This week I watched The Undoing, and it’s left me slightly undone - a bit bedraggled and confused, akin to a distracted and hungover mum on the school run who’s wearing a pyjama top under her coat, and is worried she left the GHD irons on.

There is so much that perplexes me about it – is there a blood-drenched clue in the opening credits? Nicole Kidman, who stars in the series, also sings the theme, ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’, and there’s a bit where she goes all weird and swoopy high-pitched, sort of Kate Bush-esque, while a child version of her pops bubbles with a chubby finger. This whole show is a bubble-popping exercise, and it’s left me rather demented. Though, obviously, not as unhinged as the killer, who battered Elena Alves until her head was ‘mush’. It’s a peculiarly grim detail they keep coming back to – whoever dunnit must really be very bad indeed. So, who did it?

It’s Nicole Kidman. It’s the son. It’s Hugh Grant. No, it’s not; it’s Nicole’s dad, he paid someone. It’s definitely Nicole, she’s so nervy. Or maybe it’s the Reardon School headmaster? He seems like a bit of a psycho. What about the husband? No, it can’t be him, too obvious. Could it be his kid? He found the body, after all…

That’s the thing about The Undoing; it turns you into the kind of frothing finger-pointer who gathered to gawp at a Salem witch trial. It’s like a national game of Cluedo, except Professor Plum has already been arrested. It very much looks like Hugh Grant did do it, which means he can’t possibly have, which means you have to target everyone else – the less likely the better. And you make your accusations with zero evidence or indeed any kind of reasoning at all – just random hunches based on a fuzzy camera angle, or the close-up of a darting eyeball.

Nicole’s eyeballs are doing a great deal of darting, presumably because the rest of her face doesn’t move at all. She looks extraordinary – the same body type as the Kelpien Saru in Star Trek: Voyager, and possibly the same ability to sense danger, always jumping at things with the air of a woman who’s lived in witness protection. But if she was really interested in self-preservation, surely she wouldn’t wander the streets and deserted parks of New York in the middle of the night, dressed as a rich person?

There are a lot of rich people in this show – the kind of unimaginable wealth that can afford muck-raking lawyers, cars to wait outside parties, and innumerable outer-garments. I had an extreme case of coat-envy – the green Game of Thrones wrap Nicole keeps stalking round in is gorgeous, as is the cape she wears when she strolls past the murder scene.

Evidently, she’s hiding something, but aren’t they all? That’s why they all did it, at one point or another, according to me. In the first episode, my husband and I were suspicious of the victim’s breasts, because there had been so many shots of them, and references to them, that we decided they must be significant, and maybe Elena Alves was bludgeoned to death by her own magnificent tits. What a way to go.

You may gather that I’m not taking this too seriously, and that’s because I don’t believe it should be taken seriously, for The Undoing was written by the man who gave us Ally McBeal. He’s big enough to take this kind of accusation. It’s fun, frothy, finger-pointing entertainment, but deadly serious drama it is not. David E. Kelley knows it, Huge Grant knows it, Nicole’s eyeballs know it. It’s the one thing I do know, because I don’t have a Scooby whodunnit. Although my money’s on Donald Sutherland, in the piano room, with Henry’s violin.

• The Undoing, 6 episodes, HBO