There is a man who knows no more about me than that he saw me running on a Kangaroo Island beach at Christmas time. If he thinks of me at all, if he is the kind of person who remembers such details in his life, he would see in his mind a woman, not so young, not so old, in a yellow T shirt (children are born with these arms, not these arms), black pants rolled up to the knee, bare feet.

Running.

That is all he knows of me, and yet, he is the only person who has ever seen the adult me run.

And when, in a new city amongst new people, I am doing as I have been advised and saying ‘yes’ to every invitation, every conversation that is initiated, I think of this man. A man about whom I know nothing more than that he stood at the top of a cliff, hand on his hip and waved at me as I ran.

Something I had not done for over twenty years.