“Take that bloody cheese off already,” my dad would bark at me. Oh how I should have listened.
It all started one spring weeknight in 2020. I had just caught a film with friends. I was in my metallic blue Mazda 2 parked in front of the Randwick Ritz cinema, about to pull out, when a red P-plated hatchback full of mulleted, rowdy youths pulled up beside me.
