The turret.

Bob has one tremendously long white whisker that sticks out from the side of his muzzle. This remains steadfastly immune to being trimmed. Sophie's muzzle remains coated with mud.

There is a rugby match on Friday night. Who, in their right mind, would play in this heat ? Barring the arrival of arctic weather Bob and his master will  not be going.

We park and walk to the bakers. A chance for Bob and Sophie to savour big city life. We pass three cars, four bicycles, two delivery trucks and one of those vehicles with rotating brushes that wash the kerb. Sophie isn't taken with the latter. Bob is too busy christening a fire hydrant to be bothered.

On the corner of the street an old house, once very grand, today fast fading towards demolition. The wrought iron gates showing as much rust as paint. The tall, too thin turret looks as though it contains the tiniest of staircases; perhaps it's a survivor from the convent that stood on the site in the middle ages. Two doors down a marvellous example of 1920's shop architecture. Completely unchanged both inside and out. Prunes soaked in armagnac and coated in chocolate stored in large glass jars. At one time the lilac cladding must have raised provincial eyebrows. With more and more of the tradesmen moving to the new shopping centre on the outskirts of town the prune stores days must be numbered. The shops on either side long locked and shuttered.

We stop for a coffee on the Square. The waiter, unbidden, brings a bowl of iced water and places it on the floor. Bob settles down under the table. Sophie keeps a wary eye on a gentleman in a beret selling potatoes. Clearly a trouble maker. The waiter returns with two small biscuits. The PONs immediately look angelic.

And so we spend another quiet, sunny day in deepest France profonde. A record of those little mundanities that make up life and can be so easily forgotten.