There's a mynah bird on the verandah, singing sad songs while its owner, in black leather, sits on her boyfriend's lap with a glass of red wine in one hand and the remains of the bottle in the other. The boyfriend's arms are round her waist like he's saving her from drowning, or from running after Kylie Mulligrew in the High Street on a Saturday night with a handbag and intent. Alison – her name, the girl in black leathers – shows no signs of resisting his restraint tonight, unlike on Saturday nights. She turns and kisses him on the mouth – lips don't come into it, this is mouth to mouth, manic, urgent. Mannie – the mynah – sings "Where do you go to my lovely?" Alison is in the driving seat. This is how babies are made.