9.13pm

When sitting in the back courtyard at night, it is important to be quiet, he says. The chatter of six people might disturb the neighbours or add to the frustrated sleeplessness that living along the highway inevitably brings.

So the booming voices of five twenty year-old men sitting around an outdoor coffee table on mouldy sofa’s and plastic outdoor chairs become softened. Their well-practised stature, squared shoulders, puffed chests, becomes slackened under the cover of a dark night. There is no moon and no lamps, the nearest porch light lies 10 odd metres away and is filtered by a lattice of bricks, an outdated white feature piece that’s a few pieces short of a wall.

Everyone looks more closely at each other, everyone pays more mind to what is said and those words which would otherwise be lost to drowning by music are caught.

10.07 am

An old woman, 85 or so, sits on a plastic green lawn chair with her back to the sun. The slanted morning rays catches the outermost of her short white hairs, warms her back and shoulders and signals the days beginning. Amongst a yard of overgrown grass, white weeds, yellow weeds and budding roses she slouches into herself and into her lawn chair. Her green sweater, although landmarked by a rim of gold, is a camouflage that eases the distinction of her shape with those of her garden. She is still, calm, quiet, at peace and disturbed only slightly by the gentle breeze as it drifts from the river and up the suburban street.

Reaching down into the grass, she procures a small dish, a crucible for a slice of bread, takes a bite, dusts the crumbs from her fingers with a gentle swipe of each against the other, and replaces her plate amongst the overgrowth. Realising the warmth, she removes her dark green sweater. Slowly, a bright white t-shirt is revealed. Once again, she slouches into her plastic lawn chair.

It is a warm morning for August.