Last week marked the first week that I had officially read Lockie Leonard Human Torpedo from cover to cover, despite the fact that I was assigned to read it in my year nine English class. The first time around, I was fourteen years old, and resentful of the fact that the class had to one, read a book that had a boy as its main character (oh, how dreadful,) and two, that it was a realistic read set in contemporary Australia, rather than well, anywhere else during any other point in history. (Not bad for someone whose later academic career focused exclusively on Australian Literature ... and who included Tim Winton in their English Honours thesis.) Plus the feminist in me was annoyed that some of the other kids in my class kept calling Vicki Streeton a slut, when I felt that she was just as confused about things as Lockie, only in a different way. Consequently, I ended up skipping lots of bits and got a B for my assignment on the book. I found a copy of Lockie Leonard Human Tor...