Port before ten.

We head off to The Old Farmers new house. Bob and Sophie are left behind and told to guard. Both are asleep before I've closed the door.

En route we stop and pick up a small floral arrangement for The Old Farmers lady friend and a strawberry tart for him.

He has drawn out a detailed map on how to get there. Just as well. The house is located down a side road in what appears to be a never ending line of identical side roads. 

We recognize the house from the venerable Mercedes parked outside. If he'd told us it was the house that has the window frames painted in various shades of pink then finding him would have been even easier. His new lady friend has a taste for bright colours, pots and crazy paving.

We get the full story. She is the wife of an army buddy of The Old Farmer.  Her husband passed away at the same time The Old Farmers wife and daughter were killed in a car crash. They have kept in touch by letter. 

It seems a new non-communitaire neighbour has an eye on her property and is trying to get her to sell. Cars are illegally parked in her drive, a window has been smashed and more recently a patio door was broken.  She tells The Old Farmer what is happening and how afraid she is. It's at this point our neighbour comes into his own. He speaks to  to an old Gendarme Captain in the market town. Patrols now pass the house frequently. The Old Farmer starts to spend time there and tells the neighbour that the house isn't for sale. The '' irritations '' have ceased.

We are given a tour of the house. It is clear, although unsaid, that they have settled into a form of intimate domesticity. He watches day time television and monitors passers by. She cooks and generally fusses over him.  He has had words with the engineer who installed the non-functioning air conditioning. It now functions. 

We are given a tour of the house. This starts in the bedroom. On one wall is large and somewhat lurid tapestry of a couple in an extremely intimate position. It has an alarming anatomical exactitude to it. '' I did it all myself. I'm a wonderful lover '' the eighty two year old lady informs us. The Old Farmer nods and adds '' She made the doilies too ''.

Salon, snug and kitchen are all dutifully studied. Needlepoint abounds. A tapestry of the Battle of Solferino dominates the dining room.  We are shown onto the terrace. A bottle of Port is produced. '' It comes from Portugal '' says The Old Farmer. Angus who doesn't wish to imply that Port could come from anywhere else replies '' It often does ''. ' The Font' is regaled with an intimate description of the ladies most recent operation . This is of the '' They slit me open and had a look inside but couldn't find what was wrong '' variety of conversation. She has had a wide range of operations for various ailments including an unexpected one while on holiday in Turkey. Angus gratefully resumes his conversation with The Old Farmer about the air conditioning and leaves 'The Font' with the ever more detailed medical descriptions.

We leave after an hour and a half. The Old Farmer looks gloriously happy. His lady friend beams and looks radiant.
All is well with the world.