Taking the advice of those other PON owners - Pamela Terry and Edward - bathing attire was chosen carefully to provide protection and a firm footing. Faded blue Vilbrequin swimming trunks with a floral pattern were complimented by a pair of tangerine coloured Crocs - neither articles were mine but what their rightful owners don't know won't hurt them . To wash those parts of Wilf and Digby that the sun doesn't usually reach a pair of disposable gloves would have been useful but despite searching high and low they had completely disappeared, victims of one of Madame Bays cleaning purges. Instead use had to be made of a pair of bright yellow, elbow length Marigolds found in the deepest recesses of a cupboard under the sink. They were circulation threateningly tight but after some not so gentle coaxing they eventually got there.
Thus attired it was time to go in search of the boyz. They took one look and ran, or rather flew. Despite being nine years old they can be remarkably sprightly when they want to be. Having moved at the speed of light Wilf was finally found under a bed , nose sticking out through the valence, at the end of the upstairs corridor. After a little coaxing he was carried , like a dead weight, to the shower. Everything then went brilliantly. He didn't object to the water as it trickled over his back and head and stood there obediently as the shampoo was worked up into a fulsome lather. Result - a shiningly white Polish Lowland Sheepdog. Show ring here we come !
It was just as the process was being repeated on Digby that the front door bell rang. In the five months we've been in France that bell has never been rung. Hearing the unexpected noise Digby became suddenly energised. He skilfully threw himself against the shower door and then bolted ,trailing water and foam, through the downstairs bedroom. All 20 kilos of sodden sheepdog then turned left through the office before careering sharp right into the hallway. Wilf felt it necessary to join him in a frenzy of ear shattering barking.
Who should be standing there to greet us - none other than the post lady wanting a signature for the large cardboard box in her arms. Some people can feign nonchalance at such moments.