Fairy tales .

A busy day for Wilf. The landscape gardeners beaver away outside the front door. Trucks of top soil being rolled and flattened by tractors and rotavators . The family fellow keeps a proprietorial eye on the proceedings from his vantage point by the front door . From time to time he barks - a reminder to one and all that he's still chief supervisor . The youngest gardener sits on the doorstep and shares a biscuit with him . It goes without saying that Wilf likes the youngest gardener .

The plumber comes with another hare brained scheme to link the irrigation system to the town water mains . '' Isn't it illegal ? " I ask . A shrug of the shoulders and an ' Everyone does it ' , by way of reply . Wilf barks .

Our early evening walk . Amelie the moustachioed village cat beats a hasty retreat when she sees Wilf come barreling out of the front gates . Wilf , nose down in the grass verge, remains unaware of her presence . We go three hundred yards. Maybe three fifty . Wilf settles down in the grass and falls fast asleep. Not a doze. A deep, deep, contented sleep. Angus phones home for ' the font ' to come and collect us . Looking at him a line of G.K.Chestertons comes to mind : '' Fairy tales are more than true, not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten ".