Kangaroos are also a regular sight in suburbia, in plague proportions, often feeding on the delicious green ovals normally reserved for cricket and football.

Living near a nature reserve, my front lawn was also on the menu, despite being slightly yellow and overgrown. I often woke in the morning to find it littered with small pellet souvenirs from the previous night’s soiree.

But then came the day when I found the same droppings on my back lawn, which was far lusher for being recently relaid. The furry little buggers had somehow cottoned on to the restaurant reserving the best food out back, and were undaunted by the need to hop down a driveway, across some paving, and even down some stairs in order to source it.

I didn’t think much of it until the morning when I woke to find a smoke gray joey pinballing around my backyard. It had somehow gotten lost from the mob when it had bounded back up to the mountain at dawn, or had decided to stay on for another course and was now unable to find its way home.

Clearly terrified, the kicking joey needed to find an escape route fast before it injured itself. Calling a ranger would take too long, and I was in no position to try and catch it.