‘I HAVE NEVER used a vacuum cleaner,’ my ardently intellectual mother says proudly. ‘That was my condition when I agreed to emigrate to Australia.’

In the whites-only northern suburbs of 1970s Johannesburg, I too was oblivious to the demands of domestic work. My egg-yolk-yellow school uniform was washed and dried, ironed and hung up in my wardrobe. My toys were stowed away, my bed made. Hair from moulting lapdogs, confetti from the hole-punch, a broken glass and dust – all magically disappeared.