In the build-up to her departure for Laos – the homeland of her Hmong parents – Michele Lee wanders through Melbourne’s bars and streets, and the history of her life and relationships. She talks to her dubious teenage self, defending the course her life has taken; no longer the engineering student she thought she’d be, but a playwright, government lackey, serial internet dater and inconsistently affectionate sister and daughter.

Lee meanders through the connections she’s made in her life, and everyone in her world has a nickname: she sleeps with the Cub in his grubby Richmond share house, speaks with the Husband (actually an ex) about Tuesday and the Naturopath. The reason behind the nicknames is not always clear, but it’s a touch I loved – it gives you an immediate impression of these people. Banana Girl is unflinchingly modern: where Lee goes, whom she sees, her oft-maligned haircut and the type of lifestyle she leads.

Lee captures the world of all those striking young creatives that walk Melbourne’s streets, lurk in the bars you wish you could find, shop at Readings, and write the plays you see. It’s not pretentious, however: it’s intimate and conversational, like falling into her friendship group (she’d refer to you as Reader, maybe), or listening to her life from the pocket of her dress after she butt-dialled you. Sometimes she makes you sigh – she is not afraid to show imperfections, even those she’s not aware of – but mostly Lee is just a very good storyteller: about herself, about the open possibilities of life, and the hope that you will always be better than you wanted to be in your youth.

Fiona Hardy