There were two boys named Elvis in my class. Being grade 4 at Holy Mary’s, most kids knew nothing about the Elvis, but my mother still worshipped him: pictures, songs, and at least once a week she would throw one of her Complete Elvis box set movies into the DVD player. My favourite was Viva Las Vegas, but Loving You was a close second. I liked Elvis and romance. Being a nine-year-old girl made me more vulnerable to that.

Mum knew everything real about Elvis, but she also believed he wasn’t dead, that he had faked it. She didn’t really believe he worked at a 7Eleven, but she did believe he was doing something else with his life, and was a lot happier. I fantasised about Elvis too, probably from my mum’s influence, but I reckoned that he had died, and was now reincarnated as one of the boys in my class.

My mum always said Elvis was the best kisser, even if she had never actually kissed him herself. Two weeks later I kissed Elvis Collins on the lips. When he said, “Thank you very much,” I fainted.