It's midnight and I have just parked my car to make my way slowly up the hill towards the nightclub strip in Kings Cross.

After all the recent incidents of violence and injury, why would one possibly come here?

I work as a nightclub DJ, paying the bills for the medical degree I undertake by day. Now in my penultimate year of studies, a large portion of my learning is at the renowned St Vincent's Hospital, just 500 metres down the road. It is a juxtaposed lifestyle that, over the past few years, has shown me an ugly side to our incredible city.

On the way to the venue I'm playing at, I pass a girl slumped in the bushes, her friend holding back her hair as she vomits up a green tinged liquid, undoubtedly a bit of bile and a few too many Midori lemonades consumed without a good dinner beforehand. On the bench are two young people kissing, a few more sitting on the street corner and a dozen cabs lined up waiting to take home those who partied too hard.