When I traverse the streets in Melbourne’s inner north, my life flashes before my eyes. Dotted along the way are fragments, baubles and discomforts, people who once existed in the streets and houses that I pass. I am greeted by people who remember me from a band or a TV show or the radio. Do I know them?

Memories, like dreams, are reconstructed narratives of what may have happened.

In 50 years, Lygon Street has ebbed and flowed from an Italian enclave with students from the........

© The Sydney Morning Herald