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motion. And despite her having the perfectly good name of Sara Louise, the nickname had stuck and she was rarely called anything else.
    Jill paused in her reminiscing and glanced over at the tableagain. Cricket had collected her pencils and was now sitting at the table, swinging her legs and methodically replacing the pencils into their correct slots in the tin. After contemplating her daughter for a few seconds, Jill deliberately changed the focus of her eyes until Cricket and her pencils became blurred and she was able to superimpose over them a scene more to her liking. First the honey-oak table was transformed into circular cane with a glass top, then the family room itself was erased and replaced with blue skies and sunshine. To go with the sunshine, she added a creek, bubbling with clear, clean water that frothed over the few rocks in its path as it made its way past the cane setting, which was placed safely on the grassy verge. Lastly, with considerable effort, she morphed Cricket into a dark-haired, swarthy stranger and dressed him in casual slacks with his shirt half open to reveal an olive, but not too hairy chest. As an added touch she popped a boater on his head and a cigar in his hand.
    Once the image was in place, she fantasised she was sauntering in a leisurely fashion over to the cane setting, wicker picnic basket in hand. When she got there, she tossed her hair back with a shake of her head and gave her companion a slow, seductive smile before starting to unpack the hamper. All the while he watched her, a smile flickering around his chiselled lips. Then, when the table was laden with delicacies, she poured them both a glass of wine and, looking deeply into each other’s eyes, they entwined their arms and drank deeply. Some of the wine spilt and they laughed – hers an effervescent tinkle of merriment, his a deep-throated chuckle. Without letting her gaze leave his, she picked up a cloth and proceeded to wipe up the spillage . . .
    Damn, Jill thought with disgust, even in my fantasies I’m still the one doing the housework! And why a cross between Bing Crosby and Al Pacino? She refocused her eyes andimmediately the swarthy stranger was transformed into a three year old redhead systematically snapping pencils into position while muttering fiercely under her breath.
    And now, on top of everything else, she had a headache. Probably caused by the intense focusing required to change Cricket into somebody she actually wanted to spend time with – or by the incessant high-pitched whirring of the damn beaters. This thought was followed, lightning-quick, by the realisation the high-pitched whirring of the damn beaters had been going on for quite some time. Sure enough, a glance confirmed she was now vigorously beating a bowl full of thick, pale yellow butter. She flicked off the mixer.
    ‘Shit!’
    ‘Hey! You thaid thit! How come you can thay thit and not me?’
    ‘What have I told you about enunciating?’
    ‘Okay then – you said shit! How come you can say shit and not me?’
    Jill was saved from replying to this by the shrill tones of the telephone on the kitchen wall. On her way to answer it, she picked up the texta and made four large black crosses on the whiteboard, narrowing her eyes threateningly at her daughter while she did so.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Jillian!’ Corinne, her eldest sister, shrieked down the line. ‘Thank the lord you’re home!’
    ‘Where else could I be?’ asked Jill with feeling.
    ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Now listen.’
    Jill could see Cricket’s mouth moving suspiciously but couldn’t actually hear anything, so she put the marker down, turned her back on the child and leant against the wall. ‘What’s up?’
    ‘What’s up ? You ask what’s up ?’
    ‘Well –’
    ‘Let me tell you what’s up. You won’t believe it. First Charlotte’s recital was cancelled this morning. After we’d got all dressed and ready! Then, to make her feel better – the poor child