A large pile of earth .

Thick Dickensian fog . The sort that drips like rain from the trees and eddies round the street lights . By the time we get to the ' big ' supermarket the visibility is finally starting to improve and an increasingly impatient Wilf is raring to go . Despite being blind and having only one functioning nostril there is nothing he enjoys more than a leisurely saunter across a car park. To humans just another parking lot. To an old dog a Bodleian Library of scents and impending adventures.

' The font ' shops while Wilf and yours truly slowly navigate our way past Renaults and Peugeots and Citroens . The old fellow carefully attends to all four tyres on a very large and very new silver Mercedes SUV . The model of canine concentration . Contentment PON style .

Home to find that someone has unexpectedly dumped a large pile of earth on the pathway in front of the house . Have the gardeners returned ? Are they about to start filling in the holes ? Why In France does no one ever telephone to tell you what they plan to do ? Why do they never call to find out if you'll be at home ? The mysteries of living in another country . The family fellow finds the wet soil tantalizing . He is quickly escorted to the kitchen .

As Wilf might say : '' Never regret anything because at one time it was exactly what you wanted " .