At Manly Wharf, the distant ends of jetties remain the lawless preserve of little boys, and sometimes bigger boys and girls, who hurl themselves into the shark-infested harbour. Today it’s the little boys in their long black gym pants that look like board shorts, but they’re mostly preoccupied with a huge decking plank that just won’t make the leap. They’ve pushed it off the edge as far as they can but the weight of it has the final section wedged beneath the railing. They stand on it, see-sawing up and down but all to no avail; the ancient slab hangs in space, angled to the water and fated never to enter.