I didn’t apply for a job at my local one-hour photo lab out of a noble desire to serve the community’s photographic needs. I wanted a part-time job to fund my full-time uni lifestyle in 1990 – specifically, the kind of money that turned into festival tickets, Dr Martens and Poppy King lipstick in Indolence.Rabbit Photo was a mini-lab wedged into the corner of the Westfield Figtree shopping centre like a forgotten Tetris piece. On Thursday nights and Saturday mornings, I’d slip on my white cotton gloves and take my place behind the counter, ready to accept canisters of Fuji film.It was 1993, a decade before digital cameras invaded every pocket. Film was expensive so people saved it for big occasions, not brunch. You aimed, pressed the button and hoped you hadn’t cut the birthday kid’s head off. Customers dropped off their small, rattling time capsules – 24 or 36 exposures – and ticked boxes on an envelope: matt if you were arty, glossy if you were everyone else. There were no previews, no filters and no deletions.Technically, a lot of the photos were terrible. Entire packets of blurry toddlers running through sprinklers. Holiday snaps where everyone’s faces had been bleached by the flash, pupils glowing demonic red.