When I was a kid, the suburbs on a Sunday were peaceful and still. The only noise would be children playing, hoses spraying, an occasional radio or lawnmower in the distance, warbling magpies and the wind through the leaves.

The one sound noticeably missing was the usual, steady drone of traffic common in every major city.

This was a perfect time to play cricket or kick-to-kick on the street. Kids would only have to pause every half hour or so to let a car pass, if that. Every back street became a playground.

This idyllic day of rest had a singular cause: Sunday was trading was illegal.

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