It was late one weeknight in Carlton when a bartender who went only by the name of ‘Goose’ leaned over the bar I was propping up after last drinks and asked if I’d like to see where John Curtin was buried. A history obsessive and the daughter of a proud trade unionist, I was not one to be asked twice. ‘Come with me,’ the man named Goose said and we descended into the bowels of the century-old pub. A damp chill set in around us as he beckoned me over to a dank corner where the walls seemed to be crumbling away before my eyes. ‘Here?’ I said, squinting in the dark past the hulking shadows. ‘He’s buried here?’

‘No you bloody idiot, this is the keg room and if you believe they’d bury a Prime Minister down here you’ve definitely had too much to drink. Go home.’