One day I woke up and looked in the mirror and realised not only did I not look like my father, but I'd known the bloke who I looked like all my life. So began another thread of unravelling intergenerational trauma. It tends to not go how we think it's going to go.

In which Duncan and I reflect on our paltry colonial education, and a reminder to be careful what you wish for.

In which Duncan and I sit on the step of a crumbling sandstone church, enjoy coffee and cigarettes, and talk

In which our hero attends mandatory training, slides slowly down the wall, and remembers a trip to the library, long ago.