Before the croissant.

The  heat finally goes. It's replaced by scudding clouds and spots of rain that never quite turn into a shower. We sit outside late into the night with two cool and contented furry beasts snoring at our feet.

This morning the sausage man at the market lets the PON's try a slice of sausage with herbs. It's rather too early in the day for their owner to be eating charcuterie.  Bobs tail wags at metronome speed. On a scale of one to ten sausage scores an eleven; possibly a twelve. He gives the sausage man his best '' Why don't you and your sausages come to live with us ? " look.

The biscuit lady kneels down and slips each of them a small piece of flaky orange biscuit. We end up buying two hundred grammes. Sophie makes a sound that makes it absolutely clear that orange flavoured biscuits rank way up there with sausage in life's panoply of delights.

All of this before they get to the illicit half croissant at the cafe under the arcades.