7The next morning Vince pulled on his footy shorts, nearest t-shirt and old trainers, and he and Deefer headed out for a run. Myf Williams had reminded him to keep up the exercise. ‘It’s good for your head as well as your body.’
They trotted up through the breakwater car park and turned onto the walking path. ‘Tide’s in, too hard running on that sloping soft sand,’ he said, after looking at the beach. ‘Let’s stay on the track.’
He put on his shades and pulled down his cap—a bid for anonymity. The last thing he needed was impromptu al fresco consultations. After ten metres of progress, Deefer squatted and deposited a large turd in the middle of the path.
‘Good on you,’ said Vince, his left arm having been almost pulled out of its socket. He considered leaving the offending dump where it
