That Saturday morning, I’d risen early after a restless night, the romantic in me having latched on to those love letters from the 1970s, and it was a short step from there to Eric and the collapse of our relationship after Mum passed away. I was still in the midst of all those thoughts and moody feelings as I set off for my run, cornering the end of Boronia Street and heading downhill beneath the spreading canopy of the row of giant cypress trees planted just inside the park.
No cars meant I crossed the road at the bottom without having to wait and headed past the tennis courts. Before the culvert, I veered onto the Black Burn Trail. There was no one about on this lonely and pretty stretch that zigzagged beside the overgrown burn. On my left, the back gardens of a row of large properties
