It's now getting decidedly darker in the mornings. Six thirty and the sun hasn't yet risen above the hill tops. Wilf relishes the cooler starts to the day. A chance to rush around sniffing and exploring before the heat builds up. Back home for a coffee and croissant on the terrace. Skimming through the usually staid morning paper the story at the bottom of the front page caught my eye - 'Levi Johnston to run as mayor of Wassilla'. The French press simply can't get enough of this saga. When asked whether people would take Mr.Johnstons run for office seriously, the aptly named Mr.Tank Jones, Levi's manager, is quoted as saying " People questioned Jesus Christ, so I definitely don't care about these mere mortals questioning Levi Johnston". Maybe Bristol was right about him being obsessed with the limelight. At what point does parody segue into tragedy?
Two cars with Belgian registration plates drove through the village at lunchtime yesterday. They didn't stop long. The fact that they actually parked in the square and sat for five minutes looking at the houses and the oleander filled Versailles planters counts as excitement in our sleepy little corner of rural France. Whereas other parts of Europe get inundated with hoardes of vacationers we're lucky if we catch sight of a tourist from one week to the next. Maybe it's something to do with everything being closed. Trust us to choose the Marie Celeste of villages.
Aude the chain smoking decarartrice in the dungarees has returned to finish off the hallway. She is taking her truck on holiday to Austria next week and needs to earn money for the petrol. That works just fine for us. Wilf is particularly delighted. He lies in the hallway , eyes quarter open, ears occasionally twitching, listening to Aude discussing both sides of life. His own personal conversationalist. If only she would bring sausages then life would be perfect.