The party that night – a younger crowd but a good one, with a fire to stand around on one of the first cold nights of the season – wound up around two. I rode home down Hampton Road to avoid the drunken turmoil of Fremantle on a Friday night. During the week, our town (only thirty minutes from Perth but so much in its own little bubble) is pretty quiet. During the day on the weekend it brims with families and tourists and locals. But on Friday and Saturday nights, the train ferries in a mess of teetering girls and squared-up boys with their necks out, all deeply involved in the act of getting fucked up. There’s a sense among my friends that we lose our town during these times. The dark streets get darker, fuses grow shorter, and I ride my bike home by a different route.
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