Although it's still dark Bob and 'The Font' have just set off to collect the Christmas turkey and brussel sprouts from the market. Sophie and her master are left behind to tidy up.
A smaller group last night. The German billionaire in a red romper suit, mustard jumper and green running shoes. A grown up version of toddler chic. His wife in a perhaps slightly too short dress topped by a red cape trimmed with white fur and covered in what might be sequins but to the untrained eye might be also be diamonds. Monsieur le Comte arrives in a off white coat creation that comes to his knees and is fastened at the front by five leather toggles. It has the look of being absent mindedly knitted by his wife who this evening sports an unseasonally severe grey check suit and frilly white blouse fastened tightly at the throat with a black cameo brooch. Our gathering is completed by the architect from Toulouse, the man who works for Volkswagen, the lady who is the secretary for some big shot at Airbus, the retired nuclear warhead designers from Paris and a smattering of others.We should of course not forget The Old Farmer and the Belgian Lady. The Old Farmer is spending three hours a day on his exercise bike. He pedals while the Belgian lady reads the newspaper aloud to him. This has done wonders for the muscles in his bad leg. They are both delighted to be invited out , which is the purpose of the get together. The Belgian lady has dressed in something black and glittery. The Old Farmer is wearing a freshly washed, but not pressed, green plaid shirt.
The billionaires wife congratulates us on having made the charming little house so comfortable. He talks about Frankfurt becoming Europes capital ''. Everyone's moving from London to Germany because of your Brexit " . This is said perhaps just a shade too breezily.
While our guests arrive we think of keeping the PONs in the downstairs kitchen. The sound of howling indicates that they don't agree. They are allowed to mingle. Bob is on his absolute best behaviour. Sophie, who has found something indigestible in a drainage ditch, passes wind frequently and pungently. The guests pretend not to notice. She knows she's not allowed to beg so she sits and stares at people and bombards them with PON ESP - ' Drop that vol au vent. Drop that vol au vent '.
Recognizing that no more emmenthal twirls are coming her way Sophie retires to the library for a doze.