A man walks past in cargo pants, grey cap and yellow and grey shirt. He has a bum bag at his waist and a loose, swaggering style of motion. He yawns loudly, and that’s when I notice him.

Two dachshunds are at a cafe, refilling their humans.

Me: I suppose they’re a bit snappy?

Dachshund-carer: No they like people. They’re good with people. It’s big dogs that are the problem.

Me: Little dogs all hate big dogs. And they think they can take them.

Laughter.

Pats, chin rubs, and the smaller dachshund stands both front paws on my foot.

A man hurries across Pittwater Road with a guitar and two dozen cans of beer.

A woman joins the path and another is already on it. The first carries a stuffed-full laptop bag, a cardboard box and a parcel from the post office. The other has a folding chair under one arm and beach towel on her shoulder. The sound is: thongs slapping on concrete.

A woman walks along the pedestrian way, tapping at her pink-cased phone with an index finger. It’s a long message, or maybe a novel. She looks up, just once, and continues typing.

Two girls and their mothers arrive almost together at the music house.

The first girl has wild black hair, long black shorts and a long black t-shirt scored with red. She hands a book to her mother and does this sassy walk to the hand rails, where she swings herself up onto the ramp. As she doubles back, the music in her step seems louder still. She leans down for the book and goes inside.

The second girl has neat brown hair, a yellow top and a prim, pleated skirt. She leaves her mother near the first and climbs sensibly through the hand rails, her book clutched firmly under one arm. She strides past her mother without a glance, then sweeps in through the door without acknowledging the other girl, who is holding it open for her.

The door swings shut.

The mothers leave in different directions. They haven’t spoken.

Two long-skirted women sway in unison, like the trees that shade their Bible information stand.

A middle-aged woman sets up her laptop in the library. She unlocks her phone and looks at it. “Hello?” she says. Every couple of minutes she repeats the question, but no one ever answers.

A young woman catches a toddler in a game of chasing. The toddler falls flat on its face.

High school girl walking past with a friend: Oh my god he’s like, eating the pasta. And I’m like, why are you eating the pasta?

A little golden chihuahua stands in the sun. It looks around. It blinks. It bends to sniff the grass. Suddenly it turns and hurries into the shade, where it zeroes in and lifts its leg against a rubbish bin. Checking the results, it trots from the scene with an air of satisfaction, trailing its human behind it.

A small, curly-haired girl looks fierce behind the wheel of a coin-operated car ride in the Dee Why Grand. Riding shotgun, a pre-toddler senses that things are getting out of control, and stares in mute appeal at their mother.

A young bloke hurries past the row of cafes, tearing open a bag of carrots with his teeth. He pauses, wrestles a carrot free and continues on his way.

Mother with stroller abandons toddler with curls at the top of the stairs, striding away without a backward glance. Toddler with curls takes on the challenging descent alone. Mother with stroller u-turns onto a ramp, and they meet up again at the entrance to Woolworths.

A Noisy Miner joins me, perching on the back of a spare chair and eyeing my plate. It leans forward, poised for action, but rejects my offer to shake hands and moves to another table.

A girl with dreadlocks to her waist is gadding about Dee Why. She sits outside at a cafe. She walks into Woolworths with a friend.

A woman sits on the bus beside a red leather overnight case. From a bag in her lap, she stealthily transfers potato crisps to her mouth.

At Sloppy Tee’s, a woman sweeps one-handed with a fan-shaped broom.

A man on the bus has his laptop open, text on the left, columns of red and blue cells on the right. He’s looking out the window.

A swarthy man in his forties squats impossibly, studying his phone, the hem of his suit jacket scraping the platform. Beneath the jacket he wears trainers and a pair of shorts. He has a white baseball cap.

After the heat and glare of the open tracks we enter a tunnel near Central, and the walls close in. The windows are black. They show us what’s inside.

A man sits on the bottom step of Platform 5 at Wynyard, chin in hand, eyes unfocused. When the train pulls in he stands slowly, boards slowly, slowly descends to a seat on the bottom level. He takes a phone from his pocket and sags.

Two elderly walkers are about to board at the back of the bus when the door wheezes shut in their faces. Their hands fly up. They look surprised. They get back in line.

A woman sits down on the top deck of the B1 and immediately attacks the woman in front, giving a tug on her curly hair and waiting. She tugs again. And again. The woman in front turns slowly, with a look: irritation, apprehension, uncertainty. It morphs into a grin and both women squeal in delight. Friends.

At Redfern Station a temporary hoarding blocks part of the footway. A sign on the hoarding says: “Move along from the narrow platform. Thank you for keeping the trains moving.”