There is a clear difference between paternal and maternal love. A fine example of which can be found in my family.

Amidst the intense heat of summer, we are all in an uproar in preparation for my departure to Melbourne. As an only child, this uproar is by no means any kind of exaggeration.

For two days straight, my mother took me shopping for new work clothes. I bought up big on crisp business shirts and conservative tops to go with the two sets of suits I already own. Momma, however, found my taste dull. She insisted on picking up sparkly low-cut tops.

"Darling, you're being boring," said Momma, holding up a sequined-neck backless number. "Your clothes should have personality!! This shirt screams attention! You'll stand out from the crowd!"

"I'll definitely stand out from the crowd after they fire me for indecent exposure."

"You should not waste your youth. If I was your age, I would only ever wear revealing clothes. Show your skin while you still can."

I stood my ground and vetoed the idea of showing up for my first proper yuppie job dressed like a skank trying to land a banker at bar on a typical Friday night. As Pixie once rightly said, "we do not get to be investment bankers by wearing fuck-me boots."

While Momma tried to diversify my wardrobe, Poppa went shopping for me as well. He stopped at his favourite Hardware House and forked out some serious cash on pliers, hammers, nails and screw drivers.

"Essential items. I wrote down a list of them. I'll get you some ropes and a small jigsaw tomorrow," promised Poppa.

He fears that his beloved only child may get trapped in the wilderness with lions, tigers and bears when in Melbourne. My super-boyscout-Poppa is prepared for anything.