I was four. My cousin Jenny came to stay. I hated her because my brother preferred playing with her than with me. She had already shown herself to be a scaredy-cat, having come to school with me she had cried so much that my father had to come, collect her and take her home.
We went to Byron Bay for the day and visited the whaling station. Unceremoniously, the whales arrived in the receiving bay and were pushed down the timber pallet-like slide to the concrete slab: big, black and shiny with white blubber oozing from the wounds and blood dripping to the cement floor. Jenny started to cry, ran away and was sick. I was happy.