I noticed the newspaper Pop had put down to catch the primer. What’s Your Problem? It was Curtis’s arse. I picked it up, studied the grainy photo and read: Dear Ms Attitude. I was wondering if you could help. My boyfriend, Dane, enjoys photographing his privates …

‘You wanna start?’ Pop asked.

‘Hold on.’

This photo, for instance. ‘Dane’ attends Gleneagles High. He’s a Year Twelve, but has the brain of a Grade Two. He has trouble controlling his urges, and I’m worried he’ll get into trouble.

I held up the photo. ‘Hey, Pop, look, it’s Curtis’s arse.’

He almost spat out a mouthful. ‘In the paper?’

I read aloud: ‘I was wondering whether you could suggest help? A psychologist? Ever since starting work at our local service station he’s got worse.’

‘Who wrote it?’ Ern asked.

‘His girlfriend.’

‘I always reckoned he wasn’t quite right. And the brother. The whole family.’

Because, apparently, thirty years of walking to the Windsor had left him with an encyclopedic knowledge of everyone in our street. There was nothing he didn’t know. ‘See him sittin’ on the roof sometimes, and I’d say, What you doin’ up there? And he’d say, What you doin’ down there?’

Ms Attitude hadn’t minced her words. ‘Dear Tracey. ‘Dane’ is the worst sort of adolescent male: infantile, self-absorbed, narcissistic, completely unaware of others.’

‘Why’s he takin’ photos of his bum?’ Pop asked.

‘He thought it’d turn her on.’

He examined it. ‘Not much of an arse.’

I tore it out, folded it, and determined to show him. The war was continuing.

‘So, what d’you reckon?’ Pop asked.

‘Looks easy enough.’

‘Them schematics help,’ Ern said, still not convinced.

‘Not if you know what yer doin’,’ Pop replied.

Mum was at the door. ‘What you lot up to?’

‘Busy!’ Pop growled.

She wasn’t happy with this. ‘What you gonna do with it, Ern?’

‘Ida wants some gardenin’ done.’

She didn’t buy this for a minute. ‘Only costs a few dollars to get yer mulch delivered.’

‘Why? When there’s a trailer handy?’

Mum turned on me. ‘Haven’t you got an essay due?’

‘Peter helped me with it. All done.’

‘Well, man’s gotta have a hobby,’ she said, happy (perhaps) that Ern had done what horse racing and Baby Burgess had failed to.

She went in, and Ern said, ‘If I’m in this deep, least you could do’s show me the map.’

‘You wanted to come,’ Pop replied. ‘Only doin’ this to make room for you.’

‘You needed it.’

‘Bullshit.’

Silence. I folded my schematic.