A huge man in shorts and a blue singlet hulks his way along the footpath in Mosman. His head is bald and his arms are covered in tattoos. Beside him trots a tiny, tidy little dog on its lead.

A man crosses the road at Neutral Bay, stepping out just before the lights change. He’s a big man with white hair and a moustache of steel, and he holds two take-away food containers in one hand. His other arm is pressed to his jacket, trapping some material there that is bright, fluorescent orange. Some of it hangs like a ribbon underneath, and I can’t begin to imagine what this orange thing might be. It really bothers me.

Our bus almost rear-ends someone in the traffic and the top deck fills with gasps. A man with sunglasses and headphones twists right round in his seat, glaring fiercely at the road as if it’s personally attacked him.

We’re racing up the Warringah Freeway. I’m gazing down at the road but suddenly it’s gone, and a chasm opens beneath us. Nothing stands between us and a line of tiny vehicles far below. My heart jumps. My brain has a moment. Finally it shows me an underpass rising to become a new lane up ahead. Far out.

A vast Covid capsule is docked at Circular Quay. Human figures roam the decks like wandering ants. The vessel has a strange name … something like Incubation of the Seas.

A man who is at least half beard walks past with two teenage girls in tow. The first is serene, smooth-cheeked, with eyes that are softly lit from within. The second has a twisted mouth, as if she’s said something she now regrets. Or perhaps there’s something stuck between her teeth.

Dymocks Cafe. Across the narrow aisle, a woman sits with three objects ranged down one side of her table: a glass of water with a straw, a scrunched-up napkin and a glasses case. A laptop sits beside them and she scrolls it constantly, nodding and speaking to a mobile phone she’s pressed against one ear. Her jacket has only a tenuous grip on the chair behind her, and swept-over hair strands cling to the back of her head.

An overflowing bag rests on her foot.

Dymocks Cafe. The elderly couple at the next table prepares to leave. The man threads his way past tables and waitresses, negotiates at the register and returns. Tall, stooped and expressionless, he says: “Okay we go,” barely pausing as his wife begins to stand.

A shopping trolley is parked against the steps at Wynyard Park. It contains four brown leaves and a green, crumpled plastic bag.

A woman floats along Pittwater Road, Dee Why, in the middle of a sun frock.

A girl sits at the bus stop ahead, a silhouette in the glare, except that her hair is very red, very curly, cut short at the sides. Almost a mullet, but it’s fluffy at the front too. Her head bends as she looks at her phone. One leg stretches in front, the other tucks beneath the seat to form a triangle, whose apex is her knees. A white bag nestles beside her.

She stands and emerges into the sunshine, ready to catch her bus. A Goth girl. Short black skirt. Big black boots. Black jacket. Black stockings. Black garter above one knee.

Crossing the road I see her again, sitting upstairs as the bus waits at the lights. A phone appears suddenly. Her eyes flash and amusement lifts one corner of her mouth. She snaps the selfie.

A small girl pursues a beach ball in the surf. Each time she reaches it a wave snatches it away. Finally she throws her arms in the air with a cry of disgust, and her father has to run after the ball.

A man with his son balanced on his hip stands contemplating a motorbike. The man is in his 30s. The son is in his twos. " … anodised," says the dad with a glance at the son. “Ooh, anodised!” squeaks the son, or a good approximation of it. They both gaze admiringly at the machine.

A woman in the supermarket. Two daughters and a trolley. “Go away. I’m tired of the complaining. Just go away somewhere and leave me alone.” The daughters stay. So does the trolley.