Of all the violent deaths of women, the death of Eurydice Dixon, the 22-year-old rising comic, is one we can embrace when we signal our opposition to violence against women. We see it's not her fault. A stranger allegedly killed her and no one could predict that. It could not have been her fault. In the contemporary era, the story of Eurydice Dixon begins with Anita Cobby, the kind and beautiful nurse, also murdered by strangers. Janine Balding. Jill Meagher. Even school teacher Stephanie Scott who knew her murderer only in passing.

To us all, these are senseless deaths, unexpected. And so infrequent they fulfil that strange news criterion of the odd, the unusual.

Eurydice Dixon, whose body was found on a soccer field in the city's inner north.

So we do the small and the manageable to gain control and mastery over this hideous life. We share those photos, we go to vigils. We insist that the police and journalists use the appropriate language.

Well, good, small, manageable. But I challenge you to do more than that now. For every time you tut and tsk at the use of language, or the reliance on policing women's behaviour, do one more thing. Challenge the structures which allow this to happen. Insist your local politician knows how many women are killed each year. Ask why they refuse to fund that most basic of needs, safe shelter; why they refuse to fund the struggle to stop violence against women.