A faded winter sky seeps into the smudge of Mount Martha.
The bay shimmers in its opalescent cloak of silvery grey, mauve and pale, pale blue.
In the distance, a crimson spinnaker draws a yacht back to St Kilda.
The bitter Southerly blasts up Bay Street.
The tradies working on the new flats have given up on their shorts and hide in their hoodies as they cross the street for coffee and carbs. They push into cafes crammed with huge prams and toddlers.
Disgruntled dogs in designer coats wait outside.