Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Wilf demonstrates his Christmas skill .
To every nursery within a fifteen kilometre radius . We're looking for a four or five metre tall tree . Last year they were ten a penny. This year nothing. The largest to be found a spindly specimen less than two metres high. We return home empty handed . I'm frustrated at the lack of progress but Wilf has rather enjoyed himself. His day spent wandering , nose down, deep in canine reverie , past row upon row of Christmas trees . He'll stop occasionally to lift a leg and impart a little festive spirit, PON style , to the proceedings . A satisfied ' aim like that takes real skill ' look etched on his face .
'' The font '' heads off to London while it's still dark to see ' granny font ' . By the time Wilf and yours truly navigate our way back from the airport it's just beginning to get light . We park the car down by the river . Not a soul to be seen . A herd of eight deer emerge from the woodland thirty metres away and look at us quizically. They don't seem particularly alarmed . Wilf stands silently in the middle of the road, four legs rooted to the spot, his good nostril pointed towards them . The excitement of an early morning walk .
Into town for the family fellows illicit half croissant . Outside the greengrocers, in a wooden box, what I take to be a melon. The owner explains that it's not a melon. However, he speaks very quickly and in the strong local 'Oc' accent so I'm no closer to knowing what it is .