It's a hot night tonight and Sydney stayed up late. Not partying, just sitting. Being too hot to sleep and not wanting to do anything else.

If I rejigged that a bit I could use it as a first line of a novel.

Hot January nights, and the city stays up late, each house the same as the next, some lights on, some not. But no one's sleeping, just waiting, waiting for some cool relief, or morning light, which ever comes first. It was on nights like this that you could find Ellen Walker out the back of her one bedroom terrace flat, lying on her deck chair, drinking white wine, wearing little, but no-one could see her anyway.

As Ellen lay amongst the hot air, she would try and feel her neighbours. What were they doing while they couldn't sleep? What were they hoping to dream of when sleep finally come? After growing up on a property 5 hours west of anywhere, having neighbours, for Ellen, was a novelty that never quite wore off.