‘Phew! That goes into the incinerator.’ He tosses the jumpsuit into a corner. Its legs and arms splay like a fallen scarecrow.

Another suit’s dumped in front of me. I smell it. Clean. The crotch comes down to my knees and the arms extend fifteen centimetres beyond my fingertips. The name HONEST JOHN is bold in fat texta across my left breast.

‘Done,’ says Cec, contemplating and nodding and chuckling in matey approval with the man in line next to me.

‘If only Honest John could see his freezer suit now.’

I suspect I look like the Michelin Man. Or a penguin. ‘Are you laughing at me, Cec? Is this because I’m a journo?’

I’m joking but he leans forward and rests his elbows on the counter, officialdom shutting down his face. He says he’s not laughing at me. He says he’s the sexual harassment officer for the Antarctic Division and there’ve been problems down south in the past.

‘Young girls who are just out of uni, and they end up having sleepless nights. Women haven’t been going down for that long, you know. There was a lot of resistance from the blokes at first. If anything happens, tell people. And for God’s sake, you girls give each other support.’

I thank him and ram all my gear down tight into a cylindrical canvas pack. My kitbag is weighted with boots and bloke-sized items of clothing. I hump it onto my shoulder like a swagman.

‘Do you need any help with that, kid? It’s almost as big as you are!’

‘I can handle it.’

I sway, smile and collect my legs for the walk out the door. Halfway up the corridor I remember I forgot to ask who was the guy to watch out for. I’m not humping the bloody pack back. I’ll have to find out for myself.

A crowded auditorium. A briefing by the Antarctic Division’s legal department. Jim’s in here somewhere. I try to match a face to his voice. There are too many beards. I give up. People stare at my clothes, the urban black. Some cock their heads to the person sitting next to them. That must be that journalist, I imagine they’re saying. The one and only JAFO on the voyage and I feel like I’m standing out like tits on a bull. I have to win these people’s trust. I don’t feel I belong. I’m the only one in the auditorium who hasn’t had field training and who didn’t have to sit the five hundred question British army psychology test. I’m thinking about missing the Sleaze Ball in Sydney and my belly ring, which my skin’s in the process of rejecting, and whether I should’ve had my appendix removed.