Tuesday, September 23, 2014
For there is no friend like a sister, in calm or stormy weather, to cheer one on the tedious way, to fetch one if one goes astray, to lift one if one totters down.
A diagonal band of clouds stretches to the horizon. The first time in a month there's been anything other than blue skies. Guess that's pretty much a textbook definition of an Indian Summer.
It's a balmy seventy five degrees. Today, for the first time since April, the Moroccan gentleman at the cafe under the arcades is wearing his blue knitted woolen hat. '' Cold '' he says, in what could be either a greeting or an explanation, before settling down with a pile of lottery scratch cards. The Moroccan gentleman never seems to order anything. Nor, come to that, does he ever seem to be lucky with his scratch cards.
Sophie heads off for a power walk round the lake. Bob comes with me to the cheese lady. He has some slivers of Pont-l'Eveque. Back home in the kitchen Sophie smells her brothers breath. She's not happy. Not happy at all. There is nothing in nature like a sister robbed of a sliver of Pont- l'Eveque.