A dark Sydney evening. Alone in my lover's apartment, the night lamp glowing by the bed. She is out; with dark lipstick on her wide lips and shining stilettos on her long legs, she will have combs in, to tame her unruly red hair.

I have nothing to do. I should undress and sleep. I open her wardrobe and peer inside.

Nineteen eighty-nine. Living in a dilapidated two-bedroom terrace in Newtown not far from the old brickworks. Fleas in the carpets, redbacks in the outside dunny, windows only partly in their frames, the sashes wrecked. I was earning fulltime wages for the first time. With this newfound affluence came hippy consumerism…and two dresses.

It has been raining, and the puddled night leaves a brilliant sheen on the pavement as I walk the length of Crown Street. A few blocks before the gay bars and convenience stores of Darlinghurst, I stop and turn into a café. I settle at my regular table, a small one against the wall, and order something cheap. It's a lightly bohemian venue but, even so, I stand out.

I was barely twenty when I visited several shoe shops in Sydney's CBD. I was a little nervous. My goal was unusual, and I had not shared it with anyone.

“You would have nice legs for a woman” she says. I know instantly what she means, and inwardly concede that it is meant as a complement.

Thanks.

I'm not much of a man.

In my mother’s sewing box are some of my favourite things in the whole world: rich silk ribbons; narrow spools in violet, vermillion, rose, and royal blue. As a child I would sometimes unfurl them just to look and feel their exquisite colour. Now, I have them out with a different intent.

My shoes are pink. My jeans are midnight blue and, because I wasn't satisfied with their straight-legged fit, I have taken them in, to envelop my skinny calves. But most important is the makeup.

At the community centre, my favourite craft activity was enamelling. Choosing among the glistening copper blanks, selecting shapes to decorate with brightly coloured glaze. Dusting the metal with powdered silica…but the slightest shake could dislodge the arrangement and I would have to start again.

The 1940s and 50s were the golden era for paper dolls. By 1974, when I and the girl next door played with them, they were rather retro. Nevertheless, they were captivating and, briefly, my favourite obsession.

I made my first necklace when I was four. My mother helped my inexpert little hands string together carrots, gooseberries, beans and tomatoes.