IN 1985 I am twelve. The tropical north is nirvana, especially for a child previously so tightly pressed by English winters, closed footwear and the flat, grey monotony of a council estate. Townsville sighs into me with hot, wet breath, bringing me undone. I am unlaced, unchecked and often shoeless.

Willingly assaulted by an aggressive sun, my face freckles and the tips of my eyelashes turn blond. The sweaty limbs I throw wantonly towards the vast open sky caramelise within days as my family settles into a new home, a new life.