Glucose Goddess’ approach is enticing because it appears to put power in the individual’s hands, so long as they are happy to have a shot of vinegar before a meal. However, rather than being individually empowering, it leads us away from good food and good health as something that we must pursue together, and is currently unequally accessible.

The idea that the government was safeguarding public health by imprisoning asylum seekers is riddled with inconsistencies. Our understanding of immunity is used to justify warlike approaches to medicine and the organisation of society, antithetical to healing or collectivity.

In Queensland we grow up with a conditioned disgust for cane toads. It’s a telling concern: they’re not from here. They first came across the seas to eat the cane beetles, sugarcane being one of the primary crops of local agriculture. But the beetles are high up in the cane and the cane toads can’t reach them, failing their first objective. From the few specimens brought over in a suitcase, cane toads have been spreading down the east coast and west across the top of Australia ever since.

Hedva’s book is a pulsing work. It makes you want to delete all your social media, even as it recognises the internet as a potential space of freedom for those who understand its workings. In On Hell, Hedva identifies the effects of control on the brown body, bodies that are routinely subject to the violence of systematic oppression and incarceration.

Cameras and IKEA renovations aside, it gives us the impression that we are witnessing something real, vital and transformative. Queer Eye is a display of empathy and empowerment. A focus on personal growth and confidence in the revamped version of a reality stalwart shows the potential for complexity within the genre.

People in the town and the city both define themselves by not being of the other. Complacency is dangerous; unwilling to shift from the town, because of a belief in its value, though no-one is sure where that stems from, residents and buildings disappear into the holes that start to appear everywhere. It’s unclear where they lead, if anywhere, but people do not return. The town is minimally populated with characters who don’t care for much outside of their immediate surroundings, and wouldn’t bother to leave, even if it means they might disappear too.

We see the Housewives spruik jewels, medical-grade silicon and anti-ageing pillows; I am seized by the desire to get fillers. For your average viewer, it’s a fantasy akin to being admitted to Hogwarts as a mature-age student: wizards don’t repay HECS debt and neither do Real Housewives.

When rabbits are afraid, they freeze. This works about as well for them as inaction works for women in the face of injustice and degradation. For many, just surviving is an act of daily resistance.

It’s interesting that at this point in time there are calls being made to name the era we’re living in as the Anthropocene – the impact of humans is now observable in the fossil record, in our plastics and chicken bones. The period of The Island Will Sink is the ‘Praeteranthropocene’ – ‘human beings are no longer capable of remedying the negative impact they’ve made on the planet’.

The Argonauts opens with a description of the first time Maggie Nelson told her partner, the artist Harry Dodge, that she loved him: ‘the first time you fuck me in the ass, my face smashed against the cement floor.’