IT IS A truth universally acknowledged, Jo decided, that a bored teenager with a permanent marker is a pain in the bloody neck. And if it isn’t, then it fucken well should be. For here came five-year-old Timbo wandering up the hill, his bare brown chest tagged with fat Nikko swirls saying CHILD SLAVERY – THE FINAL FRONTIER and BETTER CONDITIONS OR I RING DOCS. And in certain parts of certain cities that would be Indigenous art, Jo thought. Teach the lad to stand still and, people, we’ve got ourselves an installation.

Timbo beamed at her from beneath the number-three haircut that Kym gave all her boys until they were big enough to resist the onslaught of the clippers.