I’m not sure how old I was when dad started collecting taxes.

I watched Stanley Kubrick’s film The Shining when I was 5 and I haven’t been the same since.

I had spent only fifteen minutes with Taz before we tried to hotbox a phone booth.

I’m in Azraq, Jordan, in the middle of the desert and close to the Saudi border, and the project I’m working on has run out of money.

As we all four climbed into the cab, I asked Mantis where we were going. “To the girls,” he said. “You like the girls, right?”

It wasn’t romantic or even especially far away like in a novel or a period drama. I wasn’t disgraced. I was sent to stay with family friends for two weeks while my mum was in hospital.

The story of a young girl who had a big nemesis and even bigger dreams.

It was 2003. My fingernails were painted black despite daily debates with my teachers. A full third of my face was engulfed in a midnight blue sweep fringe and about the same fraction of mental space was taken up thinking about the nuances of my MySpace profile.

That night I went on a Tinder date. I’d just moved into a flat in Dalston and didn’t like spending time there. I lived with a girl and a boy. The girl used to track me down while I watched TV and chat incessantly at me.

You’ll find Wake Up Coffee opposite Melbourne Central Station on the corner where China Town begins. Back then in 2011 it was owned by a 40-something Italian man called Oliver who would have been passably attractive if it wasn’t for his stained brown teeth. 

The very first story I wrote was called Chase. I was nine at the time and it was about something that had happened to me the week previous, something that had shaken me to my core.

My first thought was great! No work for up to 3 months! I’ll be sitting around all day under the guise of serving my country! Free lunches! Then I thought about how easily disturbed I am.