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There are no sidewalks in Torbay, unless you live in a newer subdivision where you’re rich enough to deserve them.

The rest of us – the ones with the view, na na na na na – have to jump in the nearest ditch to avoid heedless drivers. Occasionally I venture out to the main drag: Torbay Road, better known in my letters to the town council as Satan’s Speedway.

I haven’t called the cops on any reckless (and probably drunk) drivers in a while, so now I only wear the breast plate from my suit of armour. To protect what’s left of my post-breastfeeding chesticles.

But if I decide to walk the little dude and the dog simultaneously, I must resolve to throw one of the three parties into the road-side stinger nettles should an extra-wide vehicle come barreling toward us. The dog usually gets the raw deal, although if Max is having a cranky day, it’s a toss-up. Heads or tails, one of y’all is about to get prickly. Obviously I can’t throw myself into the ditch. That’d be like handing the oxygen mask to the guy next to you on the plane while you pass out, when you were the one who could have saved everyone on the aircraft! Simple logic.

No odds; I usually stick to the quaint cow-path roads around the house. On Sunday mornings, with the nearby traffic of Beelzebub reduced to a dull roar, I savour the sweet sounds of summer.

The tender rustle of the wind in the trees.

The sweet tweet of birds waltzing overhead.

The rumble of ocean waves in the harbour.

And this… sweet Turbo Ginger action.

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