An hour and a half on the freeway, and we were there. A small town with wide gravel roads, roundabouts instead of traffic lights and a city centre with a Myer that felt like it had been trapped in a time warp since 1995. It was quaint, it was quiet, with hidden laneways and old, stately buildings pushed up against clean, modern structures, all edges and glass. It was the chalk to Melbourne’s cheese. We could have been anywhere.

I’ve always liked the festival of Chanukah (Hanukkah). I mean, what’s not to like? It’s low key, it’s easy, there are no strict commandments to follow, it’s the lighthearted cousin to the rest of the Jewish festivals. Sure, there are traditions, but they mostly centre around eating oil-drenched foods. See — what’s not to like? And then there are the candles. What is it about candles, anyway? They are so mesmerising to watch, and so fulfilling to light. Something tugs at my heartstrings each time during the lighting ceremony, and I’m not altogether sure why.