There’s a mattress on the floor in a starkly-lit, stone-walled space, more reminiscent of a prison cell than a hospital room. There’s a wild-eyed woman clawing at her matted curls, howling ferociously to be set free. There’s a black leather couch, its cushions slashed, the arm rests sticky, upon it sit a handful of listless souls awaiting a doctor’s appraisal.

Our birth story headline was “Amazonian amazing with a forceps finale”. That was the shortest version. The good ol’ f-word sometimes proceeded forceps, depending on the audience, but in short the majority of our experience was as “good” as it could be.

If to be surrounded by chaos is to breed creativity, give me the pot-holed hectic of Roma - with a side of Aperol Spritz - and say no more. After many months away from the tap tap tap, this vibrating city has sent me racing to the keyboard.

We’ll call it chapter three. To start at the beginning could otherwise be slightly overwhelming. Now we can look to the tambourines and operas from balconies, the pop-up lounge room concerts, the strength in solidarity. We can look to the softness and gentle gazes, move on from the toilet paper hoarders and skip quietly past the gun-wielding cowboys, stockpiling for an apocalypse.