As it should be .

In the church the Saints statue is taken down from its niche and given its annual dusting. Across the lane , in the village hall , the lady with the beehive hairdo and the silver Ford Mondeo is setting up tables. Outside her husband and the man in the yellow day-glo yellow jacket are stacking logs. The mayor, the mayors wife , and the ever efficient town hall secretary are inspecting the oleanders in the churchyard. " The snow didn't do them any good " says the mayor. For emphasis , or possibly to help foreigners who might not understand the finer points of gardening , Madame Mayor points towards a shrivelled, clearly dead, bush. '' No good at all " she adds for good measure. We nod .

Wilf spends his day sleeping. The old fellow happily oblivious to the  preparations for the village Saints Day . He used to get up at six for the morning croissant run . Now he sleeps 'til nine . A quick breakfast of softened kibbles and chicken followed by a leisurely saunter in search of pigeon guano. The obligatory christening of the fire hydrant . Then there's time for a morning doze in the garden followed by an afternoon doze in the hallway . He joins ' the font ' in the kitchen before a pre-bedtime nap in the orchard . Exactly the way things should be . Gentle drifting . 

Old PONs instinctively know : " time is too slow for those who wait , too swift for those who fear , too long for those who grieve , too short for those who rejoice , but for those who love , time is eternity ".