Two bakers.

No snow but rain . Lots and lots of rain . So much that it glides in sheets down the hill like a second layer of tarmac . While I go to get the croissants Wilf takes the executive decision to stay curled up in the warmth of the car . A '' you must be joking " look on his face when he hears the word ' walk '.

' The font ' heads off to London at first light to check on ' Granny font ' and talk to the agents about re-letting the flat . The previous tenant , the difficult Australian woman with the floral suit and OCD, has decided to return to Sydney . England dismissed as ' just too dull '. A three year let suddenly reduced to one .

Madame Bay arrives mid-morning . She parks the metallic gold '' Wild Child " voiturette by the church . A dent has appeared on the front right wing . Perhaps this is why she chooses not to navigate through the stone gate piers into the courtyard ? She cuddles Wilf, makes a large cup of coffee , sits at the head of the breakfast table and asks " is there anything I can do ? " .

Looming conflict in the little market town . Two thirty year old brothers have opened up a new bakery on the market square . The existing baker is not pleased . Madame Bay says he has lost ninety percent of his business. Madame Bay also says that the new bakers have ' lovely hair ' . A town council meeting has been called.

Four o'clock . Rain gone. Skies once again blue. Warm .The family fellow follows me out onto the lane for his afternoon constitutional . We don't go far . His arthritic back legs stiff . We go maybe twenty yards. Wilf then settles down, turns on his back, and is soon blissfully asleep . We're doing a lot of sleeping at the moment . As old PON's know : "Exude happiness and you will feel it back a thousand times " .