The Brute !

Five thirty am. A cloudless, star studded sky. Orions belt directly above us. A camembert coloured moon setting behind the turrets of the chateau. Wilf out for an early morning pit stop. All is calm. The deep, deep peace of French village life.

At this very moment Amelie, the moustachioed village cat decides to saunter across the courtyard. On and on she comes. Oblivious to the white furry presence standing, leg cocked, by the palm tree. It is after all her village. What dangers could possibly lurk at this early hour ?

Wilf bides his time. Somethings in life a boy simply can't hurry. Finally, he's ready. Ten yards maybe fifteen . He bounds with silent, purposeful, balletic agility towards his nemesis. The aches of age and illness forgotten. Best rugby playing technique. Head down, legs powering away. Amelie stops for the briefest of moments, then turns. As she disappears at high speed through the laurel hedge she emits a piercing , scratching , onomatopoeiac scream. " The Brute !".

We've not been into town for over a week but this morning the family fellow follows me into the cafe. A decided ' the boy done good ' swagger in his walk. On the way back to the car the woman from the bakers shop comes out and gives him a sliver of pain au raisin. We even manage a short stroll down by the river. A couple of hundred yards before he gets tired. A good day. One of Wilfs Simon and Garfunkel style ' Life I Love You, All is Groovy ' type days.

Simple pleasures.