Attending university in Australia was the result of an undiluted fierceness and a determination not to be restricted by the abysmal circumstances of my birth; and it was the beginning of an adventure that led to Kirribilli House, a manifestly unfair decision, and Mark Bode - who agreed to ghostwrite my story.

In January 2019, I was hired to oversee the running of Kirribilli House. On day one of the job, I accidentally called the Prime Minister Mr Scott.

I apologised, but he liked my version of deference. It was an auspicious start to our relationship.

The excitement I had felt at the commencement of my tenure took a long time to die, just like the stench of that Manila dump after I had moved on in life.

One glorious spring day I sat on the house's terrace, lambent light dancing across Sydney Harbour, and I thought about how far my life had advanced.

It was my dream job; now it is a nightmare I'm yet to emerge from. Perhaps telling this story will salve my raw wounds. Dear God, I hope so.

I didn't know it at the time - how could I have - but when Mr Scott's eldest daughter, Abbey, came to me with what seemed like a trivial matter, a missing ice-cream tub, my world had become a tragedy.

It was a fortnight into the lockdown, and Abbey said: "Daisy, it's the third tub that's mysteriously disappeared in the last two weeks. Plus there's been other snacks that have vanished as well. What's going on?"

"I don't know, dear. But I promise you, I'll find out."

A short time later, Mr Scott was heading out the front door when I briefed him on the situation.

"Seriously, Daisy," he said. "I'm running the country during the biggest crisis to befall us since World War II, and you're bothering me about unaccounted-for food! Just do your job. OK?"

The following day, Mr Scott's youngest daughter, Lily, cornered Abbey in the kitchen over missing Pringles. Abbey denied taking them.

"I don't believe you," Lily said. "No one else would've touched them. Everyone knows they're mine."

Jenny Morrison entered the kitchen as the sisters argued. She told them to settle down, then said: "Daisy, you need to sort this out, or I will."

She continued: "I think it's obvious that a member of the staff is helping themselves to our food. And given that this is a recent issue, I think I know who the culprit is."

Mrs Morrison was referring to Norman, the new chef. Mark Bode wrote about the chef Norman replaced. In a column titled "Curtain pulled back: real ScoMo is revealed", Mark detailed how Steve (not his real name) had suffered at Mr Scott's hands.

That included berating him for not knowing the lyrics to a Christian song the Prime Minister requested he sing during a dinner party.

After Norman denied stealing the food, Mrs Morrison rebuked me for not stopping the thefts. I would be sacked if it continued, she warned.

A few hours later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was Mr Scott.

He said: "This business about the disappearing snacks has got Jenny a bit worked up. But don't worry, I've got your back."

Two days later, a packet of Maltesers vanished. Mrs Morrison said regardless of whether I was the culprit or not, the stealing had occurred on my watch.

"I'm sorry, but I have to let you go," she said.

I looked to Mr Scott for support, but got nothing!

Upon leaving Kirribilli House, I noticed that the door to Mr Scott's basement room - dubbed the Bear Den - was open. It was normally shut: strictly no entry allowed for anyone bar the PM.

I wanted to confront him about what had happened. Steep steps creaked under foot.

There was an old leather couch, a TV, a stereo, a pool table, a fridge and a signed Cronulla jersey encased in glass and hung on a wall.

Stuff it, I thought. If you're gonna fire me for something I didn't do, I'm gonna have a farewell beer; one for the road, as Aussies like to say. I opened the fridge and wham: the breath was sucked from me.

I then heard the stairs creak and I spun around. It was Mr Scott.

He was carrying a box of Magnums. To my disbelief, the fridge was full of snacks that had disappeared.

"Mr Scott, you're a ... hoarder?!"

"Yes," he muttered, his head hanging in shame.

Mark Bode is an ACM journalist. He uses fiction and satire in his writings. His new novel, The Dark Journey, is available at the Kindle Store.