Sunday morning.

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It’s a warm morning down by the shore. The ferry from Scotland has just slipped into the harbour, its engines humming beneath the water, gulls wheeling and squealing in its wake. Soon a convoy of cars and trucks will spew out of the big door in its back end, motorised diarrhoea if you will, but they’ll not be coming in my direction. The warm air is full of salt and the stench of decaying seaweed that has been washed up on rocks and is starting to rot in the sunshine. I love that smell. The first joggers have also started to surface from cozy beds for their Sunday run. Have you ever noticed how many runners are heart attacks waiting to happen? Corpulent, middle-aged corporate types who haven’t been able to see past their bellies to their feet for years, and are out of breath before they reach the end of their street and yet they persist.