It is July, and a hoar frost coats the kikuyu grass in the gardens, whilst ungainly ibis, their feathers shining blue-green like a splash of petrol on the road, strut over the hardened earth, pecking for food.

The pale sun rises over the jagged city skyline and in the upmarket Sandton suburbs the private security guards yawn, scratch and handover the care of the smart houses and cluster complexes to the day shift.

Soon they will be thumbing down their taxis, battered white vehicles of uncertain ages, which will take them back to the townships, to Alexandra, Soweto or Tambisa, where the drifting veils of woodsmoke lie like horizontal ropes across the dawn sky and dogs howl and scavenge throughout the day.

A quiet night….a burglary at Lonehill, a couple of hijackings in Randberg, a rape in Morningside. Pay day tomorrow. Not a bad life.