IT’S LIKE THIS. Your baby is howling just as loud as the never-ending stream of stinking road-trains, and Jemimah’s in the kitchen killing ants with a soup spoon, her dirty bare feet tensing as she applies force and laughs at the little popping sounds. The final blood-red smear of sunlight is sliding towards the horizon. With one palm on the dusty sill in the back room, you stare out the window into the terrifying dusk. Karen-Anne is in the front room bouncing on a bed and singing along to one of those surreal afternoon children’s programs, about bananas and elephants being the best of friends. Alexis sits by your legs, reading from a book of love poetry you were given by someone long forgotten.

‘Mamma, who’s Cole-ridge?’