I had to look away. There was a nylon curtain at the window. As I gazed at it, its white folds turned into snowdrifts in which Russian spaniels were floundering, buried to the neck. Little Bolshevik children chucked rocks at their tiaras, shouting, Die, imperialist fuckers! After a while, I told the curtain, ‘Chanel and I have only ever wanted what’s best for you. But the decision is yours. If you choose not to go ahead, no one will ever mention it again.’

‘Sister Perpetua was quite right,’ said Ivy. She lay back and closed her eyes. ‘If you’re not wanted, better a quick end. It was the five of spades this morning. That always brings a blessing in disguise.’

What happened next was predictable: Poison Ivy. Poison Ivy is illogical, powerful and unjust. It followed me out of Ivy’s room and it’s stayed close – it’s here now, stinging and winding about me in The Coffee Spot, informing me that I’ve failed a test.

These days the process is entirely straightforward. The applicant puts in a request to the ministry. It must be accompanied by a declaration from the coordinating medical practitioner to the effect that the applicant has an illness which is expected to end their life within three years. That’s it. A federal medical board assesses the request – if the paperwork’s in order, approval is granted within a week. Once the hefty service fee is paid, you receive a PDF called ‘Moving On Emotionally’, along with e-vouchers for discounted bunting and champagne. Then it’s a matter of setting the date.

Before the Amendment, everything dragged. A specialist physician had to testify that the patient had only six months left, two witnesses were required, there had to be three requests in total, on and on, a tangle of nitpickery. The Amendment has cut through all that, and that’s not the only benefit it’s brought: the economy is perking up as inheritances are spent, the housing shortfall has been alleviated. Chanel tells me that Melbourne’s tenth crematorium is scheduled to open next year.

Bram sent us his paperwork with no further discussion. He’s changed his yoga class to an evening one and no longer has breakfast with Chanel. When she calls him, he doesn’t pick up. ‘Okay, so he’s furious with us,’ I told Chanel. ‘He’ll get over it. If he doesn’t, I can live with that, can’t you?’

‘He isn’t furious with us,’ said Chanel. ‘He’s furious with himself. He could have refused to sign the medical declaration. He could have gone to the cops, confessed to tax evasion and risked losing everything he’s worked for here. But he didn’t, so now he knows the truth about himself. He’ll never get over that.’

The declaration Bram sent us is a brief, standard document that can be downloaded from the Ministry of Health website. Easy-peasy – e-signatures are authorised, so all Bram had to do was sign and forward it to me. I printed it off, along with the one-page application form that I’d filled in. All that was needed after that was for Ivy to sign the form and someone to act as her witness.