Hole whirl innis hans.

As soon as it's light Wilf and I head off into town for our morning coffee and croissant. Over the last two or three days its started to get quite chilly first thing . A reminder, if one was needed, that I must test the central heating before our long drawn out autumn lurches into winters iron grip. Despite the cold the peroxide waitress happily brings out the order to our seat under the arches. This personal service is a special privilege only enjoyed by regulars accompanied by fluffy, comical companions. 'Bonjour Wilfeee' she says to the large black nose and tips of two paws that are poking out from under the table.

Bowl of water finished there's time to visit the cheese shop, the bakery, the chocolatier, and the florist. On the way back to the car Wilf stops to christen the tyres on a silver Mercedes from Paris. As he does what comes naturally I spot an amusing poster in the window of the information centre showing the latest in rooster drawn transport.

Home to find that Madame Bay has shown up bright and early. She's supposed to come on Wednesday this week but has somehow decided to grace us with her presence a little early. Probably another incomprehensible family crisis with her equally rubenesque daughter, Delfine. All the radios in the house are tuned to radio nostalgie, which we discover as we turn into the driveway, is playing gospel music. Windows open, duvets airing, the sound of Mahalia Jackson penetrating the Monday morning silence. At the top of the stairs the cheery sight of Madame Bay pushing the hoover with one hand, dragging the electrical chord with the other, all the while lustily waggling her hips and singing that old gospel classic ' ease gorra hole whirl innis hans, ease gorra hole whirl innis hans '. Time to go and check on the central heating system. Wilf quickly joins me.