I AM STANDING on the train platform, twelve years old. Too old for dolls and dress-ups, too young for lipstick and love. I am bewildered, lost; this space overwhelms me, this crowd pushes me down into the February-hot asphalt. In my navies and creams, I have forgotten my hat, and my socks are slouching. I stare around this circle of old chewing gum spots, graffitied phone box beside me, transfixed. A brown sign above says ‘Lidcombe’.

Lidcombe. I roll my tongue over the word, sounding it out like a six-year-old learning the alphabet. I have never seen it on a train map, never heard it on a loudspeaker (Eastwood, Meadowbank, Strathfield). And yet, it exists. Lidcombe exists.