Seven am and it's already hot and humid . The sort of day where you envy the frogs basking on the lillies in the village pond . Wilf is happy to be off on the morning bread run into town , quickly settling down to sleep in his ' safe spot ' in the back of the car . The man at the bread stall thinks I'm Australian. Why he should think this is quite beyond the wildest stretches of ones imagining . English, Scots, American, Australian . From a locals perspective all one and the same but equally odd in an anglo-saxon way . He greets me , as he always does, with a strange noise that sounds like a drunken parrot . It took ' the font ' two or three months to work out that this was his heavily South West France accented version of ' G'Day mate '. Too late now to disillusion the poor man . We buy our loaves, wave cheerily in what is hopefully a hearty antipodean way , stop off for a cake at the bakers and return home to find the electrician and builders hard at work in the attic. Thankfully, no sign of last weeks rancour. Wilf has a look on his face that says : " All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make , the better " . Then he falls unconcernedly asleep by the front door.