As a young person starting scaffolding, seeing all the open paddocks with stick structures, people wandering into new suburbs to build their perfect, cheap little lives.

13 mailboxes scattered amongst 100s of “pretty” new homes.

Construction workers making noisey work next door to a newly established house, home to an eager young Indian family.

The estates smell of construction, dust, and Indian curry and Thai curry and BBQ and many more scents from many more cultures.

The Indian man walks with his grandson to see the works, he stops and turns his robed body to the building site, with hands behind his back he stares and stares, such intense interest.

“What ya lookin’ at” a lovely tradesman may say.

7am

Tired faces emerge from cars,

Coffees, iced coffees and red bull will help some faces,

Morning runs for the athletic type,

Late arrivals in beaten up cars for others.

Broken bodies, leather skin, bad diets… Men.

Trades….man.

Trades… who gives a fuck.

“How ya goin?” , one will say,

“How ya goin?” , along with a friendly, yet quick and stern nod downwards, the other will say.

Shallow conversations, shallow lives.

Someone save these broken men before one of them breaks his partner.