Tokyo is almost three times the size of Sydney and vastly more dense, but my main memory of it is the sound of footsteps. Rush hour in Tokyo is onomatopoeic with waves - tides - of footsteps. Not here. Of course a proper writer works amid leaf-whisper and birdsong, but for me, a city dweller, street noise is the norm. Sadly, Sydney being Sydney, it's not the sound of feet but the roar of continuous internal combustion.

And so it was that, a few weeks ago, as I beavered away for your pleasure, my attention was taken by a sudden stillness outside. You could hear footsteps. You could even hear the rustle of banknotes as the dealers plied their trade at the bus stop opposite. Our street, which is never quiet, had stopped. Completely.

Cartoon Credit:Edd Aragon

I checked it out, as you do. The biggest B-double I'd ever seen was parked across the intersection, completely blocking it. As we came close we realised there was death involved. A crimson moped was propped against a pole. Its driver, the locals told us, had gone under the truck. "He was still alive under there," one guy said. "He was talking. But then the rangers told the driver to back the truck off him. And that tore his leg off. Killed him."

I don't know how much was true. Maybe all of it. But the intersection, which I cross daily, is marked forever with the young man's blood. I cannot see it without reflecting on the hugely unequal odds of scooter versus truck.