He's supercharged with energy. They'd warned us that he would sleep more and more as the cancer takes hold. Seems the only one they didn't tell was Wilf. Seven walks yesterday. He would come and sit in front of me, eyes bright, signalling it was time to go out. Not just any walks. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. A different route each time. It was as if he was determined to capture and recapture all the scents and memories of his time here. Much standing rock still, nose high in the air, drinking in invisible scents and perfumes. It's as if his senses are heightened and he's listening to a symphony where I only hear the wind in the trees.
This morning down to the local market town for a coffee and a bowl of water with the beer and absinthe crowd. A cheerful ' Bonjour Wilfee' and a tousle of his fringe as the waitress set down the water bowl. More of the croissant as a treat than he usually gets. To the outer world no difference ; to me the knowledge that this thing is working away inside. That wonderful PON like silkiness of his coat already coarsened.
Back home to find two white vans. The man to repair the gutters and the man to put the 'chapeau' on the chimney. Tyres, wheel arches, and tow bars carefully examined and christened. The workmen told in no uncertain terms who's the boss.
Madame Bay arrives. Ignoring us, she sits on the floor next to Wilf, cupping his head in her hands and stroking his ears. In a glorious display of Gallic unselfconciousness she starts to sing a lullaby. For the first time in the 35 years I've known 'the font' I go upstairs and pour a pre 'sun over the yard arm' shot of Gods equanimity restoring amber nectar. Not a small shot but a good John Wayne sized slug. Celtic men do not do emotion well.
Wilfs twilight gathers gently round.
PS. Thank you so, so much for all your messages. They provide a double cure of comfort and kindness.