I don’t think there’s ever really been a time when my mother wasn’t terrified of her own existence. This realisation oozed out in a toxic haze over my childhood, and lingers to this day.

Class is a deeply divisive issue in Australia, and one I have been deeply ambivalent about canvassing in my writing career. Should I write what I know, exploit my point of difference, or, mindful of future employers googling me and making snap judgements accordingly, keep the dirty little secret of my feral formative years off the interwebs?