Around three it clouds over and the air suddenly develops a sharp edge. We set off to the rugby ground at three fifteen. Angus wears a Harris Tweed jacket against the chill. Bobble hat in the right pocket , a chew in the left . Wilf warm and snug in the back of the old Volkswagen. We find a quiet corner and park. Through the turnstile and up a short flight of steps to an end of row seat . Wilf settles down, snorts and presses his flank very firmly and very purposefully against my left leg. Large black nose and two paws jutting out into the space between the rows. Whenever the local farmers leap,cheering, to their feet , Angus , mindful of his slumbering friend, remains seated.
At half time another of our little routines. Sharing a hot dog in the parking lot. Wilf makes a comical Hannibal Lecter sound. Smacking his lips theatrically as each small piece of meat is gently taken, then swallowed. At the end of the match the young fireman playing at scrum half wanders over and asks how Monsieur Vilfee is getting on . '' He'll carry on running until he hits a brick wall " I reply. We both laugh . Wilf has his hair tousled .