By modern standards, I live in a “dog box”. My unit is a 38 sq metre one-bedder on the ground floor of a classic Sydney 1960s red-brick apartment block. Located on the south-west end of the building, it doesn’t get much sunlight and sometimes the planes fly so low overhead they rattle the windows. The kitchen has just enough bench space for one chopping board, and when the dryer’s running, it can get so humid that water drips down the walls.
It’s brilliant.
