A morning spent dozing by the front door and barking at builders. In the evening a trip to the rugby stadium. The last match of the year. An unexciting affair. The local farmers stroll up one side of the pitch and amble down the other.
In one of the matches many pauses the new gendarme , recently transferred from Perpignan and a less than sparkling right wing , wanders over and asks what sort of dogs Bob and Sophie are. He then wants to know if we'd driven to Poland to get them. When told we'd got them in France he replies with the cheerful line '' So they're French Lowland Sheepdogs ". Humour ? Angus thinks it wise to laugh. Angus also notes that the young gendarmes neck is twice as thick as his head. During this conversation Sophie is sprawled indelicately across the bench, legs akimbo, head on my lap, snoring contentedly . Bob is lying in a deep impenetrable sleep across my feet.
The company that make the broken solar powered swimming pool cover have an answering machine. This endlessly plays a message. '' Please call back after lunch. Our opening hours are ten til twelve thirty and two til five Monday through Friday. Thank you ". This unchanging message greets you no matter what time or day you call. E-mails? Forget it. Today, Angus will send them a registered letter asking if they can supply a hand crank .
This morning a fleet of white Citroen vans are parked around the 16th century pottery kiln.
