I closed the door on our empty house for the last time, leaving the detritus of rental space - the video cards and home-delivery pizza menus, the old school telephone directories in yellow and white, sensor mood lights and triple flush, raked Japanese mini-garden and opaque pond, twin bins and water-efficient compost - for its new occupants, whoever won the ballot. Whatevs. I navigated the small maze of the backstreets and came out into the glare of the forecourt of Fitzroy Underground, diving down one of the entrances hardwired into the intersection of the street, submerged beneath the trams and the people traffic above. My coordinational senses re-melded once was down below, in the harsh compass track of the two intersecting lines. I was bulleting west towards Footscray Underground, seven stations away, mesmerised by the almost retro cartoons of the metro advertising hoardings, the shuddering clunk of the brakes as we entered each half-moon curve, the seats alreeds packed; it’s forever midnight down there anyway.