Thursday, September 4, 2014
His tail wags a lot.
We're cutting across the sunflower fields when the phone rings. Serious men in dark suits from Beijing. Seven thirty in the morning here but mid-afternoon there. I sit down on a tree stump. They probably think I'm in an office in London. Little do they know we're out in the countryside with a Polish Lowland Sheepdog who's entertaining himself by foraging for desicated mice under the oak trees. Bob doesn't bark. He's wise to our little masquerade. His tail wags a lot.
Sophie, who is an inveterate yelper, has thankfully stayed at home to help with the preparation of Turbot poche, sauce hollandaise. She'd have blown my cover.