A miniature white poodle drops to its bottom on command and gazes up adoringly at its human, but all she pulls from her pocket is a phone.

Manly Markets: a girl of twelve looks on with a smile as her little sister claims all the attention.

A young man with beard, backpack, t-shirt and jeans walks with a young woman dressed to the nines for work. One of them is playing a role.

A Miniature Fox Terrier turns hard left and launches itself at a pigeon. They become airborne together, the pigeon naturally, the dog far less so as the lead jerks tight in the middle of his leap. He whirls above the footpath, touches down, and his human sweeps him up in a consoling embrace.

A magpie crosses the footpath and stands very still, its head on one side. It stares, steps forward, stares again. A man powers towards him, rust red jumper flapping on his shoulder, but the bird stands firm.

The wind propels a middle-aged woman towards me. She is a riot of colour whipped into fantastical shapes but her face shows only the strain of being alive. Her hair alone is proof against the wind, and blue.

Across Pittwater Road, a bus queue stretches all along the face of the Collaroy Hotel. It’s visible only through gaps in the never-ceasing traffic, in snatched impressions the mind must stitch together in the background, under the surface, using all the magic it commands.

Early morning. Windswept morning. In the grey light a woman in tracksuit pants and a big striped jumper is blown past the door with a take-away coffee cup glued to her mouth.

Hungarian Puli visits Collaroy cafe

🐶

Cross-section of a dead tree fern

An old man and a tiny schoolgirl step off the bus at Spit Junction. He leans down and lifts an admonishing finger, which she ignores.

A small girl with a big pink backpack climbs to the top of the bus. She squeaks as her small mother hauls her close. The girl turns round, both hands clutching the seat-back, and smiles through her lashes at the woman behind.

Her eyes wander, her tongue pokes out the side, she closes her mouth and uses her tongue to stretch and distort the curve beneath her mouth.

There’s so much you can do with a face.

An older woman strides past the cafe window, and with every step her white hair jumps for joy.

Across the mezzanine at Dymocks Cafe, two women browse a bookcase labelled Best Sellers. One pulls down a book called Stay Awake and flicks through it. Three titles away, some Girl has found another dangerous vantage point.

On the Saturday morning bus to Manly, two girls slouch in consecutive window seats and scroll their phones. Heads down. Faces blank. Cushioned in their solitude, unknown to each other.

Then one turns round and they talk, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if they’re on the same journey.

Weird.

A woman hurries in and asks for coffee. She has sturdy legs, a short black dress and a big black bag. The man who doesn’t serve draws her into his corner. He talks and talks and his hands weave. The woman blinks. She gives little nods and says Yeah. Yeah. Her coffee is ready but still he talks. Finally, with a laugh, she turns and heads for the door. Not smiling.

A boy cycles behind his father on the footpath, with eyes only for his dad until a motorbike roars past. The boy’s head swings around to follow and he gazes after it, looking and looking, riding blind.

Near Dymocks on George Street, two little girls disappear into the crowd with excited squeals, as the vehicle-crossing-footpath alarm starts up. Two women lunge after them, sweeping strangers aside and screaming “Stop! Stop!”

A girl nearby, hand in a parent’s hand, looks back with concern.

At Warringah Mall bus stop, a schoolgirl cocks her hip and gazes into the distance, looking smug. A boy is talking to her.