A story from many years ago. A young woman was on her way home at midnight. The neighbourhood had a reputation for being home to drop outs and losers by those who judge.

The area was largely social housing, if not all social housing and few had jobs, or indeed any hope of getting jobs. Drugs were plentiful, crime levels were high but it was home and the rent was $4 a week. The individual homes in the high rise blocks were on rows with a wide pavement with some 70 front doors leading to stairs down into the home.

A young woman wearing a sleeveless dress of black wool on the bodice with a short black and white zebra print circle skirt was walking home alone. A man wearing dark clothes was walking further back along the pavement, keeping his distance from her.

Suddenly he broke into a run and rushed at the young woman. Time stood stil as she fell to the floor, accompanied by the sound of screaming coming from somewhere out there. A pen fell to the floor. Time passed. The young woman picked herself - and the pen - up to the sound of footsteps running away and walked to her front door.

The window next to the door had been smashed and boarded up. The key did not work. Automatically she walked along the pavement, down the stairs with their distinctive smell of urine and drugs, and along to the community police station. Nobody was there so she opened the small door in the wall, picked up the blue handset and waited to be connected. With nowhere to go, she sat outside on the wall and waited.

Two male police officers arrived. They listened and asked questions. They opened the pen. They walked back to the pavement to get an explanation. They removed the board from the window and unbolted the door and left. The young woman walked in to find things strewn all over the floor. Items were missing.

She went to bed, with the still insecure window. She cried herself to sleep alone. She was just 19.