arried, and she seems to thrive on crises. After greeting her and wishing her an anticipated Happy New Year, I'm not sure what to tell her. So I ask how she is going. Fine, she says, but the kids are driving her to distraction. I can hear shouting and screaming like a minor war zone in the background. But it's not her television, it's her kids. She talks for a moment, and then there is a sudden crash and she says with a voice of urgency that she must go and hangs up. When I go back to the lounge room there is now a family of Cambodians sitting on the floor. They are regarding both the old woman and the Somalian child with suspicion, and when I enter the room they huddle closer together, and shoot me furtive looks. At least they notice I am there. I think about it for a minute or two and decide to ring the television station. It takes a while to get through, and then I'm passed back and forth between a variety of people. But at least it sounds less ridiculous to me each time I describe the problem. I finally end up with a man from the news department, who tells me that he is unable to help me as their studio is already overflowing with several hundred Peruvians and Burmese who they couldn't fit into the news bulletins. “If you find them disturbing”, he says, “just ignore them and they eventually fade away”. Reasonably happy with that, I hang up to go back to the lounge room. But I don't even get past the kitchen. There are five wild-looking Afghans going through my pantry cupboards. They are busily emptying out my tupperware containers and putting packet foods in their many pockets. I would protest but for the fact that one of the elder men has an equally ancient-looking gun slung over his shoulder. I reason that since they haven't yet seemed to notice the fridge, or aren't aware of what it holds, I shouldn't risk disturbing them. I also think it best if I unplug the television at the wall. I put my head down and ...
