December accepts its weaves of workers, casually industrious. Scumble of cloud over the slapped-up stadium could be rain. But the bee-lines return to more online paperwork: it pays. Badging protests against aloneness and bread-and-circus posters won’t last a week, forlorn imitators of glowing advertising inside cafes’ inset TVs. Railway heavies stand around a Myki freeloader, write down the same old story, touching in its way. The city’s towers stand anonymous as the man in the grey flannel suit. Peak performance non-stops, greenly indicates another day. It’s why railings shine, why orange teams are quick to repair a broken down escalator.