The day of the race. Two men in day glo yellow jackets arrive at the crossroads. They have red and green paddles to direct traffic. The village doesn't have much traffic at the best of times. On a Sunday morning it has none. The men in the day glo jackets look suitably bored. They greet Sophie with a degree of enthusiasm that indicates we're the only living things they've seen in the last fifteen minutes.
On the village green a man and woman of a certain age put out water bottles on a trestle table. The man is sent back to the car to get his beanie hat. ' It's chilly out of the sun and I don't want you catching a cold' says the woman. The man saunters off in sullen silence. Shortly after the runners arrive. This seems to be quite a serious race. Flashes of shockingly coloured lycra hurtle through the village and down the ox track. There must be all of two hundred of them but they're evenly spaced out. Sophie stands intrigued and immovable until - in the space of ten or so minutes - the last has gone.
On a day in which there were 32,000 new cases holding the race still strikes Angus as being an odd thing to happen. Not a threat to the village or the villagers but there must have been a lot of 'mingling' in the car park and at the start line.
.... and Australian oranges make their debut on the counters. There must be some sort of northern hemisphere orange shortage as I don't think I've ever seen Australian oranges on sale before.
At the drive thru bakers they're out of croissants. Instead we get a pain au raisin. Sophie has the end of the spiral with the currants carefully picked out. She sits on the ground while Angus perches on the tailgate. No pandemic is going to halt this dog and masters Monday morning routine.