In this series, Guardian writers share the best advice they have received and how it has impacted their lives
“Take that bloody cheese off already,” my dad would bark at me. Oh how I should have listened.
It all started one spring weeknight in 2020. I had just caught a film with friends. I was in my metallic blue Mazda 2 parked in front of the Randwick Ritz cinema, about to pull out, when a red P-plated hatchback full of mulleted, rowdy youths pulled up beside me.