I’ve been going out on Sunday nights for longer than I care to remember. There used to be ten of us, but girlfriends, boyfriends, marriage, kids, and growing up, gradually cut us down to two. Now it’s just Ants and me.

We chat about our week, share our secrets, and drink too much. I never appreciated that Ants would become my best mate. He’s seen me through some serious shit and my feral past amuses him. I’ve got older now.  

When weekends became part of my working week, after I crossed that divide between host and customer, Sunday night became the start of my weekend.

We drink until midnight, much later than we used to. And when we say goodnight and Ants heads home, he contemplates what I will get up to.  

I shall let you into a secret.

I am a night walker. I wander the murky streets of the city, ones that are empty of people, and where life seems only to exist behind the lights of high rise apartments. Once, I wanted to be the centre of attention, now I find that I like my own company instead.

I’ll wander the streets for a couple of hours, anywhere I choose to go, a new route every week. This dark and lonely world is one where you see things differently.

If you look closely, the city never really sleeps.

Lurking in the shadows are the homeless and the street drinkers. There are the screams of students who couldn’t give a shit that people are asleep. Sometimes you might see a copper in a car but it’s in their best interest to ignore you. There are the fire engines that wail into the night, silent ambulances that light everything shocking blue, and Ubers that dash from one job to another. But you can also hear the chimes of church bells that strike on the hour. For the most part, the city is still. If it rains, all the better, the dirty streets get wetter, cleaner, and the air is fresher. Nighttime is when the city is at its calmest.

At times like this I am inspired. I can think clearly, choose subject matter to write about, and the foundations of the next story appear to come from nowhere.

There is a downside.

We forget that alcohol makes you brave, and it takes you up dark alleys that people won’t dare enter even by day. If I do meet someone, we’ll eye each other with suspicion because these can be perilous streets too. I’ve had a few fights and years of brawling in bars and clubs prove convenient. I fight dirty. And the human body wants to get rid of the drink, more and more frequently, and I’ve pissed in more shadowy corners than I’d like to admit.

But I’m usually on my own, a lone wanderer, innocent and inquisitive, taking photos on my phone because nobody else wants to.

The night never ends here, because afterwards there are the bars that open obscene hours, ones that close when the sun comes up, but this is always another story, one that I shall tell Ants about next Sunday.