I woke with a jump and a barely-contained scream as I heard someone shuffling about in our room. I sneaked a peek and watched an angry skinhead drop a grubby rucksack on the floor, trip over one of Bev’s bras (damn booby trap) before storming out again in an eye-watering cloud of what Rachel refers to as “Bobby Orange”. I reckon he was expecting a bunk, and so wondered why all the spares look like they’re hosting a rummage sale at Miss Selfridge.

This dormatory is technically supposed to sleep six and is positioned in the hostel basement, next to the communal and kitchen areas. It has just a single barred window near the ceiling, and the view of the street is at ankle height. It means we get to criticize people’s choice of footwear from the comfort of our top-bunks. Grabbing a half-drunk bottle of vino from one of the empty beds, I enjoyed some rare peace as the girls slept, and watched the number of passing shoes outside increase as another day in Melbourne’s Central Business District dawned. As they reached a stampede peak, just inches from her head, Rachel woke up. Wiping sleep from her eyes, she mumbled, “Bleedin’ ‘hell. I thought I was the Lion King takin’ me last breath.”

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