It’s not a one way street but the walls are narrow and the only cars that turn in drive in the same direction.
At night I cycle east, dodging potholes them at the last moment. No streetlights, just the reflection of the moon, or the glare of oncoming cars.
During the day I cycle west, the same direction as the cars parked along the street. Shuttered garage roller doors back onto the alley, forklifts duck in and out of storage rooms, and the Allpress sign glows 24/7, their workers sitting with their feet in the gutter on a smoko break.
The brown sacking spilling out of red topped bins, the smell of roasting coffee – burnt toast and malt – following me to the end of the street.