The beds.

Just as we sat down to Sunday lunch the phone went. It was the owner of the bed shop. The van with our long awaited furniture was making slower progress than he'd thought and he was only just south of Paris : - 'Thanks for being so patient I should be with you around six'. With that he rang off. So much for being here first thing in the morning and so much for my chance to explain how patient I was feeling. At six thirty, as I was wondering whether to open a bottle of claret for dinner, the phone went again. ' Oh Hi. I'm just passing Cahors , I'll be at the house in about an hour'. At eighty thirty he phoned again (yes, Oh Hi!) to say he was off the motorway and would be with us in twenty or so minutes.

The driver eventually arrived at the front door at nine fifteen last night as bright and breezy as though he'd only been on the road for an hour. It seems he had left the showroom on Saturday afternoon after loading the van but in his ' haste' had forgotten to wear a watch. As a result he was using the clock in the delivery van unaware that it was six hours slow. This only came to light when he turned up for the nine o'clock ferry from Dover to Calais on Saturday night only to discover it was by now two am on Sunday!

I sat in amazement listening to this dysfunctional tale of woe while 'the font' decided that the poor boy must be starving and promptly insisted he sit down to eat something hot. Never again shall I spend a Sunday evening helping to unload beds in the pouring rain. He eventually left at one fifteen this morning, brim full of energy and keen to get on the road to Rheims to load up his by now empty van with cheap champagne . It was only as I lay my head on the pillow that it struck me that the beds arrived on the very day the house emptied. Wilf and Digby sat in the hallway following the unloading of the van with close interest and thoroughly enjoying the entertainment. Digby had that look on his face that seemed to say ' why don't we do this every night?'.

The beds are on the move! (?)

The old boiler, or what remains of it, is sitting, propped up on a fork lift truck, on the downstairs garden terrace where the ever whistling plumber left it on New Years Eve. He left with a cheery wave, a cheque (hence the cheery wave), and a vague promise to come again on Monday to pick it up. Naturally, because the old heating systems innards are covered in oil and grease ( and heaven alone knows what else) this graveyard of pipes and valves has become the sole source of interest for the two boyz. Forget long walks in the country or a saunter through the fields chasing squirrels they want to be down below exploring the redundant plumbing and its muzzle matting viscous coatings. Why is it that the more you say 'no', the more attractive something becomes? In some respects dogs are more like humans than we care to recognize.

Life is quickly returning to normal after the holidays. The Christmas tree was taken down yesterday. We were going to leave it up until the 6th but the ever thickening carpet of fallen pine needles was getting to the stage where remedial action was required. In the end we opened the windows at the end of the hall and threw it out onto the lane below - that way the pine needles were confined to one area of the house. What's the betting we'll still be finding them in all sorts of weird and wonderful places in August?

The saga of the beds continues. They are being loaded onto a van (again?) for their long journey from Hertfordshire south. We have gone beyond speaking to the manager of the store and have now had the owners cast iron guarantee that they will be with us hell or high water tomorrow lunchtime. For those of you who live in the south of England you can take it for granted that the movement of our beds will entail the snow storm of the decade, the gridlock of the century, and the interruption of all channel ferry crossings for at least a week.

Porridge.

Wilf and Digby adore porridge. In these arctic conditions we boil up enough oatmeal at breakfast for ourselves and for them .They wait patiently side by side in the kitchen like two canine gourmands, relishing the smell of the porridge while it cools. When its ready they hunker down over their bowls where amid much lip smacking and delighted snorting it's quickly demolished . We find that Wilf gets indigestion and allergies if we give him wheat based food ( an after effect of the pancreatitis) but porridge he can eat to his hearts content. Not surprisingly the boyz muzzles require a thorough cleaning post breakfast to remove the last of their breakfast from the long fur around their mouths.

We are anxiously waiting for new beds to be delivered from London. When we first moved in, seven weeks ago, I ordered replacement beds for the ones we had left behind in Italy. It is only now, with the imminent arrival of family,that the manufacturers dilatory approach and frequent last minute delays in getting them to us is becoming irritating. Having been told they would be here on Friday ( at the latest) they are now promised (firmly and finally) for Monday - snow willing.