The power of the debate – as an illustration of gender politics in 1971 – is patent, a more than ample foundation on its own, with Mailer looking more of a fool as time goes on in his attempts to rein the women in, belittle their arguments and remain on top. Its fascination for us today lies also in the language and manners, striking in their formality, even in Johnston’s experimental prose and radical politics; Greer and Trilling are just as prolix, speaking in paragraphs we no longer hear in these contexts, worn down as we are by decades of festivals, talk fests and technology.

A $122M non-binding postal vote to decide whether we can marry or not in the nation that forged one of the most progressive queer scenes in the world; whose culture of song, dance and public art completely transformed our society, let alone made the state millions – you must have noticed that, eh Malcolm, being such a good businessman; whose sexual liberation has been everybody’s liberation; whose AIDS policies were so successful they went on to be adopted worldwide and save millions of lives.

None of the women have much to say, but they sure look great striding around in their helmets and breastplates, muscles gleaming in the shimmery light of the Aegean sea.

We remain locked out of the camps as assuredly as refugees are locked in. We don’t know the full extent of the horrors but the leaked reports should leave us in no doubt. This is our Belsen. On Manus Island paid homage to this terrible chapter in Australian history with grave dignity.

The police fan out, forming a gauntlet alongside the queue. The military precision of the manoeuvre belies their unease. Any Sydneysider who has been to a rally in recent years, or lives in a neighbourhood containing marginalised communities, such as Redfern where I do, will attest to how grim the force has become. But this lot crack awkward jokes. They glance around warily.

Entering the Gdańsk shipyards is more difficult than entering Europe. AñA and I knock on the security guard's door, give him our names, then huddle out of the rain while he phones through to Grzegorz Klaman. The temperature has dropped to ten degrees.