Monday, August 1, 2016
Sunday evening. The mayor, his wife, the little lady in the purple hat and the lady with the Marge Simpson beehive hairdo appear at the gate. They've been holding a specially convened village council meeting. ' We shouldn't really tell you but I've been told we've won the Prix speciaux du Conseil Departmental ' says the mayor. We feign what we hope is just slightly more enthusiasm than is expected in such circumstances. ' How wonderful ' says 'the Font'. "That's marvellous news" says yours truly using a tone of voice usually reserved for commenting on the safe delivery of someones first grandchild. 'Is this in place of a rosette ?' asks Angus. No one seems to know or indeed to have thought of this. Perhaps the news isn't as good as originally thought. The mayor will make a phone call in the morning. Irrespective of whether it is good news or bad it is treated as a three glass of champagne evening.
Monday August 1st 2016. 07:20 am.
So far this morning Sophie has discovered a small rat in the drainage ditch that runs alongside the lane. I remove it from her mouth . She gives me a look that makes it clear I shouldn't be a dog owner.
Twenty yards further on she finds some badger poo. Her owner is not given the chance of saying '' Put it down ! ". There is a theatrical licking of lips. On the way home a dead thrush is noisily chewed then swallowed. As far as the family princess is concerned the new month is shaping up to be simply wonderful.
Worth reading. Here's some wry American humour from the London Review of Books: