“Did you know you use 22 calories to do a poo?”

I’M WALKING along a Cornish cliff-path. My brother, whose idea this was, is striding on legs as strong as Scottish cabers, half a field ahead.

I’m afraid that any minute now my brother’s going to about-face and make an announcement about “another lovely loop”.

My brother is a big, big fan of the everlasting loop. I’d be a big, big fan, too — I think, looking at his back — if I could actually walk, rather than stumble, which is all you can do when your brother sticks a pin in the map, says, “that looks nice” and streaks half a field ahead, leaving his children to weave in and out of your wellington boots like a zigzag running-stitch.