Outside Wynyard Station on York Street, a small boy swoops on a footpath treasure. His mother confiscates it, resisting his entreaties, and cunningly flicks it away behind her back.

It lands on the footpath, lying in wait for the next little boy.

A dangerously manicured woman works on a laptop nearby, talon-typing.

A dark-skinned woman and a grey-haired Caucasian man share a cafe table in Ashfield. The woman talks. And talks. Every so often she leans in close, and whispers.

All the way from Wynyard, a woman bangs her phone against her leg in never-varied rhythm. It pounds in peripheral vision. It screams at the edges of awareness.

On a bench by Sydney’s pedestrian-friendly George Street, a young woman sits with both hands raised to adjust the settings on her hairstyle. Her brow is furrowed. Her eyes are filled with irritation.

At Wynyard a tiny girl stands in the bus queue, eyes closed, rubbing her forehead with a gum leaf.

A family of three walks hand in hand, mother at the front, little girl in the middle, smaller boy dragging at the end and swinging his free arm defiantly. Pulled in two directions, the little girl bends her head and plugs on stoically.

Transport inspectors invade the train carriage, checking people’s Opal cards. One stands at the front, device extended, bored gaze drifting, mouth open, chewing gum. Kylie Mole as a grown-up.

A woman climbs Robert Street in Ashfield, leaning into the hill as she pushes an elaborate baby-transport. Between her and the carriage, a child stands comfortably on a platform made to increase the burden.

All along Sydney’s inner-city train tracks, the backyard fences and the end walls of terraces are covered in graffiti.

Two young women pass by with their mops and buckets and brooms, and one has a vacuum cleaner strapped to her back. They laugh in the rain.

A man is doing arm and body exercises as he walks. Suddenly he looks up, self-conscious. He glances round, walks on, and a few steps later he resumes his exercises.

The wind is just a bit too refreshing now. The sky begins to look like rain, and just like that, it falls.

An ancient woman sits motionless inside the cafe, her expression alternating between vacant stare and angry glare. Her walking stick is ready to make a move but she’s asleep now, her chin resting on her chest.

A young woman wears a crocheted pouch in front. Two small feet poke out the bottom, with a hint of striped leggings.

A boy and a girl cross the square, on unrelated trajectories, with their respective mothers. At precisely the same instant, on opposite sides of the square, both children squeal with excitement and begin to run.

As the bus rolls through Dee Why a grey-bearded Sikh is striding along the opposite footpath. He wears a white robe, long white trousers pulled in at the ankle and a yellow backpack. As we move in opposite directions his head turns to follow the bus, and I feel like I’m under a microscope.

A sound like the wind swells to become an engine drawing close then switching off. Thunder cracks, right outside the window, as the Dinosaur dumps rubble into an empty truck.