We're up early. Angus is on the phone to Chinese men in dark suits to tell them that French voters have decided it's foolhardy to believe simple answers.Sophie is out in the garden glaring at the collared doves. When they land on the driveway she throws her head back, lets out a diva howl and chases after them. She may not catch them but she knows that “As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.”
Bob watches his sister in bemused silence.
We set off across the village green just as the last school bus has gone. The buses pick up the big ones at seven, the medium sized ones ( gate rattling little tike included ) at seven fifteen and the little ones at seven twenty. Small faces press their noses up against the bus window and wave as we head across the grass.
No surprise in last nights election result. 46 villagers voted for Macron, 34 for Le Pen and 6 spoiled their papers. I see the mayor as he's locking up the town hall. Seems it's not the pensioners who have voted for Le Pen but the young farmers with families. The new President has a lot of work to do.
So starts another day in deepest, deepest France profonde.