I rocked up to the park with Trixie, the Fluffy Bundle of Rubbish, aka FBR, the next day. It’s not that I wanted to talk to Destry again. Well, I did, but my comment about killing her dog must have blown any chance of us having a friendly conversation.

I just wanted to see her. In fact, I needed to see her.

And Trixie needed a walk. A few poos as well, it turned out.

I sat on a bench underneath a spreading tree and kept a firm grip on Trixie’s lead as she tried to shirtfront every dog within a hundred metres. I confess I was tempted to let her have a go a few times. Would she really attack, or would she look at me as if I had crushed her self-esteem? It wasn’t worth finding out.

Destry came around the corner and the world dimmed at the edges, brightened in the centre. I watched, jaw drooping, until she turned another corner and disappeared from sight. The world undimmed, my jaw undrooped.

I know I’m sounding desperate and pathetic, but I was prepared to do almost anything to see if there was a future for us. Anyway, I’ve made my peace with being desperate and pathetic.

I pulled out my phone, brought up my last message and tapped reply. I typed in Y and then pressed send. Almost immediately, I got a reply.

Wise decision. I’ll give you your first challenge tonight.

I rushed to the corner. I’d had a eureka moment. What if I saw Destry putting her phone back into her pocket, smiling as she realised I’d swallowed her bait?

Didn’t happen.

She’d let her dog off its lead and was throwing a ball for it. The hound bounded along while pedestrians dived into bushes and other dogs tried to climb trees.

A phone didn’t figure in any of this.

‘I’m vegetarian,’ I said to Mum. ‘I told you yesterday.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mum, ‘but I didn’t think you were serious.’

‘You thought “I’m vegetarian” was my attempt at humour? I should enter the Melbourne Comedy Festival with material like that.’

Mum turned from the stove and regarded me, her hand on a hip. Unfortunately, the hand still gripped a ladle, which dripped chicken casserole onto the floor. I would have pointed this out but I was pinned by those eyes, which were flinty.

‘Do not be a smart alec with me, Rob,’ she said. ‘You’re not too old to go over my knee, you know.’

‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said. I was, too. It wasn’t like me to be sarcastic. ‘But, actually … I am too old to go over your knee.’

‘I know,’ said Mum. ‘Pity. Not that you were ever smacked.’

‘True. But the emotional torture you inflicted …’

‘Ha, ha,’ said Mum. ‘Oh, now look.’ She’d noticed the dripping ladle. I pulled some kitchen towel from the cupboard and started to mop up. ‘So you don’t want chicken casserole then?’ she said.

‘No. Sorry. It’s not vegetarian.’

‘But chicken is a white meat. It’s not like beef.’

‘Mum, that does not qualify it as a vegetable. Those things that go “cluck” around farmyards are not vegetables.’

‘What about fish?’

‘That’s different. Everyone knows fish are vegetables in the same family as carrots.’

Mum did the thing with the hand on the hip again, but this time she’d put the ladle down.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said again. ‘Honestly. But I have become a vegetarian and that means I’m no longer eating meat, white, red or any other colour. I won’t eat fish. I won’t eat anything that’s been alive.’

‘Carrots were alive. Potatoes were alive.’

‘They don’t scream when you pull them from the ground.’

‘Maybe they do, but you just can’t hear them.’

‘Mum!’ I put my hand on my hip but it didn’t have the same effect as when she does it. ‘If you love animals called pets, why do you eat animals called dinner?’

‘That’s clever,’ said Mum. ‘Did you make that up?’

‘I wish.’

‘For the record, by the way, I have never eaten a dog or a cat.’ Mum raised both hands, palms out. ‘But, okay. Okay. No chicken casserole for you. Though I’m not sure what you can have for dinner.’

‘I’ll see to myself,’ I said. ‘Most times it should be okay. If you and Dad are having chops, for example, I’ll just have the potatoes and the other veg. Maybe I could get some Quorn burgers from the supermarket. Grandad said they do some good vegetarian options now.’

‘I might have known Pop would be behind this. He’s converted you.’

‘It’s not a religion, Mum, and he’s not radicalising me.’

‘But why become a vegetarian now, Rob?’

I explained I’d been reading up on the subject, that meat production was destroying the planet and was responsible for much poverty and hunger in third-world countries. I also talked about animal cruelty, not just in meat production but in testing things like cosmetics. ‘Unnecessary suffering, Mum,’ I said. ‘We don’t tolerate it in human beings. Why should we think it’s okay for animals? And don’t get me started on trophy hunting …’

‘I respect your views, Rob,’ said Mum. ‘Though, to be honest, I also believe many people do tolerate unnecessary suffering in other people. In fact, they often go out of their way to inflict it. Read the news, watch the television any day …’

Becoming a vegetarian was the best decision I’d made in my admittedly short life. Not only was I making a small contribution to the welfare of the world, but I was having a serious and mature conversation with my mother about important matters. If I’d had that sign about mothers on my bedroom door, I’d consider taking it down. But I didn’t, so I didn’t.

‘This’ll be ready in ten minutes,’ said Mum, pointing to the cookpot. ‘So you might want to start heating up some soup or whatever.’

‘Soup’s good,’ I said. ‘What have we got?’

‘There’s a nice chicken one in the cupboard.’

I still don’t know if she was joking.