A good, Good Friday.

A normal working day in Europe. The builders arrive at seven with another load of roofing beams for the old attic. A cue for Wilf and yours truly to head off into town for a coffee and the morning croissants. Although it's early, parking proves to be difficult. Dutch, German, Belgian and British number plates filling the bays. Even the bar is busy. The absinthe drinkers forced inside while a gaggle of northern europeans preen themselves at the tables in the sun.

On the way back we have to slow right down to a snails pace to manouevre round Oliver , the old widows labrador. Today, he's moved from his usual position on the front door step and is dozing , unconcernedly, in the road. Ever since the old farmer died thirteen months ago he's sat outside , day in , day out, patiently waiting for his masters return. A dogs devotion . Untarnished, undoubting. As we pass the old fellow looks up hopefully to see if the car is going to stop. Seeing faith like that I can't help but smile and wish Oliver a ' good, Good Friday '.