‘I’ll get there,’ Simon says, still scanning the unremarkable hill as though he should take a flag up it and plant it on the top. ‘I never walked here before. Never. Not till a month or so ago. And it’s been just down the road for years. I don’t even know what’s over the top of that hill. Well, I do from Google Maps. I’ve seen the tracks on there. It turns out there’s miles of them. I live, what, two Ks away, but I’ve never been on them.’

He shakes his head, at the thought of these mysterious untravelled paths. I have a feeling he is about to attempt to quote Robert Frost.

‘It’s all ahead of me.’ He drinks some more water. ‘Hey, Jo-Jo’s keen to see you.’

‘Good.’ It needs more of a response than that. ‘I’m keen to restock.’

Semi-keen. I have almost run out of toolboxes, and Jo-Jo, Joseph Zhou, is no doubt itching to slip me another half container load. Easy money for him. And not exactly difficult money for me. The business keeps turning over, without much effort. The product is good, and the price, and the website is what it is, no frills, needing little attention. Perhaps there is a ‘road less travelled’ on which I was born with the entrepreneur gene, and leveraged my cheap toolbox access into an e-empire, spreading the cunningly sourced leftovers of Shenzhen across America. Jo-Jo has me booked in for a daytrip to Shenzhen on Wednesday.

‘He’s big on bento grass at the moment,’ Simon says. ‘So, don’t just think toolboxes. Open your mind.’

‘To bento grass?’ He is aware, somehow, that my mind is more closed than open. ‘What even is bento grass?’

‘It’s that green serrated plastic, like grass, that you get with sushi, and in bento boxes.’ He does a slicing motion with his hand, as if he’s cutting the individual grass blades in front of me. ‘Someone has to make it. Jo-Jo’s got the fourth-biggest factory in the world, he reckons. He actually owns the factory this time. He’s got nowhere near the US penetration he wants.’

A conversation has been had without me, and in it I became more ambitious. Or at least had different ambitions. The toolboxes make enough sense. I’m established, I have a close to five-star average, enough people find me. And enough people don’t that I’m no threat to any big importer selling branded stock, rather than overruns. It fits with my part-time real-estate job. It works for now, for this spot in life.

I thought a walk would help get me in the time zone, not take me to this reset we’re doing. He’s doing. This is not my post-CABG journey, in which I discover there’s been a massive park down the road all along.