Tuesday, June 28, 2016
The sparrows that nest in the eves of The Rickety Old Farmhouse shuttle backwards and forwards to the wheat field on the other side of the lane. A flight of 20 yards at most. They eat. Fly home. Then repeat the journey. Twenty or so nests of hungry young squeak excitedly. Sophie observes them from a shady spot under an oak tree. She could sit there for hours. Every twenty minutes or so she emits a solitary bark of the ear piercing variety. The sparrows are unimpressed.
She and her brother spend a portion of the afternoon chasing round the garden at high speed in pursuit of those invisible things that only happy dogs can see. Chasing cannot be conducted quietly. The PON duos volume level is set to maximum.
Shady corners are explored.
Ears are scratched.
France looks as if it might be in with a chance of winning the European Football Championships. For the male residents of deepest France profonde this is a truly important development in comparison , with say, Brexit. Who, in the broader scheme of things, is to say this is a misplaced sense of proportion ?