There was nothing special about living above a laundry. I had a concrete Buddha on the window sill looking over junkies and school children. My Buddha saw all sorts of tits and cunts. It was Fitzroy and hip , well it was sort of hip except for us poor cunts on Hanover Street. The Chinese man who lived upstairs in a constant singlet and crocodile man from the Territory who was a gun yard man, old man Terry whose brother was the last man who knew Ronald Ryan who again, was the last man to hang from our Melbourne jail. This life of junkies and alcoholic monks and Sinatra wanna be’s, old man in a green boiler suite holding a gun watching trams, g string panties and a flying duck afternoon all this bullshit makes you wanna be religious , God forbid.