I usually leave for work shortly after eight. I ride the lift down twenty floors to the basement, put any recycling into the yellow lidded bins and walk for fifteen minutes to the train.
I like to wear cream coloured chinos, a long sleeved blue shirt and brown walking shoes. If it's chilly I wear my sleeves long and insert a cuff link between the buttons to offset my perpetually open neck. If it's sunny, or the breeze is tinged with spring warmth, I roll the sleeves up to my elbows to reveal forearms light with hair and never without a kiss of sun. I never press hard when I shave, leaving the blueprints of all tomorrow's follicles visible in a display of casual softness. I moisturise so that when I smile the wrinkles on my face are shallow and add a hint of contrast.
I am a light, cheerfully coloured, smooth edged human. As I start to walk I pull down the wide black lenses of my polarised sunglasses. I insert two in-ear headphones and I accelerate to a brisk stride. I don't make eye contact with anyone. I catch my train and don't look up from my phone until they announce North Sydney train station. I'm behind glass, even after I'm out onto the platform. When I'm home again I'll take the sunglasses off and the headphones out.