Olive and ham angel cake.

Having hired the mobile discotheque for the weekend the canny village folk were determined to get a return on their money. Five thirty on Sunday afternoon and the 140 beats per minute thud, thud, thud of the sound system announced that the petanque competition had come to a close. The mayor was there, standing on a wooden orange crate for formalities sake , beaming broadly as he handed out the prizes. A bottle of wine for the seniors. A model Citroen for the youngsters. Everyone got a something. Liberte, egalite, and a pretence of fraternite between the warring village committees.

We arrived in time for the 'vin d'honneur'. Wilf was thrilled to come along - absolutely convinced that these gatherings in the village hall are held in his honour. Madame Bay and the village ladies had been busy in the kitchen. Handed what looked like a quiche we were informed that it was an olive and ham angel cake. 'The font looked at me. I looked at 'the font'. We both expressed diplomatic delight and amazement at its sophistication . Two weeks ago there would have been zero chance of Wilf tasting one of these high cholesterol bomblets. In current circumstances why not ? The rolling motion of his tongue, licking and re-licking his nose and muzzle, signalled a mark of ten out of ten for taste. Choucroute and now olive and ham angel cake - is there any dog out there that can match this culinary repertoire ?

The Cortisone continues to fuel his energy and his appetite. Two forty five minute walks, and no less than four thirty minute walks on Sunday. Add to that the swing biffing, rug surfing and the trip to the village hall and you have a feeling for just how lively he is. The Cortisone makes him drink a lot so the forays outside are a necessity. He's eating and playing to his hearts content - just what we would all want for our family fellows. Only the rapid, harsh breathing hints at what's at work inside. Onto a happy day seven.