Bob is out at the front gate at first light looking for his sister. He's frustrated that we don't seem to understand she's gone missing.
On the others side of the lane the presence of the veritable Ford Transit motor home would indicate that the Old Farmer and the Belgian lady have returned from their trip to Belarus.
The gardeners show up at 7:30 to lay the turf. This activity absorbs Bobs attention for all of five minutes. After that he's back into his Mr.Glum mood. The three morose lads are blind to his attempts to have them Throw the Furry Fox. Bob is not impressed.
Long walks and chats with the donkeys, horses and cows relieve some of the anxiety.
We await the return of the family diva. The surgeon phoned in the afternoon to say the op was over and she was sound asleep in the recovery room. The Font has just this very minute headed off in the Volvo to pick her up.The night staff have asked that we be there 'early'.
Yesterday, when Sophie saw the surgeon she turned on her back, waved her front paws in the air and squealed with delight. Another adoring fan. I fear that she won't be so calm the next time we take her in. Innocence lost is the way of the world although I'd have preferred this little dog to have kept her belief in the goodness of strangers just a little longer.
Those little things too unimportant to be written in a diary but too much part of life to go completely unrecorded.
Sunset. A large green woodpecker lands on the bird feeder scattering grain and sunflower seeds in every direction. Sophie spends half an hour hoovering these up. At five thirty this morning she lets out a howl. Her way of letting us know that sunflower seeds and grain, en masse, have a laxative effect .
While Sophie catches up with her interrupted sleep, Bob joins me on an early morning walk round the village. We explore the German billionaires new garage. Bob, who is now lifting his leg at a debonair angle, christens two piles of bricks and a pile of tiles. He seems to do this with a particularly joyful glint in his eye.
The Very Old Farmer ( not to be confused with the Old Farmer ) is having a conversation with the mayors secretary. As we draw nearer we hear that it's more of a diatribe than a conversation . This year, for the first time, the government has stipulated that some form of identification must be shown at the polling booth. An attempt to cut down on electoral fraud. The Very Old Farmer is letting the mayors secretary know that that this rule doesn't apply to him . " I fought in the war to get rid of the Gestapo ! " He then says several alliterative things that the mayors secretary listens to with Gallic aloofness.
In the afternoon a comprehensive list of what types of identification are acceptable is delivered to every letterbox in the village. Democracy in action.
There is no sign of the electrician. We irrigate the farthest corners of the garden with watering cans. Bob eats the young shoots in the newly planted lilac hedge.
