After Wilf had enthusiastically finished off a large bowl of chicken and potatoes it was time for fun in the hallway. Not so long ago we would have rug surfed and played rugby for forty five minutes solid. Now, it's three minutes of action , ten minutes of down time, three minutes of action, fifteen minutes of down time. Come nine thirty prompt, he got up, put his paw on my arm and clearly announced it was his bedtime. Uncanny.
The mayor came to see me late in the morning. The pigeons have got into the church belfry again and a dead bird has fallen into the mechanism and stopped the clock. No more chiming thirteen - twice - on the hour every hour. I prayed that my delight wasn't too obvious.
We wandered across the village green to see what could be done. After yesterdays heavy rain the church roof is leaking and the plaster work behind the frescoes is bowing with the resulting damp. The church is a strange affair. During the '14-'18 war the village was decimated. 10% of the population killed and a similar number maimed. All young men or rather almost all the young men. After the war the villagers covered every square inch of the old building with paintings commemorating the war, the fallen, and their grief. There's now a very real danger that it may all crumble into dust.
While the mayor and I discussed the options Wilf stretched out on his back on the gravel outside the church door. When we emerged there was one very comfortable, very relaxed boy snoring peacefully away.