Not another pie in the sky, he said over breakfast, busting my bubble, cutting my legs off. It won't work, he said, pointing at the job section in the newspaper. You've got to grow up, he said, dissing months of sweat and toil. True, this wasn't my first pie in the sky, but it was the meatiest by far, not weak and watery as he hazarded. Without it, I would have keeled over in the ditch many moons ago, it's sustenance plunk plain enough to dunk me in luminous lucidity, spilling itself all over the breakfast table.... like it or loathe it, I am my sweetest pie in the sky, my wildest dream. And my waters have just broken.