Bad Lindy - siding with the angels

"Do you think the NSPCC would back a campaign to reward infanticide with cash prizes?" says Vicky, wearily, looking round her kitchen, which appears to have been ransacked by troupe of of small, not very bright but incredibly well-armed mercenaries who are just honing their pillaging skills. "Just wait for Christmas. I'm going to franchise King Herod grottos with henchman helpers instead of elves. Think it'll catch on?"

Given all those advertisements that encourage you to text a number if you believe in children, but say nothing about what to do if you don't, I think this is unlikely, and say so.

There's the sound of footsteps followed by a muffled thud.

"Checking giblets on phone, didn't see step again," translates Vicky, raising her voice above the swearing. She lets Bad Lindy in, just in time to stop her dispensing with the tired old convention of opening the door and instead coming straight through the wood, cartoon fashion.

Bad Lindy stumbles to a chair, still clutching her phone. "God, he's gorgeous," she says. "Look at this."

"Who is he, and which bits are on display?" asks Vicky.

Bad Lindy looks as hurt as it's possible to get with lips slathered in so much Motherpucker Lip Gloss that they're not so much bee stung as savaged by several nests of hornets. "He's a fireman, Vicky, and he's in uniform." She takes another look. "Well, at least, half of him is."

"No, thank you," we chorus, righteously, pulling our eyes away from the phone screen.

We get down to the real topic of conversation - Cultured Mum and Colin - and the unlikely nomination of Bad Lindy, queen of bad behaviour, as champion of fidelity, marriage, and traditional values. There's only one problem. It's not a role she wants to take on.

"You've got to be joking," she says. "Why should I care what she gets up to? She's a snotty cow, anyway."

This is all true. And Ra's habit - she puts it down to nerves rather than innate pretention - of answering questions with questions or, on very bad days, of coming up with a mot juste, prefaced with, "As Flaubert put it......." is singularly annoying.

But the thought of living with Ra's interminable agonising about her emotional turmoil for days, weeks or months, in any language at all, is almost unbearable. And there's a practical dimension. Emotional destruction is catching. We've all experienced the pack of cards effect that one failed marriage can have, creating a wake that takes every other fragile relationship with it, too.

"Everyone's allowed the occasional flirtation," says Vicky. "But never with anyone called Colin. And falling in love is absolutely not on. If she goes, so will all the rest. Before you know it the place'll be stuffed with private detectives and court orders."

"Divorce just means more choice for the rest of us," says Bad Lindy. "Can't a bad thing."

We look at her.

"Oh, all right," she says. "What am I supposed to be doing, anyway? And what do I get out of it?"

"Well," says Vicky. "You know that really nice plumber I wouldn't let you near because I wanted to get the central heating sorted out?"

"Yes.." says Bad Lindy.

"Well, he's coming back in two week's time to sort out a problem with the timer. And I'm prepared to let you know when. If you do the business for us first."

"And what does that involve?"

"Well," I say. "Been listening to any Wagner recently?"

Springwatch

A blue tit starts visiting the bird feeder. Maybe as the result of one encounter too many with over-enthusiastic nature programme presenters, it has lost all its head feathers but retains its distinctive, darkly piratical markings on the skin underneath. This, together with the contrasting pinky-white baldness elsewhere on its scalp, haunted dark eyes and suddenly prehistoric-looking beak, contrast with its fully-feathered body and give it an unnerving resemblance to an avian zombie escapee from Shaun of the Dead. For two days it eats with a slightly desperate relish, then disappears for good.

Butterflies that became extinct decades ago breeze back from the grave, and Eagle Owls, attracted by the hike in woodland prices, take up residence in prime greenbelt locations, sending bulk prices for small, bite-sized dogs soaring to record highs.

Bad Lindy, bored during a quiet afternoon at the vet's, slathers on the Motherpucker Lip Gloss and feels the familiar tingling as her lips inflate 'up to ten times their normal volume'. She stands by the window, making faces, and watching for potential customers. Another tit, flying past, catches sight of a particularly vicious grimace and flies into a window.

The local paper reports a surefire way to spot criminals. 'Bike thief had dodgy eyebrows that met in the middle,' it says.

Francis gets a helpful list of hints and tips from a recruitment company: "If you're not sure what to wear, pay a visit to the company's office one lunchtime and see what the people who work there are wearing. Dress a notch or two above them." He bemoans the fact that the advice arrived too late for his spa bath interview. "If only I'd had the nous to turn up in full bishop's regalia, I'm sure things would have been different," he says.

In the supermarket, Beth is spotted by a woman who claims to be from a top model agency. She takes Francis's mobile phone number and promises to call him 'so you can see I'm the real thing.' She never rings back.

Woman with troubled marriage gets closer to the edge. "Told husband how I felt, then wept like I was vomiting. Look like pig and feel like shit."

Spring. What are you watching?

Men will drool

Bad Lindy's precious gift of a man has been averted, at least in my case, and with Dave the decorator building Vicky's garden shed very, very slowly - he's depressed this week - she does, at least, have some protection. No man, however keen, will want to risk Dave and his Stanley knife.

This worry out of the way, I am able to concentrate on the invitation we've just received. 'Dress: glam,' it says.

It's such a shame. Here I am, well versed in looking raddled, desperate, hungover or tired separately or together, all at the drop of a pelvic floor, yet people will insist on opting for the hope over experience route. I give it my best shot, though, and after some intensive work, assemble a dazzling range of looks to enchant my fellow party-goers.

Look 1:
With blusher and free range eyebrows that are bursting out in every direction to celebrate the arrival of Spring
Effect: woman embarrassed to discover that she's been attacked by a pair of long-haired woodlice.

Look 2:
With blusher and plucked eyebrows.
Effect: Woman who can now see how old she is and is very, very surprised

Look 3:
With eye liner.
Effect: Surprised woman with very small eyes

Look 4:
With mascara.
Effect: Woman who has replaced woodlice with a pack of spiders to block out view of the mirror

Look 5
With lipstick.
Woman who, thanks to the mascara, cannot see to apply lipstick, and simply looks drunk

Look 6:
With more lipstick.
Ageing woman who is trying to catch up with her lips as they slide down her face in a bid to escape from face forever and find a new home on a younger, fresher complexion

Look 7:
With all of the above and the addition of alcohol.
Ageing woman who no longer knows what she looks like. And doesn't give a damn.

I suppose I could always slather myself in Motherpucker lip gloss and go as a gigantic pout.

Men will drool.....in terror.

Bad Lindy's excellent weekend

"Lindy's at it again," says Vicky, at the school gates. "Check your texts."

I do, and she's right. Bad Lindy's Motherpucker lip gloss is working overtime. The window cleaner keeps texting her pictures of his pants. Always one to share, she now has more men than she can deal with. Rather than letting them go to waste, she's parcelling up the spares and circulating them to the rest of us.

"Hi there," says my message. "You don't know me. I met your mate Lindy out the other night.....she is well sexy and a great kisser but she told me you are the sexiest person she knows and I really should get in touch with you. Is this true?"

"No," I text back. Experience has taught me that Lindy's men, once fired up, are best not ignored, and can create awkward domestic moments.

I compare texts with Vicky. Give or take the odd syntax error, hers says pretty much the same thing. We look round. Several of the other mothers are also staring at their phones with expressions ranging from horror to bemusement. Lindy has clearly had a very active weekend.

On the way home, I'm just passing Lindy's front door when it opens and there's the sound of a crash. Lindy appears in the doorway.

"My mobile phone's just exploded," she explains. "I've just been having words with India about it."

It seems likely that India is in for a national crisis. In the background, Bad Lindy's parents, both tiny, almost silent people, who are paying her a visit, sit quietly sipping their tea, smiling benignly and totally ignoring the epithets and small bits of plastic that are filling the air around them.

"Did you get my text?" asks Lindy, grinning. "I think you need a bit of pepping up."

At least, with her mobile temporarily out of action, there's limited damage she can do, I think. Wrongly. When I get home, there's another text, from Vicky this time. "Lindy has given mine my address," she says. "Watch out."