should have been there," says Vicky.

"Even if I had been, it doesn't sound as if I'd have recognised anyone," I say, "given that you were all wearing the same thing."

"How was I to know the fancy dress place had a glut of Marilyn Monroe outfits?" says Vicky. "Lindy and I left it all till the last minute and decided to go there together and when we arrived, there were only two left. The man eyed us both up and told Lindy she'd need the de luxe version, she asked what extras it came with and he said, 'an extra breast, love, and in your case I'd say it'd come in quite useful.'"

She takes a sip of wine.

"So by the time I'd told Lindy to put him down again and we'd all agreed that doing wedgies on a grown man wasn't funny or clever - though I'm still not totally sure Lindy really believes that - there wasn't really much opportunity for chit chat."

"Go on."

"We arrived at the ball and there were Marilyn Monroes everywhere. You couldn't move for them, though even without the extra breast it wasn't hard to work out where Lindy was. She was working her way round the Elvis Presleys and seeing how far she could pull down the zips on their jumpsuits without catching anything on them, so I could trace her by the yelps. And then I scored."

"You?"

"Not intentionally. I just felt really sorry for this poor old chap. He was all on his own on the dance floor and he told me how sad and lonely his life was - and then he tried to stick his tongue down my throat and another Marilyn tapped me on the shoulder and said she was his wife and would I mind awfully if she took him back and gave him his next lot of pills."

She opens another bottle.

"So we all had a few more drinks, then the taxis started arriving. I found ours but there was no sign of Lindy and I ended up borrowing a torch from the security man and shining it round the grounds until I found her behind a hedge and on top of yet another Elvis, retrieved her and tried to drop her at home but she insisted on coming in for a coffee and a gloat.

"Then she fell asleep diagonally across the kitchen floor and I couldn't shift her. I had to leave her there till morning and both the children fell over her when they came down to get breakfast. She slept all the way through Coco Pops, a full English and freshly squeezed orange juice. And then she got up for a pee and I realised she was wearing bits of an Elvis jumpsuit and almost no Marilyn. And presumably, somewhere out there there's a very confused man in a dress."

Table manners

Normally it's Francis who makes bizarre home decor decisions but this month, it's my turn. And I've taken full advantage of the fact.

The table was heavily reduced at the end of the sales and, judging by the torn and tattered nature of the price tag, had been for some time when I saw it - two enormous clues that could scarcely have been any more obvious if they'd come with big, red labels reading, "Don't buy this table," or "Unbeatable offer - exclusively reserved for the stupid and gullible!!!!"

Clearly my deerstalker hat and logical deduction gene is a more than normally recessed one.

"That's a very good price," I said to the assistant who gave me a look that I took, at the time, to be one of shared complicity but was, I now realise, a prime, "Is this one really this stupid or does she simply have a first rate sense of irony," expression.

"Mmmmm," she said, without committing herself.

"Large. Cheap. Slightly scuffed. Cheap. Solid..."

"And cheap," she chimed in, cleverly sensing the way my mind was working.

"I'll take it," I said.

She gave me another of those looks. This time I think it was tempered with pity.

"I hope the table's OK," said Francis, after he's dragged what looks like the hull of the Kontiki into the kitchen, "because it's so heavy I don't think we'll ever get it back out again."

He sets to work with a screwdriver and puts on the legs.

"Mmmmmmm," he says, as the fourth goes on, sounding like the assistant. "Right. Help me turn it over."

"A triumph," I say.

"Did you try sitting down before you bought it?" he asks. "No? Go on, then."

When I do, the fatal flaw strikes me. The table is ludicrously high. If you're less than six foot tall, sit down and your head bobs above the table top like a swimmer in choppy water. Deborah will struggle to see her plate in the evening, let alone manage to point her cutlery in the direction of the food.

"Bloody hell," says Lindy, as she sits down at the new kitchen table. "What sort of look are you aiming for? A tea time dwarves' symposium? Mind you," she adds. "It could be quite fun. I've always thought you come with some much more exciting names for Snow White's little friends........"

Blowing it

It's playtime and I'm just about to call in the children for choir practice. My plastic trousers are sizzling on the radiator like a left-field hors d'oeuvre in a low-budget cookery programme with a brace of shoulder pads, resembling refugees from an experimental sanitary towel factory, keeping them company.

Outside the hall, the children are, as usual, peering putting their heads round the door like tiny spies. Either they're struggling with the metaphysics of self, context and reality or else Sasha has bugged their healthy eating snacks with little cameras and is paying per second of compromising footage.

I text Bad Lindy, Vicky and Francis to update them on my morning so far:

"Think may have blown shoulder pads gambit."

"What about mixed presentation platter of oily fish? Known international friendship symbol," suggests Francis, whose brain has clearly performed a successful separation exercise from the rest of his body and is now living underwater and suffering from pressure sickness.

"Stupid c***," texts Bad Lindy, with the characteristic depth of sympathy and fellow feeling that's made her such a strong contender in the 'Confidante of the year' awards. "Try blowing the f****** recorder instead. It's the only language she understands."

As I pick up the special non-trip rubber casing into which the overhead projector lead must be inserted, thanks to new health and safety regulations, retching slightly as I encounter its own protective coating of old jelly and bits of second hand sausage, making it to tactile sensation what strychnine is to tea at the Ritz, Conrad appears.

"Miss," he says, "I don't really want to come to choir." I wink at him. "Conrad," I say,"I'll let you into a little secret. I don't want to, either. But if you don't let on, nor will I."

Bullying by numbers

"You're going to have to find out what's going on," says Bad Lindy. "He's started on the voice messages now. Listen."

She puts her phone on loudspeaker and an unearthly wail issues from it.

"That's the fourth one he's sent me. Pathetic, or what?"

"I think an early medieval classic called 'I'm a w****r," I say. "Though perhaps Sasha wouldn't agree. And if he really is going out with her, why bother hassling you?"

"Revenge, I'd have thought," says Vicky. "After all, we rescued Ra from a lifetime in overblown prose style in the nick of time."

"What's wrong with direct action?" asks Lindy. "Just lend me your school keys and I'll have the truth from Sasha in no time."

"What are you going to do?" says Vicky. "Conceal yourself in the stationery cupboard disguised as a Venn diagram and shout Fibonnaci numbers at her until her mind crumbles?"

"As it happens, I do a very good impression of a giant gluestick. You'd be amazed at how many hours people spend working out which bit unscrews."

"You're not going anywhere near the school," I say.

"Suit yourself. Then you're on your own."

"You just have to get closer to her," says Vicky.

"The only way I'm going to do that is by having my DNA melted down and recast in titanium. I'm convinced that woman can withstand anything. Come nuclear anhilation, I bet she'll be out there in the nuclear winter, building radioactive snowmen with the cockroaches."

"Not if me and my lead-stored firemen see her first," says Lindy.

"Ask Francis," suggests Vicky. "He must be an expert on getting on with people."

"He's only really good with fish," I say, "which is fine if Sasha happens to have kissing cousins who are haddock. But not otherwise. Though, now I come to think of it, he does speak fluent headhunter."

"Bob's your management consultant, then," says Vicky. "Ask him this evening, or if he's gone that fish mad, wiggle your gills provocatively. I'm sure he'll get the gist."

Crackers

There's nothing like teachers out on a bender, making it an experience that only the very mentally robust can possibly tolerate more than once a year.

Our school's staff do was originally scheduled for Christmas, which is why the room has been seasonally adjusted with piles of crackers and plates containing small fragments of turkey viciously attacked with cocktail sticks and then left for dead so they can get up to room temperature, just like the white wine.

It's been moved on by a month so we can combine it with a leaving event, thus saving on money, time and speeches.

To say there's a frisson of excitement would be to do a terrible injustice to two perfectly good nouns. As the staff convene - though, judging by appearances, 'congeal' would be more accurate - the mood is one of appalling resignation.

"How will we remember Elsa?" asks Sasha who, inevitably, is leading the tributes. Judging by the pause that follows, this isn't a rhetorical question but a real problem for the school.

I'm just about to volunteer to tie a knot in my handkerchief if it would help, when, fortunately, inspiration strikes.

"Elsa has has to deal with more incidents of vomiting than any other member of staff," says Sasha, brightly. Clearly feeling that she's struck a rich anecdotal vein, she starts listing the top ten barfing exploits in Elsa's professional repertoire, embracing and then thickly splattering, swimming pools, soft furnishings and handbags.

I wonder, meanwhile, if she's going to wrap up her speech by presenting Elsa, who's sporting a look that could be pride, regret or possibly rigor mortis, with her own specially commissioned strain of Novovirus.

It's hard to tell if the staff are swapping looks, or just entering the rapid eye movement stage of sleep, until I spot Caroline, the teaching assistant, who is stuffing crackers up her sleeve.

"I think the street price plummets in January," I whisper, as she starts on the other arm.

"Oh, bugger," she says, at normal volume, while Sasha glares. "What about turkey rolls?"

"Same problem," I hiss. "Your best bet is to fashion them into the crude shape of a bird and wait for lightning. If you can bring them back to life as an Easter chick you might find some takers."

"Do you think I could shove the whole foil platter inside my shirt?"

"Only if you tell the others you always shop in 'Mutant Turtles r us' - and even then I'm not sure you'd pull it off."

The party, based on a definition of the word looser than Bad Lindy's knicker elastic, grinds to a halt at 10.30. I stand on the pavement, ready to provide covering fire for Caroline with the cheese balls I've concealed in my handbag while she transfers the crackers and dessicated turkey into her car.

Sasha appears, gives us a cold gaze, then gets into a waiting car. An arm reaches behind her to pull the passenger door shut and I see the hand. Long, tapering, artistic fingers, coated thinly with long, artistic hair.

It's Colin. With Sasha. Quickly I get the phone and start texting.

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.

Poetry, please, with Bad Lindy

(With many thanks to Megadik's tireless - and poetic - team of spammers, from whom all these lines, with the exception of the last one, are taken).

Megadik
The quicker pecker upper
Its improbable effect on the phallus
Erectile organ, improbable Monty, titanic bodypart
Means
That when I've
fallen I can still get it up.

Or should that be Phallen?

Greatly exercised

"'Improvised fitness is great fun," I read from the 'Bumper Book of Oh My God Haven't they given up this New Year Exercise bollocks yet?,' a free insert that practically bounded out of the newpaper this morning shouting '1-2-3 and REST!'

"'You can exercise with anything lying around like ash poles, tyres, barrels, jerry cans, overhanging tree branches and kerbs. Allegedly."

We look round Vicky's sitting room.

"I knew I shouldn't have got rid of that improvised jerry can and old tyre raft I was building when I ran out of jigsaws for entertainment," she says. "Do you think you could substitute decorative twigs for branches?"

"Only if you're under two feet tall and can make really convincing grunting sounds when you balance them on one finger," I say. "Anyway, why do you care?"

"No, you're right. Why do I? So what if my six-pack is made entirely out of undigested mince pies - it's incredibly desirable, or so I like to think."

"Here we go. There's something called partner training. It says 'You can have a lot of fun exercising with a partner or friend - you may find it brings out your competitive streak.'"

We study the copious illustrations, which feature men so flat with fitness that they appear to have shed at least one of their three dimensions. Their expressions, in stark contrast to the fun suggested by the dynamic text, convey profound levels of resigned imbecility and their legs are entirely hairless.

"Apparently it makes them more aerodynamic," I say as Vicky runs a finger up and down one of the saddest-looking knees, possibly feeling for stubble.

"What on earth for? Unless they hire themselves out as kites in their spare time."

There are a couple of crashes and the sound of a muffled exclamation and Lindy appears in the doorway, wiping her mouth.

"Post's come. Pity about the postman," she says, snatching the booklet and studying the figures.

"Blimey. I tried a back to back wrestle once with somebody who looked just like those two," she says.

"What happened?"

"Wheelchair," says Bad Lindy. "Now get out the wine. Let's see if we can juggle a packet of crisps and a couple of glasses. Then, if you're still keen on exercise, we'll nip off down to the fire station. It's equipment cleaning day today. I'm sure they'll let us all join in."

Now with added blue sky and flowers

Ta, Mya (Missing you already) so much for my new award. It's adding a much needed dash of colour and loveliness that was sorely missing from my blog. First kittens, now flowers. At this rate we'll all be going to Lovely Land in a handcart.

Except Bad Lindy, of course. I mentioned the award to her, with some pride, and she immediately started work on one of her own - first recipient, me.

If it's ever offered to you, refuse it at all cost.

With the working title 'Sad Bastards trapped in Cyber space' award, it features giblets (naturally) as a reminder of what the real world has to offer and is also armed with a virus. The picture cleverly overrides the 'shrink to fit' command in the blog layout and, once in situ, is impossible to delete. Rampaging through your blog, it coarsens every heartfelt emotion, substituting rudeness for taste and guffaws for refined humour.

I, as you can see, was invaded long, long ago.........

Saddo saves the world

"God, you know some sad f******," says Bad Lindy, who has battered her way in to show me her pick of the year giblet texts, which she's thinking of turning into a calendar.

"I don't know them," I say.

"Then why are they writing to you? I mean, listen to this." Bending over the screen, with a faint sigh of regret that she's wasting a prime view of her derriere on such a meagre and ungrateful audience, she reads out my latest Freecycle messages:

"'Offered, backpack. Not clean, not new and not waterproof. Would suit slightly grubby indoor and gullible hiker.' And what about this one -
'Offered: Builder's buckets. All at least half full of dried in plaster or mortar but only one has a small hole. Also available, broken fax/answering machine. May be fixable if you understand the instructions which are in Japanese.'"

She looks at me. "These are people who seriously think that they're going to light up the life of some sad b****** by offering them a bucket you can't even throw up in? You tell me what sort of saddo is going to reply?"

I regain control of the keyboard and delete a couple of messages.

"Not you. Please tell me you didn't."

"It's supposed to be good for the environment," I say, sounding, even to my own ears, like the saddest saddo on the block.

"What, you're telling me that getting in your car and driving off to collect a load of rubbish you end up throwing out for good a week later is going to save the world?"

"So they say."

"If you're serious," says Bad Lindy, "the sooner we're all dead, the better." And pausing only to seize the computer, type, "Get a life, c***," and 'reply to all,' she and her giblet texts head off to brighten someone else's day.

Good cause and effect

"What the f*** are you doing down there." says Vicky, looming out of the later afternoon semi-darkness of the Tesco car park.

"Waiting for spring," I say, bitterly.

"Unless you've learned how to charm daffodils into coming up through tarmac, you're going to have a long wait," she says,

I'm perching on a small folding stool, so low down that unless swallows decide to abandon flying in favour of a tunnel, I'll miss them, and so precariously balanced that the only way I can avoid falling over is by resting my chin on the table on front of me.

"You didn't get conned into selling raffle tickets again, did you?"

"I did," I say, "and I've got the counterfoils to prove it."

Given that I missed Deborah's carol service, parent teacher evening, class assembly and quite possibly the moment of her birth, it's hard to resist her tearful pleas to do 'Just one thing right, Mummy and sell some tickets so the church hall doesn't fall down' - especially when she reinforces the urgency of her appeal by holding a carving knife to her throat as she speaks.

"Nobody's buying," I say to Vicky, "And even when they do I can't see over the top of the table to write down their phone numbers on the stubs."

As I speak, a man takes a look at the top of my head, all that's visible above the table top, and hurries away.

Vicky gets her phone out. "You need Lindy," she says, texting busily.

Five minutes later, Lindy's car screeches to a halt in one of the disabled parking bays. She swats a couple of indignant wheelchair users out of her way and sashays over to the table.

"Raffle tickets - why didn't you tell me earlier?" she says. "Here, give me some. I'm off to play pick and mix."

In thirty minutes, she's back. "Here are the stubs," she says, "And there's the money."

I flick through the books. "Brilliant job," I say, "but only some of them have got phone numbers."

"Oh, that's the ugly ones," she explains, and pats her phone. "The rest are in here. Tall, young, six-packs you could do your times tables on - and all so generous as well. I scarcely had to use any violence at all."

"So what if one of them wins?"

"Don't worry about that," says Bad Lindy. "By the time I've finished with them, they'll all be winners. Tell you what, why don't I send you some of the pictures - that'll put your mind at rest."

"No. Please, no."

"Please yourself," says Bad Lindy. "I'm off, anyway. Got a few calls to make." She winks, and goes.

It's just as well my chin's been resting on the table. The way my jaw has just dropped, it could use the support.

Morbid obesity for the living dead

Francis leaves early in the morning, shaking me awake before he goes to ask me if I think he should put a sign saying 'gone fishing,' on the car.

"Leave me alone," I answer, lovingly, "I'm in the middle of a dream about making you a cooked breakfast."

"Pity we've not mastered telepathy yet," he says, "because it's probably the nearest I'll ever get to having one." Pausing only to tip me forty quid - "Buy yourself a new set of matching insults, Madam - the old ones are getting very threadbare," he sets off for the airport, making me wonder why I thought watching Sense and Sensibility together would be a bonding experience.

"Forget sardines - what about line-caught firemen?" says Bad Lindy, hungrily, later, when I go round to Vicky's for tea, sympathy and bad puns after the school run. "Do you think they'll ever get round to farming them?"

"Not unless they're critically endangered. Mind you, the way you've been plundering their resources, that may happen sooner than we think," I say. "Sugar and hydrogenated fat special for you, Vicky?"

"No thanks," says Vicky, pushing away the plate - an unprecedented gesture from someone whose idea of a sophisticated tea time snack is half a dozen crispy creme donuts with lard topping.

"You what?"

"I'm thinking of trying this restricted calorie diet," she explains. Bad Lindy starts to back away nervously. "Is there somebody we should call?" she mutters at me. "What have you been saying to her?"

"It's all the rage this year, apparently," continues Vicky, gamely. "The idea is that you eat almost nothing and live forever, or as near as makes no odds. Obviously you have to weigh everything - in fact, they've even come up with a special calorie counter. And you go off sex. But apart from that, it's really, really good."

"Who invented it?" I ask.

"Some American bloke."

"And is he still alive?"

"Funnily enough," says Vicky, "He died in his 70s. Unluckily he got the only disease that prefers its victims half-starved."

"The only one? What about typhoid, dysentry or cholera?"

"Poor sanitation," says Vicky, primly. "No fear of that here."

"That's a laugh given the way your kids leave the loo," says Bad Lindy. "So let me get this straight. You get to lose all your curves, your libido and your taste buds in order to hang around with a bunch of calorie counting skinny octogenarian obsessives. Sounds like joining the undead, except you don't even get to terrify the neighbours with the pointy teeth and rotting skin. Mind you, I don't think their small talk's up to much."

"Well, yes," says Vicky.

"Way to go, girl," says Bad Lindy. She holds the plate out to me. "A little Victoria sponge with your morbid obesity?"

"Don't mind if I do," I say.

How to do parenting. Part 1

'My family, by Deborah
I have a family a not very kind one my brother always wants to play football and my sister when we go to fairs she spends my money and my mum does not sit with me at bedtime and my dad does not ever go shopping with me and they all don't love me'

"That child doesn't know she's born," says Bad Lindy, when I tell her. "Let me babysit one evening and I'll soon put her right."

"Dont even think about it," Vicky texts later. "Only time she looked after mine she got so over excited reading Fireman Sam to them they self-registered themselves on the 'at risk' list."

A feather from Lovely land

"Happy New Year," says Lovely Mummy to Vicky and me as we collect our children on the first day of the new term. A small form hurtles towards her. "Oh, sweetie, how was your day? Come and give me a big hug."

She and her daughter hold each other close. They are wearing identical coats, hats and gloves and no doubt would have gone for a 100% clothes match had the the school's brutal uniform policy not intervened - though her petite figure and ability to buy clothes for herself in children's departments means that a large sweatshirt and regulation hairband can't be completely ruled out.

Lovely Mummy is new to the area, and has yet to work out that some school run audiences are more sympathetic than others. "So, did you draw a picture of your guardian angel, like you said you would?" Her daughter nods, looking up at her with a radiant face.

"Woman's obviously got a paid residency in Lala land," says Bad Lindy, very nearly quietly enough not to be overheard. She's come to persuade either, or preferably both of us to thrust our children into the hands of the nearest gullible-looking parent and join her in a post-Christmas drinking session.

"I know it sounds silly," says Lovely Mummy, defensively, "but I'm quite sure everyone has their own guardian angel. You ask them something and tell them what sign you'd like them to send you as the answer. When I wasn't sure if we should move here or not, I asked for a feather if it was the right thing to do and two weeks later, a beautiful snow white feather floated down and landed in my hand. So I knew." With great dignity, she takes her daughter's hand and sets off down the road. We watch, temporarily silenced.

"Blimey," says Bad Lindy, "Let's hope she doesn't ask her guardian angel what it thinks of me. Forget feathers. Give it couple of weeks and she'll get a flock of pigeons flying over and crapping on her head."

Crimping the sausage rolls

"Surprise!" says Vicky, putting a plate of what appear to be utterly ordinary sausage rolls in front of us. We crane forward, waiting to recoil in amazement while the labrador puppy looks hopefully on. "Nope," says Lindy. "I'm not getting anything so far, apart from puff pastry crumbs up my nose."

"I crimped the edges," says Vicky. "Can't you see?"

"I think it only works before they're frozen," I say. "But the holes round the edges have a certain charm. And if they ever introduce finger-print based identification, I'm pretty sure they could use these for reference."

"You've got post-Aga guilt, that's your trouble." says Bad Lindy. "There's a part of you that's always going to feel bad because you're not decorating jars of home-made lemon curd with gingham ribbons. And that labrador's not helping."

"I rang the Aga man to see if he could come and dismantle the dog, too, and install it in a new home but he refused. Said they don't touch anything that runs on raw meat and walkies."

"You could always bring it round to the vet's," says Bad Lindy, eyeing the dog speculatively. "I'm trying to bring in bargain treatment options for the meaner pet owner."

"What do you mean?"

"Take euthanasia," says Bad Lindy. "You could have the luxury option for the discerning customer - chapel of rest, hand-finished casket, soothing massage - though that's obviously only going to be an option for the discerning male customer."

"And for the budget shopper?"

"Mallet over the head round the back of the surgery for a fiver."

"And how's that playing with the vets?"

"Funnily enough," says Bad Lindy, "they say it may need a bit of mulling over. The locum took me up on the trial massage, though we had a bit of a fight about just where the soothing oils should be rubbed in. Sometimes I just despair of getting them to see things from a commercial perspective. Mind you," she says, brightening, "Vaccination charges will shoot up this year."

"How do you know?" asks Vicky.

"Simple. I didn't bother sending out any reminder notices, so they'll all have to pay double and start all over again."

"And how's that gone down with the vets?"

"Haven't told them," says Bad Lindy. "I can't decide whether to break the good news when I negotiate my pay rise or leave it as a surprise for later on." She crams a couple of crimped sausage rolls into her mouth. "Honestly," she says, showing us with pinkish meat and greyish crumbs. "There are times when I just don't think they appreciate me."

2008 - first impressions

Bad Lindy:
Social life shaping up well - senior vet whisking me off to conjunctivitis work nite out - evening conference on eye infections in domestic pets. Can't wait.

Harassed mother
Took children to ice rink. Very crowded. Some c*** whizzed past and knocked son off balance. Legs went backwards, face forwards and teeth took impact. Needed emergency dental treatment and root canal treatment next week. Tooth dead cos so much broke off and will need crown. Root exposed so v painful and risk of infection. Happy f****** New Year.

Vicky:
First resolution for 2008 - never to spend another New Year's Eve in remote house with septic tank. They say there's a first time for everything - can't believe this includes laundering tampons, but there you are.