Hang on to your youthful enthusiasms -- you’ll be able to use them better when you’re older.

Bob wanders into the bedroom at 5:50 am. He's ( supposedly ) not allowed in the bedroom. He sticks a cold wet nose in my ear and then satisfied I'm awake, quickly exits. This silent routine plays to something deep in the canine psyche. 1) He's doing something he shouldn't ( always fun ) and 2) he's rounding up his flock to get the day started. When I come out of the bedroom door he feigns complete surprise. Complete surprise in this sense means turning on his back and having a leisurely pre-breakfast tickle while his tail thwacks noisily and rapidly on the tiled floor. No doubting that somewhere along the line Bob had an extra dose of 'happy' added to his DNA.

This morning is the day to go and see the accountant in Toulouse to fill in the tax forms. The accountant agrees to be in 'early'. Bob can't understand why he's not coming with me. Angus is there by seven thirty. There's lots of space in the underground car park and lots of space in the cafe on the square. The only other clients student couples sharing croissants and whispering intimately. That age where penury and passion coexist quite happily. 

The streets empty. The restaurant umbrellas tightly furled.

In France most shops and offices don't open until ten so at this hour there's little traffic. In fact there's no traffic. In the road by the cathedral a solitary dog owner can be seen walking his companion.

Another cup of coffee at a cafe on a side street. All the locals seem to know each other. There is much kissing of cheeks. The waiter brings me copies of Le Monde and Le Figaro to read. The topic of conversation at the neighbouring tables how hot it'll be today. '' It's going to get above thirty " says a woman next to me to no one in particular. She then returns to filling out her crossword puzzle.

Back at The Rickety Old Farmhouse Sophie and Bob take 'The Font' on a lengthy tour of the village.

The more a mind takes in the more it expands.

One of those hot in the sun, cold in the shade type mornings. This 'can't make up its mind' weather is usually a sign that a thunderstorm is going to roil down from the mountains. The PONs wait more or less patiently while Angus decides whether or not to wear a jumper over his shirt.

An early PONburst of energy. Collar doves chased, the garden checked for c-a-t-s : the word that must never be spoken aloud. We turn right out of the far gate. Sophie watches the donkeys, gives the goats a cursory glance to make sure they're behaving and is nearly scared out of her skin by three horses that wander over to the fence to see her. She and her brother have been busy exploring something malodorous in the drainage ditch and haven't seen them walking towards them. Bob sensibly comes and stands behind my legs and glares at them. Sophie scampers round and takes up a back stop position behind him. Her 'Don't worry about a thing Bob. I'm here ' position.

In the PONs defence I would say that from down at lane level the three young horses high on the bank must look quite intimidating.

The horses trot amiably alongside us as we turn and head for home. Sophie waits until we've got back to The Rickety Old Farmhouses gate, then stops, turns and emits one shrill bark. The horses have been told in no uncertain terms who controls this village. She then sprints into the house and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Here's a poem by the 'Twitter' poet Brian Bilston for this Sunday morning. Who'd have thought Twitter would become an art form ?

AS I GROW OLD I WILL MARCH NOT SHUFFLE

As I grow old
I will not shuffle to the beat
of self-interest
and make that slow retreat
​​​to the right.

I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist
marching with the kids. I shall sing
‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing
homemade placards that proclaim
‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING’.

I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,
and build unscalable barricades
from bottles of flat lemonade,
tartan blankets and chicken wire.
I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.

I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,
armed with a ballpoint pen
and a hand that shakes with rage not age
at politicians’ latest crimes,
in strongly-worded letters to The Times.

I will be a centenarian centurion
and allow injustice no admittance.
I will stage longstanding sit-ins.
My mobility scooter and I
will move for no-one.

And when I die
I will be the scattered ashes
that attach themselves to the lashes
and blind the eyes
of racists and fascists.

It is the power of the mind to be unconquerable.

A still, calm start to the morning. Sophie chases the collar doves, barks at the woodpeckers and then heads across the village green passing the swaying Jesus as she goes. Her two rear legs power, slightly stiffly, away. Who would have believed six months ago she would have recovered like this ? It is the power of the mind to be unconquerable.

The wind has shaken some early ripening figs from the trees that line the track down to the stream. Sophie finds them. She is greatly taken with early ripening figs. She is 'encouraged' along before she turns into a fig. During the passage of the day we'll find out whether the figs are as keen on her.

Amazon delivers a parcel of books. The box has burst and been taped up by the Post Office. The dust covers on half the books torn and crumpled. This is the second time this month that Amazon have crammed too many books into a package that's not strong enough to hold them.

'The Font' has ordered 'The Kingdom' by Emmanuel Carrere. According to the FT reviewer, a masterpiece. Angus reads the summary on the back cover and decides it's very 'worthy'.

While we are postponing, life speeds by.

It's a bit windy this morning. Bob would like to start his day with a reassuring tickle and a mano a mano. Not, of course, that he's in any way alarmed by the wind.

Sophie sees Bob getting attention. She decides she wants a tickle too. She yelps and barges her way in between Bob and his owner. The family diva makes it clear she's in a mood for adoration. 

Sophie is definitely not aware of the howling wind, she has the collar doves on her mind.

Angus checks to see how long the wind will last. A look at the morning weather forecast would have you believe the four horsemen of the apocalypse are coming to town. Lots of symbols showing lightning flashes and black clouds. Heavy hail is forecast. This is an improvement over yesterday when we were told to expect snow.

We've ordered some paint from the UK. Having waited in all day on Tuesday the delivery company's website suddenly announces '' Incomplete address " . The parcel is returned to the depot. Angus calls the shippers to point out that a) the address is correct b) they manage to deliver to the house at least once a week and c) the mobile phone number was on the parcel so the driver could call us with any problems. 'Incomplete address' is another way of saying we live too far out in the country to make it worth while delivering. 

Finally, after a number of 'forceful' phone calls a truck shows up with the paint. '' You'll have to get in the back and pick it up. It's too heavy for me to shift " says the burly thirty something driver. Angus wonders whether he should point out that two five litre cans of paint don't fall into the 'heavy' category but decides to bear this irritation in silence.

The village news sheet arrives in the letter box. Under the heading Security in the village there is a sentence informing the residents that people have been driving by the Salle des Fetes at excessive speeds. A one way system is being considered. Quite something in a commune of 67 inhabitants most of whom live in outlying farms. There are eleven houses in the village plus the chateau. 

The excessive speed relates to the family who have a Ford with lowered suspension and blacked out windows of a type much beloved by inner city drug dealers. The wife drives quickly but not excessively so. The husband by contrast is very Gallic in his driving habits scattering gravel and chickens as he accelerates past the war memorial. A quick 'chat' with the gendarmes might spare us the expense of installing yet more traffic calming measures.

This morning the garden resounds to the sound not only of collar doves but also of Nuthatches.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aqYuKt-xJCE . Sophie is not amused at thearrival of yet more feathered visitors. She has that determined ' While we are postponing, life speeds by ' look on her face.

One hand washes the other

A windy start to this Thursday morning. Not that this bothers Sophie who is up and out early to continue her grudge match with the two collar doves. 

It goes without saying the collar doves are quite untroubled by a howling diva charging towards them. Stealth is clearly not a sheepdog trait or at least not one inherited by Sophie. Bob, being the essence of happy dog, is quite oblivious to his sisters early morning 'moments' and sits on his stump seat watching the children board the buses to school.

On our way out of the gate we wave at The Old Farmer who has ventured down his balcony stairs, opened up the garage and is reversing the venerable Mercedes out onto the road in readiness for a run round the village green. '' Got to take it for a spin every day to stop the engine seizing up " he says - optimistically. 

Madame Bay tootles by in the gold metallic 'Wild Child' voiturette. It has lost another hub cap and the rear drivers side panel sports a fresh indentation. She stops, winds down the window and tells Bob he's handsome. Bob looks at her noncommittally. Sophie is told she's beautiful. An unlikely description of a dog with a chin covered in wet grass and pigeon guano. 

In the greengrocers peak strawberry season. We buy four punnets for ourselves and a punnet for The Old Farmer. On our return Bob joins me as we cross the road and place them on the plastic deck chair outside his kitchen. Bob barks at a cat that is enjoying the early morning sun on the old mans terrace.  Later today we'll take across our copies of Le Monde and Figaro which our neighbour will read from cover to cover. In a French village nothing goes to waste. One hand washes the other.

Peaches , the first of the year, also make an appearance in the greengrocers. They look good but are hard as a cricket ball. We'll wait a couple of weeks.

Things that surprise. The ability to recite dialogue from a 17th century playwright - in this case Moliere - is a skill set the French President elect has. Recitation of early comedic verse is presumably not an interest he will share with the British Prime Minister ... or American President.

http://digg.com/video/emmanuel-macron-le-misanthrope

France, it has to be said, is very different.

“As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.”

We're up early. Angus is on the phone to Chinese men in dark suits to tell them that French voters have decided it's foolhardy to believe simple answers.Sophie is out in the garden glaring at the collared doves. When they land on the driveway she throws her head back, lets out a diva howl and chases after them. She may not catch them but she knows that “As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.”

Bob watches his sister in bemused silence.

We set off across the village green just as the last school bus has gone. The buses pick up the big ones at seven, the medium sized ones ( gate rattling little tike included ) at seven fifteen and the little ones at seven twenty. Small faces press their noses up against the bus window and wave as we head across the grass.

No surprise in last nights election result. 46 villagers voted for Macron, 34 for Le Pen and 6 spoiled their papers. I see the mayor as he's locking up the town hall. Seems it's not the pensioners who have voted for Le Pen but the young farmers with families. The new President has a lot of work to do.

A shaggy pony and a slightly less shaggy horse have taken up residence in the grassed over moat behind the town hall. Sophie glares at these new residents. For a moment I fear she might let out another howl of disapproval but she opts for silent disdain. We watch a young Nuthatch - a thing of feathered beauty - learning to climb a tree trunk up and down, down and up while its mother looks on. The mother trills in delight.

So starts another day in deepest, deepest France profonde. 

The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately.

The PONs are saddled up and ready to head off on their morning walk. Both have tell tale signs of yogurt under their chins. Our departure has to wait while Sophie checks, no less than five times, to see if her yogurt pot has refilled itself. The family diva knows 'The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately'.

The PONs watch while I load the car with duvets. We drive down to the dry cleaners. Since our last visit the entrepreneurial owner has branched out. It is now a dry cleaners / Salon de The. It's a beautiful day outside. Sunshine and the gentlest of breezes. The air fresh and crisp. Inside eight old folks sitting at tables, sipping coffees and putting the world to rights while inhaling dry cleaning fumes.

In the local 24/7 store ( in reality it's an 8 / 6 store ) avocados at E4.99 apiece .

It seems the Californian and Mexican avocado harvests have been poor this year. Something to do with the heavy rain in California and a stressed crop in Mexico. Californian production is down 60% and Mexican 20%. The price of Haas avocados has doubled. America is sourcing its avocados from Peru and the rest of the avocado loving world is having to adjust to higher prices and different varieties. The shortage is made worse by the fact the Chinese are for the first time taking to guacamole in a big way.

Here in deepest France profonde the fat and expensive Brazilian variety is not flying off the shelves.

Enjoy present pleasures in such a way as not to injure future ones.

Gales overnight. A months worth of rain in an hour. This morning the cafe closed and shuttered. The PON duo try the front door but return to the car - crestfallen. Sophie lets it be known that all is not well with the world.

Home to find the plumber examining the cracked water pipe. ( Pleading does work ). Three shaven headed 'lads' are standing looking bored in the flower beds, smoking. Bob and Sophie keep a watchful eye on the morose trio. The plumber says he'll be back tomorrow to repair the pipe. '' I'll put on a harness and clamber down the well. It's only twenty or so metres ". This said with uncharacteristic ( and presumably expensive ) enthusiasm. Angus phones the insurance company to see if the household policy covers workmen drowning in the well. It does.

And here is a little 'Scotch' number to start your day. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDasAr0cayA

There is no delight in anything unshared .

Half past three in the morning . A gale blowing . The rain sputtering and clattering in the downpipes. Bob and Sophie are on alert mode. Not just barking but howling. Angus opens the front door , torch in hand, to find out what the problem is. Could it be the cows across the lane have wandered into the garden again ?

Sophie is out of the door and into the cherry orchard  at the speed of light. Bob following along behind. Heads down, rumps in the air, tails waving. Noses leading them through the darkness. They stop. A conspiratorial silence.  I catch up with them and find the cause of the commotion. A family of hedgehogs  stretched out line astern like a flotilla of dreadnoughts. Mother, father and babies. Each tightly curled up.

Bob is picked up and carried squirming back indoors. Sophie following along behind. As far as Angus is concerned three thirty is not the right time to get acquainted with the local wildlife. The hedgehogs must have been a good fifty yards from where the pups sleep. How did they know ? Smell, sound or canine sixth sense ? 

Bob and Sophie go back to sleep with a ' didn't we do well ? ' look on their faces.The little angels are awake again two hours later when the wrens begin to sing.