'' Bonjour M'Ongoose. Bonjour Bhub. Bonjour Sophee ". The beer and absinthe crowd at the cafe under the arcades in fine form this morning. Even the lady with the blue toggle dressing gown and pom-pom slippers greets us with a smile. We settle down at a table outside while the waitress goes in search of an illicit half croissant, a bowl of water and a coffee. '' English weather tomorrow " says the man with the maroon metallic motability scooter. By this I presume he means rain. We gently turn down his kind offer of an early morning beer.
' The font ' drives down to Toulouse to spend the night in a hotel. The astronomy exams start at eight in the morning so its either that or setting off at five . A hotel seems a better alternative. For dinner Bob and Sophie have smoked mackerel with their kibbles. The thwack-thwack-thwack , metronome on steroids, sound of Bob's tail against the kitchen door indicating he is one very happy PON. His " I has died and gone to heaven " enthusiasm for new flavours.
Replacement sheets arrive from London. France definitely not the place to buy Emperor sized bedlinen. 24 hour delivery and a shipping charge of less than $10. They are kept well away from Sophie.
An old friend, now at an embassy in Washington, calls for a chat. He says the White House switchboard greets callers with a recorded message : '' We apologise, but due to the lapse in federal funding, we are unable to take your call ". This surely must be urban legend . Can things really have gone this far ?