They had argued before they voted, although they were always testy on Saturday mornings. He said a vote for the Greens would be a wasted vote. She said a vote for the Liberal guy would be a sell out.

Neither wanted to vote Labor. But they never thought they'd live in a Liberal electorate when they moved to the foot of the mountains.

At least she remembered her name, Maria someone, who had lied to the ICAC.

The argument came to mind when she was shopping. It was late Sunday, and she often shopped then, when it was quieter. She had Monday mornings off, her shift started at noon. Sunday evening meant she could get a park near the door, and plan her week as she lapped, and know she still had tomorrow morning to get her act together before the week-long sprint commenced.

She looked at the things in her trolley. Good food, she thought, I buy well, I feed them well. I'd rather pay a bit more and avoid the junk, she nodded. And the kids are good. They don't pester for take-outs. They like my stuff.

Voting Labor had always seemed obvious. A new house, young kids, a lucky break getting the job at the local hospital, and then Adrian getting transferred from the city to Olympic Park.

It seemed such good sense, all of it. Adrian said he'd get the train, and we'd make do with one car and ease the pressure on the mortgage repayments. But after a month he joined the M4 car park. At least I know I can get a seat, he always jokes. But it costs. Two cars cost.

He said we'd walk and picnic in the mountains, that friends would drive and see us, that our parents would love the outing. That we'd have time for stuff.

But they're getting old, so we drive to visit them most Sundays, like for lunch today at mine, then home on the motorway in time for the boys to watch the footy, and early tea.

Adrian's dad knew he hadn't voted Labor, but he didn't say anything.

We're not political. We don't buy a newspaper but I flick through the news on the web and watch it on the television, and have the radio on in the car.