The problem with the world isn’t that there are too many liars. The problem is that people aren’t good enough at it. Who said nobody likes a liar? I like liars. I love liars. “Charlie, you are beautiful. Everybody loves you, Charlie Duskin.” I could do with a bit of that.

I’m working on a couple of new songs. I can’t decide between “Dave Robbie Is a Total Loser/Moron/Wanker,” “Dave Robbie Picks His Nose and Eats It,” “Where the Fuck Is Dad?” or, my personal favorite, “Shove This Song Up Your Arse, Rose Butler.” I play them loud. I play them till the walls throw them back at me. No one comes and asks what’s wrong. I play louder. Still no one. “Is Everyone in This Place Deaf?” I thrash out loudly. Apparently, yes.

I take my guitar on tour instead. We walk around the house. Grandpa’s left a note to wake him when dinner’s ready. Dad’s left a note to say he’s in the shop and not to worry about food for him. If he’s in the shop, surely he hears me and my angry guitar song. What would my note say? “Notice me, notice me, notice me.” I play some chords loudly to go with it. What sort of dad needs a note to work that out about his daughter? Gus and Beth notice things about me and they lived through the sixties.

Dahlia used to say I had a dad other kids dreamed about. “He never yells, he wouldn’t notice if you sneaked out, and he cooks the best chocolate cake I’ve ever tasted. What more do you want?”

I want a whole lot more. I want someone to talk to. I want someone who can fix things when they’re broken. I want to scream and have someone come running down the hall in their slippers, out of breath with worry.

I strike up another verse of “Dave Robbie Is a Total Wanker.” I play it as loud as I can outside Grandpa’s room. The world has lost its ears today. I’m screaming and no one can hear me.

“Charlie?” Rose calls, and knocks on the back door. I don’t answer. What’s the point, when everything she says is a lie? She’s still shouting when I walk through to the shop. I’m changing my name to Risk-taker. Dave can keep Rolling Idiot Robbie. It suits him. I storm into Dad like a runaway guitar riff, ripping at the air. Don’t think I have a plan, though. I never do.