I want to touch, to slide my fingers along the smooth steel. Images of childhood heroes flood my mind. I suggest a stroll down to the beach, roughly three hundred yards away. Grunts and moans greet my suggestion. With the gun.
Heads turn and nod . . .
I grasp the barrel and try to prevent the tell-tale rattle of pellets in the metal tin. We reach our destination breathless, we comment on our fitness and promise to start fictional jogging to get in shape. We slump on an extremely uncomfortable bench perched on the side of the cliff facing the surf hut. This exercise lasts about twenty minutes. Once again we become bored.