It's the corner of my eye. It's the Stop sign. It's the lead singer of The Red Riders making his leather jacketed way into a pink terrace in Hordern Street. It's British India as the new Faker. I hate the way I look and despise the way I sing. It's turning up the clock radio. It's Brendan Cowell turning on every appliance in the house. It's wind and rain, rubber boots constantly under my desk and the harbour like dishwater. It's fluorescent tights strewn across the floor. And another time it's the tights as blue as the label on the beer is green. In harmony and in discord.

They're digging up the road and widening it just so you can suffocate at home. Which Tim? My Tim.