Seven am. Bob is at the front door ready for the off. He leaps enthusiastically into the back of the car. Sophie is still a little weak so has to be lifted in. Convalescence doesn't prevent her from wolfing down the illicit half croissant at the cafe under the arcades. One gulp and it's gone. She looks back at the waitress's empty hand as if to say 'did you forget to bring my portion ? '.
At the supermarket the Christmas displays are up. At least in America they have the decency to wait until after Thanksgiving . Is there anything as off putting as the first sight of a tinsel clad Santa ? While 'the font' shops, Angus goes in search of wine. Roses in every shade from near red to almost white. The secret is to find the wine with the palest salmon flesh tone.
Outside in the car park the grey of a squally morning is lifted by a display of thousands of chrysanthemums ready for All Saints Day. It seems everyone buys at least one to put on the grave of a loved one. Bob looks at them with that boy PON ' I'd like to go and do some christening ' type stare. French chrysanthemum buyers can relax safe in the knowledge that Bob was kept in the car.
