Today I will map out an olfactory geography of my daily trajectory from Alexandria, on the rim of the airport industrial belt, to Ryde in the heart of the bordering-on-western suburbs. This is a trip of about 15 kilometres which takes approximately one hour, from the coffee-laden airs of Erskineville road to the fumes of the 506 as it squeaks and grumbles to a halt outside my office. The backstreets of the inner west give off their own affluent and slightly exotic aroma of jasmine and good living which fades to a mingling of Co2 with the clashing perfumes of the small flock of commuters waiting to cross Parramatta Rd in their straight skirts and spiky heels.

The Co2 persists, down Johnston Street in Annandale to the Balmain dockyards at the end where the City Westlink edges around the harbour. Here the odour depends on the time of day- a concentrated, powerful mingling of oil and mud at low tide, a saltier and more dilute version when the water is high. At the Darling Street intersection in Balmain, before the long rugged sweep down to the Iron Cove Bridge, there is a whiff of ammonia struggling with hospital grade disinfectant emitting from the public toilets (which are painted- appropriately- in a weak, well-hydrated yellow). Two petrol stations contribute their potent emissions to the mix as I swoop by.

The Iron Cove Bridge- more salt and, because of the exposure to the wind, a taste of distant bushfires or storms, depending on the time of day and year. On the other side I leave Victoria Rd and and cut through the backstreets of Drummoyne- more affluence, more commuter perfume, the more subtle fumes of expensive cars. The Gladesville Bridge is more impressive for its views than its odours, until - reaching the bottom end of the cycle path- there is a sudden sweet and overpowering waft of wattleflower.

And now downhill to Tarban Creek. Early in the morning the grass is still damp and smells of dew and at the very lowest point of my trip the path leads through the mangroves towards Gladesville and Hunters Hill. Here the odour is rich, organic, bordering on rotten but somehow still pleasant. The flowering shrubs and trees in the nature resrve on the other side of the creek balance it out with more honey and musk. This is the end of the trip, the last thing I smell before the steep climb where my own pungent sweat takes over and I am onto the final kilometre of my journey.

Marcin and Kuba thrive on noise, and to live they need a constant soundtrack which keeps total silence at bay. I don't suffer from this aural horror vacuii and when they aren't home I listen to nothing at all and find that it is loud enough in itself. There is a hum of whitegoods, a sporadic swish of tyres down on Euston Street, the tapping of the keyboard. I can hear a phone ringing and a fire alarm erupts as somebody fries their evening meal with too much enthusiasm on the floor below, but it is the sound of the electricity in the walls which I notice the most. It is a sort of symphonic accretion of sound, a low background hum overlaid by a chorus of erratic squeaks and a steady high-pitched whistle. I sit in front of the computer and feel myself caught in a web of invisible impulses which ebb and flow in the air around me, ripping through my cells and creating an unseen turbulence in the tranquil spaces of our flat .

It is nothing like the lively night air in the bush, province of possums and owls : in that silence and that darkness you can feel yourself expanding, released from something confining which you notice fleetingly as it disappears. The night silence of the city vibrates with uneasy human sensation that makes the air contract around you.

My Rostered Day Off is an island of calm in the month which I swim towards with growing desperation as another four weeks reaches its culmination . Yesterday it was marred by caffeine and a disturbing reread of Peter Goldsworthy's Three Dog Night- a novel about jealousy, the secret seed of destruction that lies at the heart of the empire of happiness. I have read this book before and because I know what happens, because this prior read puts me in a position to see the signs of ruin rising like a tide towards the happy love affair at the centre of things, I found it almost impossible to bring myself to repeat some sections. Maybe it's a bit too close to home.

For example: Freyja and Zaf's birthday party. We are up at her father's place at Peats Ridge, drinking around a fire under the stars- I go to bed early because I have to get up in the morning at seven, drive back to Sydney and go to work. I fall asleep briefly and wake up after an hour or so- Marcin is still not there. I am overtaken by a feeling of foreboding which I affix to a possible incipient attraction between Freyja's friend Marnie and my husband. He has expressed an admiration for her ability to keep herself in a consistent and extreme state of drunkenness without succumbing either to sleep or sobriety, and my paranoid mind goes to work on this so that sleep becomes impossible. I go outside and stumble towards to circle of firelight. As I get closer, I pull up short. They are sitting together on a wooden bench. I peer and squint in the darkness. Are they touching each other? Leaning on each other? I am overtaken by panic and can't go any closer. I lurk in the shadow of the barn, squatting on the stubble of recently-cut grass, and watch.