Seven litres.

The number of Covid cases continuing to fall. Down to 34,000 a day in the UK which sounds reassuring. Here in France the daily tally has come back from 500,000 to 49,000. Sophie has zero interest in such things. All she knows is that she has two humans 24/7 in the house which is the way it should be.

We're up and on the phone at 5:00 am. Amidst wars and pestilence the calmness of life in a small French village has its attractions. Sophie wanders into the office and falls asleep on my feet . Wirth advancing years Sophie has taken to snoring. None of the serious folks in dark suits has ever asked what the background noise is to our morning chats. Perhaps that's just as well. 

After the wet winter the village water tower (all French villages have them ) is coated  with moss on the  rain bearing side and pristine on the other.

The Old Mayor is up and about weeding the gravel round the war memorial. His arthritis and Madame Mayors painful hip operations ( she's had five ! ) combine to get him out of the house early. He chats to Sophie who instinctively knows the old mayor is a dog person. How is it some folk pass muster while others don't ? I've ordered some Dahlias and some Peonies from Peter Nyssen for the border in front of the church. Last year we ordered some giant white alliums but they've not taken. 

He tells me that the Anger Management Mans grandfather used to drink seven litres of wine every day. 'Surely you mean seven glasses ?' I respond. "No! Seven litres. And he lived to eighty nine ". The two of us stand and roar with laughter. Sophie wanders over to inspect the tyres of the silver VW Golf that has lost the last of its hubcaps.

 So starts a sunny Sunday morning in deepest, deepest France profonde.

Well I never :https://gizmodo.com/king-tuts-meteorite-dagger-has-a-mystery-origin-story-1848562565