Never interrupt a lady in the morning .

" Walk ! " . We must have gone through this routine at least twenty thousand times but this morning Wilf looks back at me with utter incomprehension . His face has the canine ' I have absolutely no idea what you're trying to say ' look etched on it. He's cosily curled up , chin on paws , at the foot of the stairs and nothing is going to get him to move . By contrast , when I return home with the croissants he's up and in the kitchen within a nano-second .

The combine harvesters at work until late into the night cutting the sunflowers. The local farmers trying to get in the harvest before Irene , or a weak shadow of her former self , gets here . The yellow sun blobs in the long range weather forecast replaced by clouds and lightning forks . At the cafe under the arcades the talk is about a week of thunderstorms . If you thought the English were weather fixated then you've never been to France .

After breakfast Wilf embarks on his morning tour of the village green . Kelly , the hover dog , is sprawled out in the middle of the lane grooming herself . Wilf, barreling along head down , is oblivious to her presence . As a result he blunders into her at high speed . Kelly leaps to her feet, growls, bares her teeth and then nips him gently on his behind . That thick PON fur proving to be extremely useful padding . Kelly then disappears back to the safety of the old widows porch . Wilf , who has no idea what has just happened , looks around quizically as if to say ' what was all that about ? '. Honey and cheese and a head tousling when he gets home .