out and about

At Collaroy a motor scooter burbles almost to a stop in the bus lane, then accelerates as the lights change. Its rider leans forward on the handlebars.

A teenager slouches aboard with no pretence of paying. The driver glares, and the boy slumps into a seat. He has acne.

A curly-haired cocker spaniel and a bulldog trade angry words in the middle of the market. Embarrassed humans lead them in opposite directions, but the cocker spaniel turns back suddenly and lunges in a flurry of barks and snarls. Two steps later it tries again.

That bulldog has really got under its fur.

A woman with short grey hair limps past on a walking stick. She wears baggy jeans and a big, loose shirt of red and black squares. Stopping, she wheels round slowly, steadies, then continues on her new course into the book stall. She removes her glasses.

Manly Markets. A stroller goes past with dolls and toys piled inside. Somewhere underneath, a baby squeals.

Distraught girl from the animal rescue stall at Manly Markets: “At Shelly Brach there’s a shark eating a dolphin! The whole beach is closed!”

A man pushes just the low, storage section of a pram through the markets. A bulldog sits inside it, breathing heavily.

Small boy at the markets: “I got two Pokémon packs and a Pokémon book.”

Small girl at the markets: “Oh look! Her tail’s so excited!”

A Dachshund casts worried eyes around the market as his human, clutching him between arm and hip, struggles from stall to stall.

An old woman bends at the front of a covered pram and reaches far inside, feeling her way like a mechanic tracing the source of that mysterious squeak.

A woman carries a baguette in a paper bag, and a big tub of Greek yoghurt.

A pug and an Afghan pass each other at the markets. The Afghan is interested, but the pug moves on with haughty indifference.

A tiny dog strains at the lead, nose forward, tail flying back and forth; so much to see, so much to sniff but alas, its human has stopped.

A greyhound moves cautiously between the market stalls. It has five peculiar ridges on its back, and three humans.

A young woman and an old woman browse the markets arm in arm. The old woman has a walking stick, and a jaunty green backpack over one shoulder.

A woman in a long black dress walks past at the markets, talking to a friend. “On the first day, you’ll see, you’ll feel like a Mr Whippy Van.”

A woman parks her boyfriend under a tree and he sits there eating; sausage sandwich in one hand, ice cream cone in the other, alternating between them.

A child pushes past on a scooter. She stops, drops to her bottom and resumes her journey.

At Manly Markets, a small girl clenches two fists on her stroller frame, face red, mouth open, eyes wide in a look of horror. Where is her mother taking her? Why is she doing this?

Shouted conversations go quiet when the bus stops. Somebody might hear.

A grey-clad woman in Brookvale carries a baby in front of her in a pouch, but the baby has sunk to the bottom and pulled everything taut. In consequence, the woman resembles a mudslide.

The woman across the aisle has black hair and lashes, black top, black jeans and black, thick-soled boots. Her jeans are ripped at the knees and torn across the outer thigh. She sits in stillness, one leg crossed over the other, and stares at a phone she holds in landscape mode. A complex, elegant tatto extends from wrist to elbow, and the lace of her top creates the appearance of other tattoos covering her shoulders.

Decamping at Dee Why, she wears a cautious expression.

At Warringah Mall, an Espresso machine is piled high with shoes and boots. But no, I’m mistaken. There’s no coffee, and the kiosk is called Shoe Express.

Three storeys above Pittwater Road, the penthouse-dwellers bring in the washing.