Alison Acheson writes stories of domestic life, of marriages, children, the family dog, toothbrushes. In every one of her stories the reader recognizes home and is moved by the delicacy, the intensity, and the subtle rightness of the author's observation and invention.

Acheson writes of her work: `I have come to realize that short stories come and go. They are shadows visiting your doorway. They don't venture in. You must woo them, and quickly, lest they move on. They always will move on. And don't worry them; don't play too long. Don't look at their underbellies until they're complete and able to turn over on their own. Short stories are unlike novels, moving in with their bloody baggage, rather like the mother-in-law in `Learning', they take over whatever room is spare, or not-so-spare, and there they are, setting up their family photos (the stay will be a long one), eating through your fridge, taking too long in the bathroom. And while you are explaining to them that they cannot leave their underwear flapping on the bit of roof below the dormer window, a short story will escape, letting out a little cry as its feet slip in the gravel just outside the kitchen door.'