At six in the morning the early air on my harbour-side Sydney street is riven with the squall of cockatoos. At half-seven leaf blowers wail and infuriate. At half-eight the helicopters drown them out.
In Summer the thump of party boats is amplified by the harbour glass-flatness. In Winter it all goes quiet. And in Spring the street's honour guard of jacarandas cracks into lilac like fireworks.