You stand on a corner looking up and down the street. This is not somewhere you normally find yourself.

Looking at the piece of paper in your hand you turn left and walk, away from the trams, the cars, the noise. Passing terraces houses that all looked the same once, but now some are painted by hippies, the rest by yuppies. Volvos next to beat up Holden wagons. Clipped gardens beside wild jungles.

No 77.

You stand and look up at the house. No jungle, no Holden, no beaten up sofa on the front verandah. Non-descript. Nothing. No clues.

You have another look down the street and watch some boys kick a football. Thump. Boomp.

You turn and knock on the door.