It has been six? no, seven? oh, eight! years since the cat has died, but the girl is still in the shop where they used to buy the mince (of kangaroo – and that’s what did the cat in in the end, and led her along the cat-prozac path – don’t feed your cat kangaroo).

The girl was young then, and not old now. Her nails are still chewed, her hair is still cropped short. Does the smell of roo mince follow her home? She wears an apron smudged with wipes of meat, a chain with a cross of gold, and the smile of someone who hopes, believes. There is more to life than asking: mince or chunks?