Rain is falling. A young woman walks with a hand raised, sheltering her nose.

A man climbs the ramp with a rolling gait, as if he’s recently had both knees replaced. He carries a shopping bag and a bunch of flowers. A woman in her 30s moves up behind, prepares a smile in case their eyes should meet, and accelerates past. She has orange shorts and good strong legs.

A Japanese woman stops at the edge of the cafe, apparently teaching her little daughter to wave. She demonstrates, with a cheery greeting, bends down to instruct, and the child copies her. The woman turns the girl towards a different point, and the sequence repeats. I look over my shoulder to where they’re waving, but there’s no one there.

They leave without saying goodbye.

In the middle of the rain-puddled square a toddler falls on its hands and knees. Its mother smiles, then laughs and runs to accept a coffee from a friend.

The B1 is in a mad hurry, tearing along Pittwater Road like there’s no tomorrow. Storm clouds are gathering, and it’s all just a wee bit apocalyptic.

A chihuahua trots past the shops in Collaroy, owning the footpath. 🐶

Piglet, the Portaloo, is once again completely surrounded by water.

Aggie read with all her being,
but she didn’t need to squawk,
So she wasn’t like those other girls
who are because they talk.

Sascha Martin’s Aliens: an unpublished adventure

A woman in leopard-print pants pulls a leopard-print shopping trolley past the cafe. An old man shuffles after her, three paces behind, head down and eyes locked on the wheels. He alters course with the trolley, as if it’s pulling him along.

Safe above freshly hung political posters, a young man relaxes on a balcony. He’s playing guitar with his back to the street and someone, sitting opposite, moves her dangling foot in time to the music.

A young bloke leans on a pillar out of the rain, holding a single long-stemmed rose.

A polite elderly woman enquires about routes to the Dee Why Grand, and the conversation turns to her love of coffee.

Me: There’s a place inside the Grand …

Polite elderly woman: No. They make shit coffee.

A woman speaks loudly but indistinctly on the phone. Then she announces, in a tone of surprise and very clearly: “I’ve lost confidence.”

It’s raining in Sydney, and the outdoor cafe has become a pedestrian thoroughfare.

🐶 A dog called Tilly 🐕‍🦺

6.00am: on the sleeping work site, light shines inside a window of the half-demolished flats.

A dog is desperate to investigate the bicycle smoker, who is now lying on his back with his phone in the air. The dog has a big, solid head and a low centre of gravity, and his human struggles to rein him in. The dog leaps and prances but in the end he yields, trotting away with a final look of yearning.

A portly, smiling man ambles across the grass in shorts and t-shirt with his phone half-raised, and talks to the bicycle smoker. He looks up and calls out to the terrace, and a full-voiced conversation ensues: loud, good-natured, familiar. When he turns away there’s a bag slung low on his back, black with “adidas” in orange. He wears short white socks and trainers.

A man sits on the grass, smoking a cigarette. His black shoes lie on one side, his straw hat on the other. Beside the hat is a prostrate bicycle. The man has ear buds, a phone, and some kind of cup in his hand. He tips his head back and drinks.

A very old man descends the ramp with a walker, stopping once to realign. He passes right beside me and his eye is fixed straight ahead, but I can almost see it straining to turn in my direction. He’d glance, I think, if only getting down the ramp didn’t require his full attention.