I can’t recall with certainty how these things unfold, but the evening I became an Australian, there was an enormous portrait of Queen Elizabeth II at the front, the mayor was in full velvet regalia, and there were mini flags.

They played a shiny video that was a hybrid of tourist-patriotic propaganda. We made the pledge; we sang the national anthem. I sang it with gusto, perhaps even defiantly. I received a certificate that carried Chris Bowen’s signature. I signed onto the electoral roll, ceding the luxury of being able to say ‘That’s not my prime minister.’