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and brought out a white headband that he instantly wrapped around his head. Smiling in the warmth of the sun, the man smoothed out his yellow ‘T’ shirt, pulled his red shorts up over his protruding stomach and began to jog slowly on the spot.
    After a couple of minutes, the man stopped his exercise and sucked in great gulps of fresh air. Each time his chest expanded with the intake of air, the waistband of his shorts struggled to contain the rising mound of stomach. When the elastic in the waistband almost reached snapping point, the man exhaled to release the pressure on his stomach and make room for another intake of air. Satisfied that his lungs had recovered, along with the waistband of his shorts, the man pushed a few wisps of white hair back under his headband and began the process of touching his toes, standing upright and then bending down to find his toes once again.
    The second exercise lasted for another couple of minutes before the man began the intake of air and waistband stretching performance once again.
    Pleased with his start to the morning the man stood and admired the scenery. His intense blue eyes looked around at the irregular shapes and sparse vegetation that made the landscape so special to him. Smiling with pleasure, the man began to hum tunelessly as he walked leisurely between the various lumps and strands of grass. The tuneless hum and walking continued as he wandered in different directions, each time keeping the door within sight.
    â€˜
Who put the age in sag
e?’ he sang, kicking out at a small mound of sand and sending the grains flying through the air. ‘
Who put the whizz in wizard
?’ he continued, kicking another pile of sand skywards. ‘I did!’ he shouted jubilantly, attacking yet another pile of sand. ‘Ouch!’ he exclaimed, clutching the big toe on his right foot. ‘Fudge, fudge, butter and lard,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve just kicked something rather hard!’
    The old man sucked and blew out his cheeks in turn as he began hopping about, alternatively groaning and gasping as the toe throbbed to the rhythm of his hops. Briel, which had been the old man’s name for several hundred years or more, gingerly sat down and looked around him for whatever had caused the slowly receding pain in his toe. He creased his aged body so that the fingers of one hand brushed at the sand while the other hand still nursed his toe. Flicking away at a small pile of sand at his side, he dug out an object he didn’t recognise. Holding the in front of his nose he peered at the blurred image.
    â€˜Is that it?’ he asked the sky. ‘All this pain from a piffling little object?’ He twirled the object around in the sunlight. Dangling from his fingers hung a piece of leather, which was attached to a large, circle of glass and metal. A second piece of leather hung from the other side of the circle. ‘Hmmm?’ murmured Briel. ‘Somebody ought to know what this is,’ he said continually spinning the object around. ‘Could it be?’ he pondered quietly. He halted the spinning object and looked once again at the glass. Briel began counting on his fingers.
    â€˜Er, five, six, seven, eight, Tuesday. That’s right, it’s Tuesday, so it must be pocket number twelve.’ Carefully standing up, gently tapping the sand with his still delicate toe, Briel started to hobble and shuffle towards his door.
    Reaching inside the doorway, Briel withdrew an old, battered flying jacket and a deerstalker hat. In one swift movement, he removed his headband, jabbed his arms into his jacket, threw the deerstalker into the air and, carefully watching the downward flight of his hat, moved his body slightly so that the deerstalker landed on his head with a reassuring
plop.
    Wriggling his shoulders, Briel adjusted the flying jacket and began his search for pocket number twelve. After a few minutes fumbling, he finally located the correct