A few years ago, while battling another chaotic family meal prep, I dreamily reminisced about heady times of glitter hair gel, fluoro crop tops, flared jeans and chunky sneakers.

It was the late ’90s. Grunge was out. Techno was in.

Raves were held in the grimy depths of Melbourne’s underground car parks, train stations and industrial warehouses over the West Gate Bridge. No mobile phones, no parental surveillance, just unadulterated electronic dance music in a sea of grinning, sweating, glittering bodies.

The punters get live and sweaty at a Docklands rave in 2001.

We danced in synch. The infamous Melbourne shuffle, a unique marrying of the running man with arms thrusting, accompanied by intricate hops, jumps and 360-degree spins.

Then the unthinkable happened. Raves were banned. And we grew up.

We took out loans, and wore ill-fitting suit jackets. We opened and shut down businesses, got married, got divorced. We had children and researched the best grass seeds to cultivate a healthy lawn. We considered the innovation behind degustation menus and pondered deeply over bathroom........

© The Sydney Morning Herald