Valiance.

Windy this morning.

The Square outside the church in the little market town deserted.

Raspberry croissant on display. The PONs are interested but Angus being a croissant purist is unimpressed.

At the supermarket the Communal Solidarity people are out and about. A collection for the poor and needy. Angus asks what is wanted. '' Any baby goods would be most welcome ' says a man with an orange jacket. Angus buys a large packet of Pampers. Inflation seems to have run rampant in the diaper market since Angus last purchased such alimentary products. Or, on reflection, were they always expensive ?

Behind the church ( in what used to be the presbytery in those long ago days when there was still a priest in the village ) lives an old couple. They fly the tricoleur flag on a pole in their garden. He has bad legs and is unstintingly grumpy. She has the big 'C' and is charting a slow and uncomfortable path towards the inevitable. Usually, the car belonging to the district nurse is parked outside the house from nine until eleven. This has recently been joined, morning and afternoon,  by the white Range Rover Evoque belonging to the home help. Last week the doctor started coming every day. 

Today the lady of the house is in a wheelchair being pushed slowly along the lane by the nurse. The first time she's been out in six weeks. Her husband has been walked slowly over to a plastic chair by the war memorial where he can sit in the morning sunshine. The young doctor with the shaved head who plays wing in the local rugby team draws up in his little red Peugeot. He gets out and walks towards the woman. '' I wasn't expecting to see you gallivanting about like this " he says. The old lady sits upright  in the wheelchair , straightens her hair and laughs. I could almost swear she flutters her eyelashes. How endearingly French and feminine to be concerned about looking her best for the doctor. A little touch of valiance which makes me smile.

So starts a Sunday morning in a little village in deepest, deepest France profonde where nothing ever happens. A record of those things too unimportant for a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.