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Monday 3 January 2000

Stephen and I take the kids to Scullys Gully where we spend an idyllic day with Mettina and hangers-on. Nick's still only 12 but acts like a 21-year old soapie star. His brown skin, white teeth, classic profile, and skinny body with muscles beginning to swell makes me-the-mature-woman weak and wet for moments.

His mother's magic's been working again.

We lie in clumps on the lawn under the gum trees and chat about babies and movies and genetic engineering and the Russians in Chechnya and why Boris Yeltsin resigned at the end of the year and someone says they have never dreamt about anything that has been on the news and Mettina says...

'You only dream about what is important to you, personally.'

And Stephen says...

'I used to dream Donald Duck comics. I still do, sometimes. In colour.'

The twins explore the creek until Nick drags them out and shows them how to make a fire. Zen says, 'I'm a careful boy,' and refuses to put twigs on the pile of dry leaves Nick has prepared.

Zee throws everything in reach onto the pile and pesters Nick for the matches.

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