It's wet and blustery. The storms that have caused chaos in the North of the country slowly making their way South. Angus and Bob head into the little market town. We used to go there every day but the new owners of the cafe under the arcades don't welcome dogs. Our trips there are now much less frequent. One by one the little shops are going out of business their customers lured to the always open supermarket in the out of town shopping mall. This morning we notice that the chocolatier is the latest to be shuttered.
Time for a haircut. Bob leads the way from the car park to the coiffeurs. Up against the salon wall one of the old farmers is asleep on the worn red leather sofa, mouth open, an old copy of Paris Match open on his lap. He stirs as we enter, woken by the bell on the door, mutters, snorts and falls back asleep. Bob settles down under the sickly aspidistra. Angus has his trim. The barber is off to Vietnam next month with his wife for their annual holiday. He informs me that ' Vietnam used to be French so we're hoping the food is good'.
On our return to the car a moment of high adventure as we pass a cat on a window ledge. Bob is of the canine school of thought that believes that you should never pass a cat on a window ledge without greeting it - loudly.
A drink from the stream then home to greet a little sister who's been taking a nap. She seems less than delighted to be woken by her overly enthusiastic oaf of a brother.
Little Saturday morning things. A reminder that there is no wealth but life.
And here's a thought to get the day started :