The burglar drew deeply on his cigar and then coughed heartily. He rubbed the grey stubble that populated his sagging chin and drained the rest of his whisky. Then cosh in hand he picked the lock and walked in through the back door. He'd spied the build up of newspapers on the mat two days ago and decided to stake it out in his van. Sure enough out came a neighbour to remove them and he knew he had acquired a new target. In his youth he would snatch and run, he had good legs back then. Now not so much. There was the gut, the bad lungs and he had simply become lazier. He opened the front door and loaded the valuables into the cargo area. No mask, just a baseball cap pulled down to shield his face. The rest of his clothes were a work outfit, he never wore them anywhere else encase he got profiled on TV one day. It was a tracksuit. No-one he knew would recognize him in it, when did he ever exercise?