Half hearted.

A somewhat tentative start to Friday morning. Sophie emerges and sniffs the air to determine whether there are any C-A-Ts about . She looks at me in a way that makes it clear a girl can never be too careful. The Old Farmer wanders out onto his balcony to inform us that he's up early because he can't sleep. The damp weather is making his hip replacement ache. Could we get him some milk and the local paper when we go to the bakers ?

The number of daily Covid cases in France has fallen below 100,000 for the first time in ages. If it carries on falling at this rate the last of the travel restrictions should be gone and a trip to London to see the dentist will be on the cards.

Up over the hill and then down to the river. There's some half hearted drizzle that's constant but can't quite decide whether it wants to be mist or rain. 

A white buoy has been swept down the river and has grounded on the sandbank by the pontoon. It bobs away merrily. The buoy is glared at intently to make sure it's not a threat. For some reason things on the water seem to pique Sophie's interest so the glaring takes a good three minutes.

Back home and into the car for a trip to the bakers for a shared croissant. I tell Sophie she has a look that's memorable. She seems to take this as a compliment. Milk and the mornings La Depeche are dropped off at The Old Farmers. It's supposed to clear up and be sunny later today. That should sort out our neighbours discomfort.

Apart from the woman at the 24 hour store and the girl behind the counter at the bakers we don't see another soul. February in deepest, deepest France profonde is quiet. 'The Font' is greatly taken with Wordle. This morning takes five goes, yesterdays word a mere three.