We entertained our French nuclear physicist neighbours for dinner last night. They are quite delightful but small talk is not their forte. At the end of three hours of weighty conversation, in French , I was physically drained but am at least an expert on Iranian production of Thorium. 'The font' seems to be making much better progress with the language so from time to time I was able to excuse myself from the dinner table and take the boyz for a walk or open another bottle of Meursault. For some uncharacteristic reason Wilf and Digby again decided to act like little angels. They trotted in to meet our guests, looked at them to see if they were carrying anything interesting like sausages, and then satisfied that this was a dull human night trotted out again.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Proof that the tongue has recovered.
Wilf has recovered the ability to lick his nose clean - final proof that any effects of his run in with the processionary caterpillars were short lived. He spent yesterday lounging in the sunshine , periodically checking on the workmen to see if they had dropped any jaffa cakes, and just generally enjoying himself. The toy sheep is still very much flavour of the day although it is rapidly becoming a very muddy and tattered looking plaything.
Although the pine trees have been cut down we are still careful about where the boyz run and we keep a close look out for signs of caterpillars. We don't know what distance these long processions cover in their search for food. Do they march for yards or miles? The other question we can't get an answer to is what exactly is it that these things eat?