A gradual and then complete hush covers the suburbs, only broken by the occasional rev head out to make the most of the clear roads. You can tell the match has begun as you hear the odd enthused grunt and a growled 'Carn mate!' from the small collection of guys over the back, their voices trailing alternately dully and crisply to you on the breeze.
It seems only the usual squawks of the birdlife reveal that they, if anyone, knows that it’s just another day.
