Adolescent infatuation.

Four in the morning and Wilf is asleep in the study. He's snoring gently and I'm writing a speech to give in London on Thursday night. Or rather I'm trying to. The efficient neural librarian that usually keeps my mind in good working order has disappeared. Replaced at this early hour by a stand in with dyslexia and an annoying sense of humour. While I hunt for something sensible to say about the politics of the mid-east , the new, left lobe librarian dredges up memories of the Cuban missile crisis. Were we really sent home early from school ?

Yesterday Aude, the five foot nothing decaratrice, arrived with her friend Sylvie. Sylvie is also five foot nothing and comes from the womens cooperative in the neighbouring village. She was dressed in a beige bobble hat and a pair of military camouflage overalls many sizes too big. The new arrival had clearly been forewarned about the bizarre habits of the anglo-saxon clients. No sooner was she in the house than Wilf was presented with a high fibre Ryvita. After that there was no need for formal introductions . The family fellow lay amid the scaffolding in the hall gazing on her with adolescent infatuation. "I love you. I really do".

On the way down to the valley for our morning strolll I asked Wilf what he thought a womens cooperative was. He turned to me matter of factly : " A place they make biscuits ". A reminder that amongst all animals dogs alone have an incomprehensible ability to penetrate what it is to be human.