Small boy at the markets: “I got two Pokémon packs and a Pokémon book.”

Small girl at the markets: “Oh look! Her tail’s so excited!”

A Dachshund casts worried eyes around the market as his human, clutching him between arm and hip, struggles from stall to stall.

An old woman bends at the front of a covered pram and reaches far inside, feeling her way like a mechanic tracing the source of that mysterious squeak.

We had thunder last night and the sound is no different this morning, as the demolishers grind their way further into the building.

A woman carries a baguette in a paper bag, and a big tub of Greek yoghurt.

A pug and an Afghan pass each other at the markets. The Afghan is interested, but the pug moves on with haughty indifference.

A tiny dog strains at the lead, nose forward, tail flying back and forth; so much to see, so much to sniff but alas, its human has stopped.

A greyhound moves cautiously between the market stalls. It has five peculiar ridges on its back, and three humans.

A young woman and an old woman browse the markets arm in arm. The old woman has a walking stick, and a jaunty green backpack over one shoulder.

A woman in a long black dress walks past at the markets, talking to a friend. “On the first day, you’ll see, you’ll feel like a Mr Whippy Van.”

A woman parks her boyfriend under a tree and he sits there eating; sausage sandwich in one hand, ice cream cone in the other, alternating between them.

A child pushes past on a scooter. She stops, drops to her bottom and resumes her journey.

At Manly Markets, a small girl clenches two fists on her stroller frame, face red, mouth open, eyes wide in a look of horror. Where is her mother taking her? Why is she doing this?

Shouted conversations go quiet when the bus stops. Somebody might hear.

The dinosaur is jack-hammering somewhere inside the youth hostel. It begins with a sound like rolling thunder and continues in short bursts of destruction. From time to time, the room trembles around me.

A grey-clad woman in Brookvale carries a baby in front of her in a pouch, but the baby has sunk to the bottom and pulled everything taut. In consequence, the woman resembles a mudslide.

The woman across the aisle has black hair and lashes, black top, black jeans and black, thick-soled boots. Her jeans are ripped at the knees and torn across the outer thigh. She sits in stillness, one leg crossed over the other, and stares at a phone she holds in landscape mode. A complex, elegant tatto extends from wrist to elbow, and the lace of her top creates the appearance of other tattoos covering her shoulders.

Decamping at Dee Why, she wears a cautious expression.

Two yellow-vests drift down through the silent worksite. One slips through the gate with a twist but the second must widen the gap. He’s a mountain. With a gentle touch, he slides the gate back in place.

At Warringah Mall, an Espresso machine is piled high with shoes and boots. But no, I’m mistaken. There’s no coffee, and the kiosk is called Shoe Express.