A small, plump woman and a huge, heavy man pass the square in Dee Why. She wears dark, discreet clothing. He wears high-vis and a hard hat. They don’t speak. They don’t look at each other.

They’re on a mission.

On the grass verge outside Warringah Mall, a tiny yellow excavator swaps one small accessory for another.

Two men talk long over short black coffees. One man, in a suit and tie, has serious, watchful eyes that constantly scan his surroundings. The other, with his back to me, wears shorts and a singlet. They leave together, one with a stroll and one with a swagger, but stop to talk again at the edge of George Street.

A vast man, occupying one and a half seats on the bus, is squeezed into his allocated space by a small Asian girl. You can tell she’s a badass, cause she wears her Stussy cap backwards.

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.