Antarctica is arse end up on the display globe that rests on a pedestal in the Division’s bright headquarters of steel and glass and white. Stout Tasmanians walk the wide aisles. There are heavy mountain boots and knobbly jumpers. There’s shyness in scrubbed faces. There are many beards. Jim’s among it all somewhere. There’s curiosity at my layers of inner-city black. I’m here to be kitted out.

I’m wearing too much makeup and I’m walking too fast.

Cec’s domain is a long room in the bowels of the Division. He’s tall at the counter and fast disappearing behind his stomach. Behind him stretch racks of clothes and shelves of boots and hats. He fingers the Antarctic clothes with a longing to be there.

He dumps in front of me men’s thermal long johns with a slice at the front for the penis. Then huge sheepskin lined boots that encase my toes in a close roof of steel. Then woollen trousers and shirts and a jumper. They’re all bloke-sized. The only things that look like they’ll fit are very black eye protectors called glacier goggles.

‘I’ll give you a tip. Make sure you put sun-cream underneath your nose and your eyebrows and your ears. Everyone forgets about the reflection from the ground, it’s a real killer.’

Then Cec leans close. He drops his voice. He tells me he knows the people who’ll be difficult ‘down south’.

‘They’re a bloody pain to kit out. They’re fussy and demanding and take forever. I ring upstairs to the voyage leaders and warn them. I’ve never been wrong. There’s one guy to watch out for—’

A man comes up to the counter.

Cec switches his tone. ‘Layers are the key. If you wear lots of clothes you create pockets of warm air and you’re insulated. If you only wear one big thing you can sweat in that and the sweat freezes and then you get frostbite.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘True. Some of Scott’s party sweated so much that their clothes froze as stiff as boards. The men got stuck in a stooping position when they were pulling their sledges, so they couldn’t stand up straight. Imagine that.’ I don’t need to. Cec is demonstrating. ‘It was a bloody nightmare. And then they got frostbite. It was just incredible. Their fingers were covered in blisters, and the liquid in them froze, and their hands came up like bunches of frozen grapes.’

He dumps in front of me a huge yellow jumpsuit with padded silk lining.

I climb into it. I feel like I’m stepping into an elaborate costume for a pantomime. It’s called a freezer suit and it’s busy all over with pockets and zips. Its smell is a rich cocktail of a man who’s sweated too much and a man’s unwashed groin.

Cec gets it back.