A tall girl is with her family at Cafe Piccolo Bar. She didn’t want anything from the counter and has been creeping around behind the flower stall like she’s waiting to spring an ambush. I lose track but find her again, back with the family. She stoops to give the biggest, longest hug you could ever imagine to a much smaller girl of maybe 8 or 10 who’s magically appeared. The small girl has a brother and tall girl gives him a moment as well, running a hand over what is probably a fresh-cut mullet as she turns away. The boy replaces his hat.

Puss ‘n Boots. They can’t even get the name right.

At the top of the Spit Bends, a woman in a white dress blows leaves into the late afternoon traffic.

I can see there are different cliques on this building site. Two blokes just stormed across in yellow jackets and really shiny black hard hats. One of them came out again with a kettle and hurried onto the footpath.

Green, gigantic leaves erupt at the edge of Military Road in Mosman, like a Jurassic explosion.

A huge man in shorts and a blue singlet hulks his way along the footpath in Mosman. His head is bald and his arms are covered in tattoos. Beside him trots a tiny, tidy little dog on its lead.

A man crosses the road at Neutral Bay, stepping out just before the lights change. He’s a big man with white hair and a moustache of steel, and he holds two take-away food containers in one hand. His other arm is pressed to his jacket, trapping some material there that is bright, fluorescent orange. Some of it hangs like a ribbon underneath, and I can’t begin to imagine what this orange thing might be. It really bothers me.

Our bus almost rear-ends someone in the traffic and the top deck fills with gasps. A man with sunglasses and headphones twists right round in his seat, glaring fiercely at the road as if it’s personally attacked him.

We’re racing up the Warringah Freeway. I’m gazing down at the road but suddenly it’s gone, and a chasm opens beneath us. Nothing stands between us and a line of tiny vehicles far below. My heart jumps. My brain has a moment. Finally it shows me an underpass rising to become a new lane up ahead. Far out.

A vast Covid capsule is docked at Circular Quay. Human figures roam the decks like wandering ants. The vessel has a strange name … something like Incubation of the Seas.

A man who is at least half beard walks past with two teenage girls in tow. The first is serene, smooth-cheeked, with eyes that are softly lit from within. The second has a twisted mouth, as if she’s said something she now regrets. Or perhaps there’s something stuck between her teeth.

Dymocks Cafe. Across the narrow aisle, a woman sits with three objects ranged down one side of her table: a glass of water with a straw, a scrunched-up napkin and a glasses case. A laptop sits beside them and she scrolls it constantly, nodding and speaking to a mobile phone she’s pressed against one ear. Her jacket has only a tenuous grip on the chair behind her, and swept-over hair strands cling to the back of her head.

An overflowing bag rests on her foot.

Dymocks Cafe. The elderly couple at the next table prepares to leave. The man threads his way past tables and waitresses, negotiates at the register and returns. Tall, stooped and expressionless, he says: “Okay we go,” barely pausing as his wife begins to stand.

Two scaffolders are repacking loose blue poles that had been distributed against walls and fence. They are piling them onto two of the square bases that carry them from site to site. One man is removing specific fittings from the messy pile which no longer sports a yoghurt container. He carries the fittings and drops them on the concrete between the scaffold piles. Then he lifts them one by one and lines them carefully on the carrier. Two thirds of their length is inside and the rest hangs out the end. This leaves room for a duplicate line on the other side.

7.57am: First clatter from the site, and someone hammers a nail.

The bottom halves of two people stand inside the garage on top of the rubble. One bottom half is light blue jeans and is certain to be an engineer. Engineers wear jeans. The two halves emerge at last and the blue jeans are topped by an open yellow vest bearing the builder’s name on the back (nailed it!), and a head with a very white, new-looking hard hat. But it’s not Boy Engineer. This one is older and doesn’t have a beard.

The second bottom half is Foreman.

Wynyard Park, on the way to Dymocks in George Street, Sydney

A shopping trolley is parked against the steps at Wynyard Park. It contains four brown leaves and a green, crumpled plastic bag.

With a single bite, Elsie lifts the entire roof free and turns, looking for somewhere to drop it.

Elsie marks the verandah, sinks her teeth in and pulls, juddering and jerking on her tracks as the concrete fights to escape.

Light struggles through the dust. Elsie has broken through. A great, dark shadow trawls the depths and withdraws. Bricks crumble. Elsie thrusts again, and half the side wall folds in to shatter on the floor.

Meanwhile, on Friday … Elsie is ripping down one side of the flats, grinding and banging and scraping and thumping. A man stands hosing the immediate destruction, but clouds of dust rise from the garage. Water drips from an outlet above the door.