Konrad Marshall. Credit:Wayne Taylor I complete my pre-shift checklist, switch on the dome light and fire the ignition of my motorised LPG money-maker. For the first two hours, I drive without a single fare. I later learn this is a perfectly normal way to start the day, cruising the streets sipping coffee, silently drinking in the view of early-morning Melbourne. Blue lights. Garbage trucks. Joggers. At 5am, Chapel Street is positively serene. At 6.07am, my first job is assigned by the dispatcher. The address and name flash on my screen. There is a note: ''Don't honk the horn - will come out.'' In the not-yet-light of morning, with house numbers obscured by tree branches and parked cars, I need three passes to find the house. But within 5 minutes Catherine is dropped ($13) and my cherry is popped. My next fare, Damian from Prahran ($70), takes me to the airport. After navigating the taxi queue and moving through three holding areas, I reach the rank. A woman gets in the back seat. She looks like she works in finance and remains glued to her laptop all the way from Virgin Arrivals to the corner of Flinders and Queen ($56). I get a hail job in East Melbourne - a woman wearing a headscarf - and take her to Burnley ($8). I ferry two dapper gents from a stately residence in Kew to their lunch appointment at Grossi Florentino ($26).

I pick up an elderly gentleman from his daughter's house in Canterbury, and drive him to Essendon. The old guy takes me on a tour of his former stomping grounds, from the Brunswick Baths to the public library that was once a dance hall he tore up as a teenager. He points out the homes of the suburb's founding fathers. He asks me to take this scenic route and is happy to pay the extra because he wants me to see a public park down on the Maribyrnong River, his favourite spot in the city. When we reach his home, he insists the meter remain running while we chat. Good customer service is part of the job, they tell you in training, where all aspiring cabbies must rehearse conversations with customers. Chat about sport or family or work. Never go into religion or politics or sex. We learn to decode slang: ''Take me to the 'G'' and ''Goin' to Dandy, mate''. All of it helps build a rapport, which leads to repeat customers and private bookings, which is how many cabbies make a decent profit, or at least make their work interesting. And more safe. I take three women from Ascot Vale to the DFO in Essendon and they tell me a joke: ''What's the difference between a pyromaniac and the Richmond Football Club? A pyro wouldn't waste 22 matches every year.'' I take an ageing boxer in Camberwell to the Tower Hotel in Hawthorn for a few (more) pots. He relives the halcyon years of pugilism in Melbourne. I come to the rescue of a woman whose Citroen has broken down in Toorak. She warns me against ever buying European. I have had nine fares in 12 hours. My total profit for the day is $128 - about $10 per hour. After GST and income tax, it is much less.

On Tuesday I learn that I still have a lot to learn. I arrive at the depot before my shift but no one is there. Seasoned drivers know that while the car is yours to drive at 4am, with so little business on the roads you're better off starting later. I fill up at one of the few dozen depot-approved petrol stations around Melbourne (where they have a group discount) and get a car wash. Other cabbies are there, shaking out their floor mats and polishing the low exterior panels where a grimy layer of engine smoke clings to the veneer. Many take pride in their workplace. I will be reimbursed for the fuel and wash. Most of the expenses associated with a taxi - the cost of the licence plate, the computer system, the car and its maintenance - fall to the owner or operator. Not all expenses, though. I learn this the hard way. I drop an Elsternwick man at Qantas departures ($75), and an airport parking officer taps on my window. ''Yes?'' ''You're angle parking. I'm going to give you a fine.''

''Am I? I didn't mean to. I'm dropping this gentleman off.'' ''The back of your vehicle is impeding traffic. That's angle parking.'' ''I'm really sorry. It's my second day.'' ''Yeah?'' ''I didn't realise I was holding anyone up. I'm very sorry.''

''I'm gonna fine you: $66.'' From there, the day is a blur. A truck crashes on the Bolte Bridge and the congestion spreads city wide. I take a wrong turn en route to Docklands and steer directly into the eye of the snarl. I join the rank at Southern Cross Station and a young woman asks to be taken to Port Melbourne. I don't know the suburb well and end up lost. She is upset. ''I am very late.'' ''I said to turn right - not left!'' ''I am not willing to pay $11.20. It usually only costs $7.20.'' I stop for lunch on Johnston Street, Fitzroy, and the dispatch system says I have been waiting for a fare for 57 minutes. I step outside to grab a sandwich and at some point the dispatcher lights up offering me a job, but I don't see it because I'm waiting for a toasted salami and Manchego. My minutes are reset to zero - back of the queue.

I am flailing, and failing. I turn up to the next job in Kensington and no one is there. I have been stood up. I pick up a twitchy guy in front of a pizza shop in Victoria Street, drop him in Fitzroy, and get a call from the operator. Twitchy guy was not the person who called the cab - the person who called the cab was still waiting, stood up by me. I think I just went over the speed limit and possibly through a red light. After several hours in a box of glass and metal, I can smell my underarms. By 3.45pm I've had enough. I have 15 minutes to get the taxi to the depot. I motor down Smith Street and see people hailing me, but I ignore them. They curse me. Only after I drive past a pregnant lady and see her middle finger raised in my rear-vision mirror do I realise I've left my dome light on. I am not the driver I set out to be. This taxi deserves better. It has travelled 616,930 kilometres, but its life is actually short. No matter how old your taxi seems, by law it can only be driven for 6.5 years - timed from the day it rolls off the factory floor. When I finish my shift at 4pm, this car will sit still for a few minutes, then another driver will get inside, perform his checks and drive away. It stands idle only for breaks, vacant shifts and servicing.

Like a professional athlete, a taxi is maintained for optimum performance but driven to its absolute limit. It is also like a shark - it must stay moving to stay alive. On Wednesday I feel vulnerable. Perhaps I am tired from the hours. The streets are again empty, aside from drivers mingling in the darkness outside the Como Hotel in South Yarra, or The Daily Planet brothel in Elsternwick. I pick up an airport job at 7.15am and tune in to the news on radio. The update cuts through the morning fog. A cabbie was stabbed through the heart in Mount Waverley about 3am, as I was waking up. His body was dumped by the roadside. The city looks beautiful but the news is ugly. After dropping my fare I head to the airport holding yard. Set away from the terminals and hangars, hundreds of cabs gather here organised in 38 parallel lanes, each lane 16 cars long. The concrete space is wind-bitten and already crammed full of rumbling yellow beasts. It has the look of a feed lot where cattle go to get fat, which is not so far from the truth. A huge portion of my takings - roughly a third of all the cash I will make during the entire week - is the result of driving people to and from the airport. If Tullamarine is ever connected to the city by train, the cabbies will suffer.

But for now, clusters of us gather there to puff cigarettes and sip hot tea. The wait for a fare from the airport can be 20 minutes or several hours, depending on the time of day, so some drivers sleep in the seat of their chariots. Others mingle. They wear turbans, bomber jackets, Bluetooths. They walk laps and read books. Some head here at the start of their shift every day, to wait for a fare and join a chess game. The shelter is a little like a freeway truck stop - bacon and egg sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, steaming drinks in Styrofoam cups - but there are differences. There is a non-denominational prayer room, filled most of the time with men on their knees, bent in supplication. The restrooms have Western toilets but also the more Eastern hole-in-the-ground plumbing. I ask one young Afghan man, Adnan, why I see so many drivers in the toilet block filling plastic 2-litre bottles with water. He laughs at me: ''It is because they are not to be wiping with the paper.'' Today they have all heard about the killing. There is a little anger in their voices but mainly sympathy for the man and his family. They understand that the work they do is dangerous. I drive a cab with a protective screen, but most drivers do not. Most say the screen restricts movement, limits visibility and curtails conversation. It makes them feel like a prisoner. My Sikh friend from taxi training, Mandeep, feels that way. He drives a taxi in Ballarat but wants to drive in Melbourne. Mandeep is from the Punjab, and says he can make $1900 a week in rural areas but the risks are greater. In the past six months he has been beaten, spat on and pelted with beer bottles. ''Here, lots of black suits and airport runs,'' he says. ''There they are idiots, mostly tradies, f---ing animals.'' Passengers, of course, are vulnerable too. Like an elderly couple I drive to Balwyn ($68.50) who need help carrying their bags. Or the old lady from the Royal Melbourne Hospital who needs a hand getting in and out when we arrive at her apartment on The Avenue ($7.85). Or the poor man in Deepdene, who takes my arm on the long shuffle from his front door to the cab, and almost forgets to pick up the fat manila folder containing his medical history when we arrive at St Vincent's ($23).

People leave things in cabs all the time. Every day the dispatch system sends a few universal messages wondering if anyone has found an iPhone or a Samsung Galaxy or an HTC. At 3pm, a different kind of message flashes: ''As a mark of respect for the driver who lost his life this morning, drivers are encouraged to turn on their headlights.'' Some of you are reading this story because you want to know if anyone vomited in my taxi, did a runner, had sex, or passed out on the way home from Crown Casino to Craigieburn. This sort of stuff happens at night, and Thursday is my first night shift. I take a giggling couple from the Park Hyatt to Southbank, and another couple from there to the Stokehouse, and another man from there to the Athenaeum Theatre. I haven't used the navigator once - I'm finally feeling my way around the city based on an understanding of its arterials. I pick up a fare in Balaclava, a backseat hipster, and it becomes even more apparent when he says he's headed to St Kilda. ''The Winery, please.'' You mean The Vineyard? ''Oh, yeah. Is that it?''

My own knowledge is now in synchronicity with my training. Almost all of the 12 days at taxi school is spent learning how to scan the pages of the Melway - to locate hospitals and theatres, hotels and train stations. Bob, our instructor, likened the book to the foundation of a building. He said it should become our Bible. Our Koran. When people complain about how little cabbies know of their city, I can only respond that we were schooled all day every day on the main roads and tourist attractions. As part of the official ''Knowledge of Melbourne'' test, we were required to learn 100 specific ''places of interest'' throughout the city, from Doncaster Shoppingtown to Caulfield Racecourse. We had to know exactly - street-by-street, turn-by-turn - how to get to each of these places from the GPO. Our final exam tested us on 45 of these and the pass mark was 40. Dealing with drunkards, however, requires a more intuitive skill set. I pick up two guys and two girls in Moonee Ponds, boozy young things reeking of beer and cigarettes. One girl taps my protective screen with pink painted nails: ''That's not going to do much if someone wants to kill you. Ha ha ha.'' I head towards Rod Laver Arena where a concert just finished, and slow to pick up a young couple. Three loud men pile in the back seat instead. My protective screen prompts them to call me ''Robocabbie''. I pick up a man on Flemington Road, caught in the rain and going to Parliament station. He looks like the singer Tim Finn and says he's been out for a few rare drinks after a long day at work. ''This feels really, really good,'' he says, eyes sparkling. Two girls tottering on high heels approach the cab. One pours her semi-conscious friend into the front seat then smiles at me: ''Don't worry, she's not going to be sick in your cab. You're not going to be sick in his cab, are you? Nah, she's not going to be sick in your cab.'' The friend hands me $20 and tells me an address in Richmond. I take the girl home and make sure she reaches her door.

We were warned in training that women sometimes come on to drivers - offering sexual favours in exchange for fares. ''It does happen, and it will happen,'' said Bob. ''They might ask to work something out. They might invite you inside. Next thing you know the cuppa can end up as jiggy-jiggy, and I don't mean the tea bag.'' This does not happen to me. At 1.39am I break for ''lunch''. Drivers have warned me to eat well. I know one who keeps his dinner in a metal tin placed carefully under the hood, resting near the engine for warmth. Drink water, they say. Eat fruit. Coffee and energy drinks only provide an illusion of alertness, one that will send you crashing into a telephone pole late at night. The streets are empty now. Night shift is a flurry of activity, then nothing. Taxis seem to be the only cars left on the road, staking out space in front of every pub and club, or drifting aimlessly. At 3.17am my cab is empty and I sit at a traffic light in Carlton. On the other side of the intersection is another empty taxi. Crossing in front of us, two more empty taxis. The lights turn green. We each speed off to where the other has been. Friday night starts with a rush. A young woman with four huge suitcases needs a ride from Church Street, Richmond, to St Kilda Road, Southbank. Someone hails me on the spot and heads to Swanston Street. I join the rank at the Hilton on the Park and take a group of four middle-aged Rotary Club members to their Variety Bash dinner in Harbour Town, Docklands. A group of teenagers tries to shark my taxi at the Atlantis Hotel but a man bustles through them to rightfully claim the ride he ordered. He calls me ''driver'' and I take him to the Squire's Loft steakhouse in Albert Park. A couple in fur coats and horn-rimmed glasses opens my door on La Trobe Street, asking for a ride to Madame Sou Sou in Fitzroy. A hail job takes me from Carlton to the Sofitel Hotel. Another hail job from the Rialto to Ormond.

He is a chatty British paralegal, and he fills me in on his day and his weekend plans - on getting railroaded into hosting his father-in-law's birthday barbecue. Taxis truly are confessionals. The same thing happens in hair salons - when two people transact at close quarters at length, one person always has trouble letting the silence stand. There is a human need to fill the air. At 10.49pm, the M13 alarm sounds. The alarm is a button under the steering wheel that a driver can press when in distress. It alerts other taxis so that any nearby cabbies can come to the aid of their peer: ''Driver requires assistance at 111 Nicholson Street in Carlton.'' Taxis will swarm and converge - strength in numbers. I have a passenger and I'm not in the area, so I don't go. But there are no further alerts, so I assume the situation is under control. A scantily clad blonde approaches my car in Glenhuntly, moving languorously. She motions to wind down the window and leans inside, her eyelids heavy. In an accent she says: ''Vill thirity dollors be enough to geet mee to thee seetee?'' It will. She motions to a group of friends I didn't see on the corner, another girl and two guys. They fight the entire trip, yelling, only the swear words in English. The man in the front seat, with his shaved head and detached manner, perhaps senses my unease: ''Do nowot vurry,'' he says. ''Sometimes is tension.'' By 1am the streets are again deserted. This is when the ''no jobs'' start - where a booking flashes over the dispatch but there is no one at the address. I head to a pub in Hawthorn and the bartender is vague: ''Check out front, mate.'' No job. I go to a house in Mont Albert with the lights off and no answer. No job. Then a restaurant in Camberwell: ''I think they hailed one going past.'' No job. Back to the same pub: ''He was here - now he's gone. Sorry mate.'' No job. No job in Canterbury. No job in Surrey Hills. No job in Balwyn. I see the city lights in front of me, then in my rear-view mirror. Chasing fares that don't exist, I barely know where I am any more.

I pick up my final fare in Kew about 3am - a guy in his 50s heading for home in Hawthorn East. He struggles into the front seat and can't close the door. His leg is hanging out of the car. He is trying to close the door on his own foot. I help him figure it all out and he breathes in deeply through a gin blossom nose glowing red under the cabin light. He smiles widely and bellows, ''Home, my good man!'' As I drop him off he asks for the time - 3.07am - and gulps. His wife left much earlier. He was expected home sooner. By 4.36am my paperwork is done and I am headed home, back where I belong, on the passenger side. A new driver is now sitting in the bucket seat of cab M4942 and I hope he will do better than me. In my three days and two nights on the job, I worked for 59 hours. I drove 1006 kilometres (477 of which were paid). I did 50 jobs in total, about 10 a day. Two-thirds of my customers sat in the back seat, and most said little more than ''Hello'' and ''How much?'' After splitting the metered fare 50/50 with the operator, my take-home pay for the week was $618. Roughly $124 in my pocket every day. After paying income tax and GST, I was clearing roughly $8 an hour. This is a little below average, but not much. On the ride home I decide not to ask my driver about his day, or his world. I don't want to ask for his life story only to forget it a moment later. If he engages me, if he offers, if he wants the company, I am more than happy to chat but I don't want to demand entertainment. I don't want to be that guy - the one who treads blithely through another exotic narrative filled with suffering and stoicism.

He drops me off in Carnegie. I pay him $32 and wish him well.