I sat outside the bungalow throughout the night, with no movement. It wasn't until 6 am that the first light turned on behind stained glass, and 2 minutes later, it was back off. I saw no movement until 11 am when he finally stepped outside. He was wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a Pink Floyd t-shirt. He was still in his slippers, they looked comfortable and expensive, unlike the rest of his attire. The t-shirt was struggling to contain his gut, hanging just over the joggers' waistband, a small line of hair escaping the trousers and running to his belly button.

"How can she possibly think this guy is the guy?" I said to my camera, snapping photos of him in his doorway.

He began walking. I gave him a minute head start and followed him to the corner shop. The carrier bag struggled to hold the weight of two pints of milk, a loaf of sliced bread and some other small bit I couldn't identify. He opened the packet of cigarettes with his teeth and took one, as he was distracted lighting the small pleasure, he saw me.

I chased him for three or four streets and he disappeared. I now had to report back with little to nothing, no new information, nothing useful, except that for a smoker, he can run like the clappers.

"Shit...", I whispered, pulling out my burner phone from my pocket.