It was 1999 and it wasn’t just the ’90s that were coming to an end. My uni friends were leaving campus life, cutting their hair and moving into the adult world of shirts and ties (yes, ties). Still sporting long hair, I had one year of uni to go, though my supervisor, despairing at my lack of progress on my final project, was doubtful I would graduate. My girlfriend, meanwhile, had broken up with me to go on exchange to Bristol. In a gesture of kindness she’d offered me the lease to the old three-bed home she’d rented opposite uni.

The house was basic and had no heating or cooling, but still seemed too nice for feral students like us with our vinyl op-shop jackets hanging in the hall, stolen street signs decorating the living room, and a front veranda filled with couches where we spent hours reading, people-watching, drinking beer and listening to music.

My lounge room was full of buckets.Credit: Robin Cowcher

Years earlier, I’d regularly sat on the side of the road in my school uniform and gazed at that same house, imagining its freedoms while waiting to be driven back to suburbia.

Now I was 21 and my name was on its lease. Finding good housemates would be easy for such a central spot, where you could roll out of bed and stumble to class without shoes on. And in the world of share houses, a three-bed was perfect – affordable, spacious, and with a strong........

© The Sydney Morning Herald