Adelaide had some thinking to do.

‘She’s being precious,’ KG had said. On city-wide radio, just after six, he had dismissed her worries just like that. Adelaide put the kettle on. She cleared her throat, then swallowed at the memory of it all.

An avid listener of KG and Cornesy, Adelaide had finally decided to interact with 5AA. The phone was hopeless of course with children running around like that, so she composed an email. It took over an hour – what with the interruptions. But hitting the send button had filled her with an overwhelming sense of power and she couldn’t help but think of all the other issues she could raise.

And then there was the giddy moment that Graham read it out.

‘The adelaide crow and some players visited my little boy’s school yesterday. He is five years old and so far I have managed to keep him out of fast/junk food ‘restaurants’, but the crows people were giving out vouchers to a particular junk food place as prizes. And now my little boy is insisting that we go.’

That was the point where KG, usually the first to see the subtle failings of the Adelaide Crows, first began to scoff.

Adelaide took the milk from the fridge, poured a splash into the bottom of the cup. She had thought she had a valid point. Football clubs, going into schools, giving out fast food vouchers? It isn’t good.

She made herself remember the reaction of Graham Cornes. The lady’s got a point. She smiled to herself. Adelaide had always liked that man. And she wasn’t at all jealous of his wife’s Sunday Mail column. Adelaide was just happy for another woman’s success.

, KG continued. She’s being precious. Move on, Studley.

, she had written Thanks for listening to me. My children don’t.

, KG finished. She’s got a problem if her children aren’t listening.

And that’s when Adelaide started to think. Maybe he’s right, she thought, maybe life is as simple as that. Maybe I make everything too complex. Maybe I’m too serious. Maybe I need to lighten up.

‘Here’s your tea, love,’ she said and put her husband’s cup on the occasional table. He grunted without looking up from his new book of Sudoku puzzles.

Adelaide sat, put her feet on the pouf and blew at her tea. Maybe she wouldn’t worry about sending that email on the awkward relationship between the sponsorship deals paid to already-well-paid sports players, sportswear manufacturers and sweatshop workers.