If only I carried a camera when running. I encountered yesterday the perfect image. A proper British fat lad, his blue shirt kept in communication with his jug-like jeans only by thick red braces, red faced like a builder’s mate, was standing under a tree, looking accusingly at it. A slight gesture of the head acknowledged the assistance he was receiving from his mutt - a boxer, of course. It was busy dragging a six-foot branch to its master, the better for him to work out exactly where it came from, and exactly where to put it.
It was a picture story that could only ever have one caption: ‘Sorted’.