Let me tell you about the dream I had last night.
It is, quite clearly, the dream of a journalist on maternity leave during an election campaign, who has been unable to see any live music for a while.
I’m in a crowded, dingy bar waiting for the band to get up.
I’m crouching against the back wall expressing breastmilk.
So is Tanya Plibersek.
She is crouched down to my right.
No one really notices us. It’s dark and stuffy and very noisy, and we are fenced in by a wall of people’s legs.
Tanya finishes expressing in record time.
“Here, try my pump,” she smiles, “it’s much more efficient.”
She hands it over.
It has two claw-like prongs on the end that pinch the nipple as it pumps.
I continue expressing with her pump. The machine is a little painful, but it does trigger a much faster flow.
Tanya wonders off into the crowd to enjoy the rest of the night.
And that was it. That was my dream.
I was woken by the sound of my baby’s grunting and whimpering. He needed a feed.