A few blocks back, in the closed-off streets, the women work out of houses with doors that open directly on to the street. They don’t exactly stand in the doorway with one leg up, but they aren’t out in the kitchen either. There’s a soft light in the front room, but that’s about all the softness going.

I parked around the corner in Greenknowe Avenue and walked back to the pub in Darlinghurst Road. The Cross seemed to be operating at about 80 per cent voltage on the Sunday night. Nearly everything was open, nearly everyone who should be was there-the spruikers outside the strip joints, the street girls, the cruisers and the cops-but some of them looked tired as if the seven-day-week which is the norm for the vice business was taking a toll.

The Noble Briton is a survivor, fighting back against the homogenised, imported culture of the eighties. It has the authentic old Australian discomfort-steep, slippery steps to the toilet, cramped bar and blind spots where the barman can’t see you to serve you. The habitues manoeuvre interlopers into those blind spots. The dimness comes from the miserly low wattage of the electric bulbs rather than from any effort at cosiness.

Trade was good: there was a strong platoon of stool-sitters and bar-leaners; there was a gang of old-timers around one table and an intense young couple drinking gin at another. The pool tables were busy. I squeezed in at the bar, ordered a beer and tried to close my nose against the smoke. There was a low hum from the lubricated voices and occasional appreciative female shriek.