Another misty morning. Bob clambers onto his stump seat and stares at two cats who saunter, unconcernedly, down the lane.
On breakfast radio a phone-in with the British Ambassador to France. He speaks French with accent less ease. The first question he's asked is what have the British ever done for Europe . This is batted back with reference to 1914 and 1939. After this the questions become less friendly. Angus decides that being an ambassador to France requires superhuman tact. It would seem that all problems - from the common cold to the refugee crisis - are the fault of perfidious albion.
Later in the morning Bob and Angus head off to the barbers. Bob moves to his spot under the sickly aspidistra and falls asleep. The talkative barber has won no less than nine holidays on radio quizzes. His next trip, with wife and daughter, is to the south of India in March. He adds, for good measure, that his wife doesn't like Indian food. '' Do you think they'll have French restaurants ? ". Angus is sure the hotel will have a coffee shop. This seems to satisfy him.
We stop off at the bakers. This year they are selling advent calendars. '' Do you make them yourself ? " I ask the bakers wife. ' Oh yes. My husbands always coming to bed with new ideas '. Unsure how to reply we buy one.
While 'The Font' engages in a webinar with the Pasadena astrophysicists Sophie plays stalk my brother . This involves Bob lying under the library table while his sister races round it at high speed. Every so often Sophie stops racing and pounces, cat like, on her brother. Rather like a cross between a canine version of musical chairs and a rugby match. Both PONs demonstrate their enjoyment by singing.
So passes another day in deepest, deepest France profonde with two happy dogs.