I’ve arrived. A little worse for wear, to be sure. Happily, though, I’m collected by my parentals at the gate. Granted, it takes some time for us to find each other given we’re a family straight out of Lilliput land. At five foot nothing and a half, I’m a damn sight close to the tallest in the Edwards line.

We drive down to their place and make it by mid morning. Now, this may be misleading on account of me always saying I’m from Sydney (for which I’ve got good reason, because to tell a non-Aussie – or most Aussies, for that matter – that I’m from Nowra is to invite blank stares and immediate lack of interest), but in fact I grew up about three hours south of there.

And in spite of having the usual healthy dose of desperation to escape the place all through my teenage years, I’ve come to appreciate its beaches, for one, and my mum’s homemade brownie, for another.

So it’s not without some excitement I make the return trip home. This despite appearances, since by the time we get there I fall into bed and stay there solidly knocked out for the next 17 hours.