The fence round the compost heap still proving to be ' permeable ' . It seems our compost comes in three forms. The current years vintage which looks like dried grass and smells like dried grass, The 2012 vintage which still has some solid structure to it and smells like a working farmyard. Then there's the 2011 vintage. You have to dig deep to find the 2011 vintage. Almost liquefied and with an odour that brings tears to the eyes. Bob and Sophie are inexorably drawn to the 2011 vintage. Grand Cru Silage.
Angus is washing some of the 2011 compost off Bobs undercarriage when ' the font ' appears . 'The font ' is dressed as if we're off to a funeral at the Brompton Oratory. '' Oh Angus ! Why aren't you in a suit ? You'd better get a move on or we'll be late ". Over breakfast we'd agreed that we'd miss the ten thirty mass and go to the unveiling of the memorial at eleven thirty. Clearly, this was a conversation I'd had with myself.
The old priest has fallen asleep in the sun. The young priest who'd brought him from the old folks home leaves him asleep in his wheelchair. The young priest tries to corral the ancient combatants. This proves difficult. Some of them are behind the salle des fetes sharing the contents of a hip flask. The mayor is sent to round everyone up. The depressive physiotherapist with his accordion hasn't shown up. Ten thirty comes and goes. It seems Angus needn't have changed into a suit so quickly.