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Despite the smell, Adelaide enjoyed sorting the washing.

She liked that the washing came with several decisions each of which had potentially awkward, but not life-threatening, repurcussions: where to put her brown cotton shirt – in with the darks or with the (generally shades of light) business shirts (his not hers); virtuous cold wash or more effective hot; quilt covers or just the sheets; flannels or just the towels; was this the weekend to do her favourite cardigan?

And as she answered each question to herself (darks, cold, sheets, flannels, no) Adelaide thought of her husband’s Nan. A most beautiful, glorious, warm and giggling Nan who worked in a cannery, but shopped of a Monday, baked of a Wednesday, and on Fridays did her wash.

And didn’t that just go to show that friendships are curious, glorious things Adelaide thought as she poured the softener in.

Adelaide, who had never owned a glomesh purse or sunbaked in the afternoon, wished that there were not such a strong correlation between age and wine and weight.

Adelaide had not expected to be rejected for a job for which she had never actually applied.

‘Well, dear,’ her mother said. ‘It does say that selecting the shortlist was hard, and that the quality of candidates was very high.’ Her mother smiled at Adelaide as she put the letter down.
‘I think it was nice of them to consider you all the same.’

Adelaide went back under her quilt and curled back into a ball.

Adelaide, who knew that being a bride was best, thought that there were days when being a bridesmaid was ace

Adelaide, whose signature dish was burnt butter reduction of whatever was the least rotten in her fridge that day, bought her beansprouts from the same place as Cheong Liew and her cheese from the place she had seen Paul Kelly shopping once (he’s from round here originally don’cher know).

But the best, the very best thing Adelaide had ever seen on her weekly visit to the Central Market, was the Young Man Choosing his Figs.

Young Man with short black hair, tight t-shirt hugging tight upper bod, looking at each of the figs very carefully.

‘They would have been perfect yesterday,’ the Young Man said to his girlfriend with a disappointed shake of his head. He did not put a single just-past-perfect fig in his basket. The Young Man’s girlfriend smiled, then nodded and she looked, Adelaide thought, at the slightly imperfect figs more than a little wistfully.

Adelaide, watching the Dance of the Figs from behind the selection of excellent, if expensive, potatoes smiled when she caught the girlfriend’s eye.

‘If you want figs, you should take a walk around Unley,’ Adelaide said then she smiled. ‘They’re dripping over the fences. I see people picking them all the time. No one seems to mind. It’s that kind of fruit,’ Adelaide said using her knowing voice.

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t one of those things she just made up so that she could talk to someone she liked, but didn’t know. What Adelaide said was true. In only the last week, Adelaide had seen the english lecturer (clearly now retired) who had almost ruined poetry for her; a young girl with piercings galore; a woman filling the trolley on the back of her little boy’s trike; and one small woman dressed in black.

‘Where’s that?’ the Young Man said. ‘Where did you say they are?’

‘Oh,’ Adelaide said, not sure what to say faced with quite such intensity. ‘Oh, you know, just in some of those lovely old-fashioned gardens around Unley.’ She smiled, trying to cool the rising heat. ‘A Good Fig is…’ Adelaide started a sentence.

‘…Very Good,’ the Young Man said, smiling a young and passionate smile. Adelaide noticed his girlfriend squeeze his hand.

Adelaide fanned her face and turned back to the potatoes which, in a market context, was not rude.

The spirit of the Young Man followed Adelaide from the organic fruit and vegetable house, along the cheese counter and past the bread. She was still thinking of him as she scooped rice crackers, then loose tea leaves into bags; picked up her tofu and lime leaves from the Chinese Grocer (the one where she had last seen Cheong Liew); and selected her eggs (which at that price had bloody better be every organic, free range thing they said).

He was still vaguely with her as she picked up the avocadoes – three for a dollar, so you can’t go wrong – where she noticed the little boy in the pram wearing a gorgeous green and purple striped suit.

‘That’s a gorgeous suit,’ Adelaide said to the little boy’s mother.

‘Thank you,’ said the mother with, Adelaide thought, an unecessarily strained smile on her face.

And when she looked again, Adelaide realised that the little boy was, in fact, more than likely a little girl. And Adelaide thought that perhaps she might keep her thoughts to herself next week.

Adelaide, who knew all the words to both God Save the Queen and Advance Australia Fair because her mother used to sing them whenever she got drunk, didn’t much care what they sang to the Queen at the Commonwealth Games.

As long as they sang it in tune.

Adelaide went to town.

She hopped on the tram with her youngest child, had coffee with her corporate happily-salaried husband (his shout) then picked up the fringe tickets she had booked for the excellent array of children’s shows.

It was not a cool day, and her little boy fell asleep as she wheeled the pusher from Rundle Street and back towards the Mall.

Adelaide crossed at the Hungry Jack’s lights, walked past the man still singing how much is that doggy in the window, past the balloon sculptor, past the woman painted in white doing that statue trick, the man playing the didgeridoo, the dudes playing footbag, the south americans offering to paint your name on a grain of rice, and bumped into Pluck.

They made her think of her mother and cry in the way that the sound of violins often did.

And still, her little boy slept.

Adelaide turned the pram around, walked back the way she had come, turned down that small dark street and waited at the lights.

She watched the students crossing towards her, but she felt no nostalgic pang, no twitch of I wish that were me. She crossed North Terrace and pushed her little boy up the Art Gallery ramp. The blast of conditioned air reminded her of the days when this had been her refuge, when she had hidden in here between lectures not wanting to go to the refectory on her own, afraid of what she might find in the undergraduate reading room.

Adelaide knew the painting she was looking for.

She did not mind that before she could reach it, she had bumped into one of those people she had not seen for years, but would still call on as a friend. He was there with his mother, just back in the city for the night. She did not mind that the conversation was stilted, that she still had nothing to say when people asked ‘so what do you do?’. She did not mind that he was not the only person who had stopped ringing whenever he came back to Adelaide.

They said goodbye, and Adelaide reached the soft, circular seat. She sat and looked around at the paintings from ‘victoria 1890s’ for 45 minutes. Every now and then she lifted the hood of the pusher and watched her little boy sleep and it was all she could do to stop herself texting everyone she knew to describe her day and to tell them that life was ace.

‘Look at this,’ Adelaide’s husband said quite late on Sunday night when the light had no right still being on. They had stayed up too late watching that lovely Alisa Camplin on the tele, and it was Monday tomorrow with business shirts to iron and school lunches to be made. ‘Phillip Adams telling the world he was Kerry Packer’s long-time confidant.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Is there anyone in the world that man hasn’t had a close encounter with?’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Except me of course.’

‘And me,’ Adelaide said, but her husband didn’t reply.

Adelaide’s husband – an increasingly bitter man – threw the magazine to the end of the bed then picked up his copy of BRW.

Sometimes, Adelaide worried that she didn’t understand her husband anymore.

She leaned down, picked up the magazine and skimmed the article. It really was getting late so she read just the first few paragraphs, then skipped to the last.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘Phillip Adams reckons Jamie and Gretel are polite, delightful kids.’ She smiled. ‘I think that’s nice,’ she said. ‘I think that’s a nice way to end.’

Her husband just coughed, then turned out the light.

‘Is this your Mum?’ Adelaide asked the girl who had stuffed the pamphlet into Adelaide’s letterbox.

The girl stopped, turned, looked at Adelaide. She squinted, then nodded at Adelaide in a what’s-it-to-you kind of way. She took a jelly snake – an orange one – from the bag in her pocket, wrapped it around her pointer finger then sucked it off her finger with a loud and squelchy pop.

‘D’you have to stuff these envelopes last week?’ Adelaide asked. Her own fingers pulsed with the paper cuts of elections past.

The girl nodded again. There was a small piece of orange snake stuck to the front of her tooth.

‘Has your Mum promised you a sleepover when the election’s over?’ Adelaide asked.

Another nod.

‘Three friends?’

‘Four,’ the girl said. ‘And boys until midnight.’

Adelaide had never thought to ask for boys.

‘How much you getting for election day? For handing out the how-to-votes?’

‘Thirty bucks.’

Adelaide smiled.

‘Tell your Mum my Dad promised me twenty five in 1983.’

The girl squinted again. She bit at her top lip, then her bottom.

‘D’you ever get paid?’ the girl asked.

Adelaide smiled and wished that a grown woman could ask a fifteen year old to share her jelly snakes.

‘Do you want your Mum to win?’ Adelaide asked.

The girl’s shoulders slumped just a little before she lifted her chin, flicked her hair and took two jelly snakes from the packet. They were both that dark pink – almost maroon – that had always been Adelaide’s favourite.

‘You’d better get going,’ Adelaide said. ‘I bet you’ve got this whole suburb to do.’

The girl sucked off the last jelly snake, then turned and walked away.

Adelaide moved to the front of the letter box, took the texta from her pocket, bent down and added a line to her ‘no junk mail’ sign.

And that includes all material related to the democratic process.

Adelaide stood back and cocked her head to the side as she looked at the letterbox. The words looked a little stark. She moved back in, added another line.

What you tell me now will make no difference to the way I vote.

Then Adelaide got in her car and drove to the shops to buy her own packet of jelly snakes.