I remember construction cranes like herds of frozen praying-mantis, high on the steamy Bjelke-Petersen plateau above a brown snake-coiled river. It was from this view, at the age of 4, that I learnt to read the columns of Brisbane city. And from this view, I came to recognise the segregation of Smoke. Black smoke darkened the blue-collar suburbs, covering the workers in burnt-rubber cologne. Black smoke was saved for industrial accidents, or when a lower-income family had their fibro-lined house smothered in winter flames. But white smoke; white smoke plumed from chez-nouveau, white-collar fire places. White smoke belonged to European engines with a smooth choke. White smoke stayed behind the construction cranes where I imagined a life that would never depreciate. A place where little children weren’t scared of the dark. Beyond the white smoke was where I thought I would discover the Lucky Country . . .