‘So, your old man reckons I should give you a go.’ I’d been shown into Charlie Knowles’ office on the 17th floor. He stood with his back to me, yelling into the phone and jabbing two stubby fingers at the twin TNT buildings on the western Sydney horizon. His shirt was damp with sweat despite the air conditioning, and the outline of two sagging straps of flesh gave the appearance of wearing a day-bag in reverse. ‘Yeah, well, you do that.’ He mashed the receiver and phone together and spun around. On seeing me, he blinked. He glanced at his computer screen. ‘Ah. Darlene.’ He threw his bulk into his chair. His eyes travelled over my cleavage and eventually, up to my face. It was then that he mentioned his conversation with Dad. ‘What makes you want to be a journalist? Pretty tough gig, y’know.’ He swung back in the…