Itâ€™s a big old house divided into a warren of flatettes, in an increasingly desirable inner-westÂ neighbourhood. The last low-rent place in a street where the house next door was the first to hit the one million dollar mark ten years ago. It has its share of excitement â€“ the police, fire brigade or ambulance visit at least once a month, sirens screaming. Thereâ€™s often shouting â€“ in the house or on the street. There always seems to be rubbish piled out the front. Other people in the street mutter about how they wish â€˜those peopleâ€™ would go. But someone died there last month and someone cared enough to memorialise him on the footpath.