The taxi driver's jovial as we head down Bell St, making the usual pleasant small talk. But as we swing around into Nicholson St, a pedestrian who's just crossed in front of us swings round to walk back. The driver lets out a guttral "yuurrrghhh!" as he slams on the brakes, anticipating the dull thump of flesh on metal. But no. Not quite. The guy looks at us, his mouth forming an O, and turns back. The rain keeps falling, Dean Martin keeps singing on the radio. We drive on, quietly.