We'll be with you shortly.

Mid-morning the phone goes. A very Scottish voice on the other end says : '' Hello is that Aonghus ? We'll be with you shortly to pick up the chair ". 'The Font' has somehow forgotten that the museum has arranged for The Old Pretenders Chair to be picked up and shipped back to London.

There is mild panic. '' You'd better take it out and dust it down " says 'The Font' . The chair has sat in hallways for the last forty years gathering dust, ignored rather than unloved. Its legs have been chewed by generations of PONs, the seat polished to a high shine by Cost Centres using it to put on their Rugby  Boots.

Bob follows me outside. He's intrigued that furniture is being moved into the courtyard. The male PON has that '' I know this is going to be great fun " look on his face. His sister joins him . He kisses her. Sophie shrieks. A squirrel chooses this very moment to scamper down onto the lawn. Pandemonium ensues. Loic arrives to blow leaves.

The phone goes again. '' Hello. We're parked by the church. Which house is yours ? ". Angus promises to be out  to see the shippers as soon as the dogs are safely inside . The PONs have other ideas. Bob stands on his stump seat watching events unfold . '' Sophie ! There's a large truck over there ! ".  

The angelic duo eventually go inside. A vast Panthecnicon reverses down the lane. Four men emerge. '' We've come to crate the chair " says the most garrulous. The others maintain a Doric silence. Loic has to move his moped so that the area round the gate is clear. Villagers congregate to see what's going on. The chair is measured.  A wooden crate is made. The chair is wrapped in layers of bubble wrap and placed in the crate. Photos are taken. Two men carry the chair carefully into the back of the truck. It is strapped into place. Forms are signed. '' You'll be relieved when this makes it safely back to London " says the garrulous one. 

After they've gone The Old Farmer observes that the trucks steering wheel was on the wrong side . '' In the army I was trained to note that sort of thing ". The man with anger management issues tells 'The Font' that the sooner Scotland is independent from England the better. Mopping her eyes Madame Bay informs anyone that will listen that she will miss the chair. '' It had so much history. It was my favourite thing in the house ". This comes as something of a surprise as our saintly octogenarian used to put her floor mopping bucket on it. Madame Bay, by now in full poetic flow, tells the lady with the purple hat that a very old chair used by Mary the Queen of England has gone back home to be at rest. Out of the blue the man with the bulbous nose informs us that Brexit shows the English are mad.  A propos to nothing the mayor announces that the irrigation system has sprung a leak. The village odd job man says he wouldn't give us five francs for an old chair like that. The PONs howl at being excluded from village life. It's half term - the tikes race their rally bikes up and down the lane.

So passes another day in deepest, deepest France profonde. We seriously consider opening a lunchtime bottle of wine. For the PONs this has certainly been the best day ever.