I WAS DUE to pick up my daughter, Orly, nine months old and all melting cheeks, from my friend Lily’s place. I felt I was used to having a baby and ready to experiment with new ways to jigsaw mothering work (which doesn’t pay) and writing (which pays a little). Lily, an absolute darling, had offered to take Orly for a couple of hours to play with her own daughter while I bunkered down in the library. I found Orly bright and relaxed upon my return.