In optimism there is magic. In pessimism there is nothing.

It's getting noticeably lighter in the mornings. Shortly after eight the sky already aglow . The village cats don't seem to be aware that the protective cloak of darkness is slipping. A particularly audacious individual attracts Bobs attention as it saunters across the church lawn. Bob watches in silence. Sophie howls.  

Mid-morning a walk down to the stream. It's too good a day to be indoors and the duo are only to happy to accompany me . A host of blue tits and chaffinches - two hundred of them at least - squabbling over something in the hedgerows. Spilled corn ? A stash of sunflower seeds ? They scatter as we pass but are back, arguing, within ten seconds of our passing. Sophie stops and gives them her " I could have you " look. She's ignored.

The Salle des Fetes being tidied by the mayors wife. Last week the Deputy Prefect handed out prizes to the winners of the best kept garden competition. Mrs.Mayors dried root vegetable tableaux the highlight of the event. The Deputy, a Parisian , had a look on his face that hinted at deep culture shock. Angus couldn't help but notice that he fled as soon as decency permitted. Perhaps it was the plastic tumbler full of the Old Farmers home made wine ? Or perhaps the fact that the wine was stored in the tea urn ? Bob christens the Old Farmers vines every morning; sometimes twice. A PON tradition. Something the Prefect didn't need to know.