Did you hear the flying foxes singing last night?

5am, in the Australian subtropics. I’m up because it’s reached the time of day where being in bed is not so pleasant, and being outside is pleasant but won’t be for long.

I’m not a natural jogger. I’m not really a natural athlete of any kind, unlike the rest of the family who cycle, jog or rollerskate with ease and confidence.

But where once I had the excuse of cold English mornings to keep me in bed, now that’s gone. I could get up and work — in fact for a long time I did start work at 5am, or even earlier in an insane few months when I tried to work seamlessly across three continents — but that feels like far too much of a type A personality thing to do. And I need to exercise. So I jog.

I jog, interspersing it with walking. Like most middle aged people bits of my body don’t function as they used to. In my case it’s one of my knees — which, courtesy of a dramatic skiing accident 25 years ago reminds me at every step that a crucial ligament is missing. I’m forever on the look out for good knee supports and felt a pang of sympathy for David Attenborough, who when asked a few years back “what single thing would improve the quality of your life” answered rather ruefully “a new pair of knees”.

Here, the early morining is full of people who look like they could also do with a new pair of knees, but who jog, walk or cycle on doggedly regardless. We wave at each other or exchange a “G’day” (them) or “Hallo”(me, very British, still) and grimace as we pass.

And more often than not there’s an especially magic exchange, like today when our neighbour told me about the flying foxes that come every year for a month for the fruit in his tree and how they sing as they squabble with the resident possums. That’s a story worth getting up for.