The badly placed bollard.

A starry night followed by a cloudy ,chilly, start to the morning . 6 degrees . The outside tables at the cafe under the arcades almost deserted . The only customers daft enought to sit there a man in a bobble hat and what appears to be a small polar bear with a half croissant between his front paws. On our way back to the car a detour to the cake shop. Angus chooses a strawberry flan .

Hugo, the good for nothing son-in-law, drops Madame Bay at the front gate. '' Pick me up at twelve. Don't be late ! " her parting words . Hugo, oblivious, is already holding a mobile phone to his ear while lighting a cigarette . The gold metallic ' Wild Child ' voiturette , Madame Bay's usual conveyance ,is in the garage to have its front wing rejoined to its body . The effect of a moments confusion between the accelerator and the brake . '' A stupid place to put a bollard " the now , well practised , defence .

Soon every radio in the house is tuned to Radio Nostalgie. Long forgotten French crooners from the 50's. Smoochy lyrics, cheerful accordions and lots and lots of flutes . Unchallenging , clear cut rhythms , ethereal chords . Madame Bays idea of heaven . She doesn't so much hoover as waltz along the corridors. A Monday morning vision of loveliness in orange chiffon. Wilf heads off to the peace of the library for a nap .