Bordering on the bizarre.

Monsieur Le Comte and the Chatelaine were in fine form . She in her best Miss Jean Brody outfit complete with stout walking shoes and opaque stockings. He in a most bizarre high necked purple cardigan fastened by toggles and a belt . Together with his cravat and monocle this gave him the slightly louche air of an Upper East Side ladies hairdresser . A reminder that once outside Paris French dress sense can border on the bizarre .

Lunch served at a table that could seat at least twenty but which had been laid for four. One setting at each point of the compass. A small log crackling, half heartedly, in the grate. The walls of the dining room covered with portraits of ancestors. Most of whom seem to have died fighting the English in horrifyingly gruesome ways. '' Our countries histories are as entwined as those of Siamese twins " I say , diplomatically . Our host looks at me strangely . "Mushroom soup ( ' the font ' thought it was pumpkin ), chicken chasseur, followed by roquefort and celery. Through it all the chatelaines six Pekingese retain an aristocratic indifference to Wilf . Not that he's bothered . He settles down under the table and is soon asleep on his back , snoring loudly .

Home to find the chimney sweep waiting in the courtyard . He was due to come next week but decided , unilaterally , to come early . " I knew you'd not gone away " he says by way of explanation . The mysteries of the French tradesmans psyche.

On our evening walk with Wilf we discover that a portion of the garden wall has started to lean alarmingly . Time to phone the builder. Again .