The Pope visits London.

Back to London to give an after dinner talk to the partners of some huge US law firm. Walked to the venue along a ceremonial route lined with flags for the Popes state visit to Britain. What a serious group of people the lawyers turned out to be. Couldn't help but notice that all the women wore identical black dresses with a single row of pearls. Sadly, my idea of what constitutes a Bar Association is very different from theirs. A quiet chat with the French maitre'd before dinner ensured that I avoided the house Merlot and instead had my glass replenished with a rather attractive Chambolle-Musigny .

'The font' and Wilf came to collect me at Toulouse airport last night. The French air traffic controllers were 'going slow' so the flight was delayed by a couple of hours. Rather than hang around in the terminal they drove off to a large, modern fish restaurant five minutes away . Despite being full to the gunnals with Friday night diners the staff were a model of efficiency and courtesy. A well lit table in a quiet corner was laid, Wilf was escorted in and a bowl of water brought for him. In Britain Wilf would have had to stay in the back of the car and 'the font' would have had to dine alone at a table by the kitchen. 'A dog in a restaurant !' What different worlds. Driving home 'the font' told me the only noise Wilf made, as he peeked out from under the table cloth, was a mild, almost inaudible whimper of pleasure as a plate of calamari wafted past his nose.

On the plane the man in the seat by the window bobbed up and down like a cork on the ocean. Having stowed his bags he then had to stand up and rearrange them in the overhead baggage locker. No sooner had he sat down again than he immediately stood up to retrieve some papers. As soon as we were in the cruise and the seatbelt sign was off , up he got again. This time a computer was produced. Out of the corner of my eye saw him stroke the machine with what can best be descibed as unnatural enthusiasm. Youy know a flight is going to be bad when the person in the next seat starts a conversation about his new computer with the lines - "Take a look at this. Ask me any questions you want".

In English English the phrase 'How terribly interesting' can be translated as 'Please do not speak to me again. I would rather die than continue this conversation'. In American English the phrase 'How terribly interesting' comes across as 'How terribly interesting. Please feel free to bore me with technical inanities for as long as you care to'. One language - two cultures.

Wilfs Friday PONdering.

" If you don't get everything you want, think of the things you don't get that you don't want ".

Equilibrium found.

After a miserable morning spent looking glum,Wilfs stomach finally settled down and he was as bright as a daisy by dinner time. Thanks for all your comments and advice. I'm afraid that the most probable reason for the recurrent upsets is the after effects of the fox poison left outside our front door in Italy. The tasty, but lethal, chicken treats provided by the hunters nearly did for him. As a result there must be some residual organ damage although a bevy of tests and scans hasn't found anything other than some liver and prostate impairment. Somethings you just have to live with.

To take his mind off things we went for four long walks. I find that if he's occupied he doesn't seem to feel the discomfort. Brisk walks also help him sleep solidly. Yesterdays view from the lane across to the Pyrenees and the Spanish frontier was simply stunning.

The adept woman competition.

Off to the six thirty competition at the agricultural show. By the time we found a parking space the list of wannabees for the 'adept woman' competition had been whittled down to just seven. At one end of the hall they were judging the best packed 'industrial' garlic in sepulchral , professional silence . At the other end a packed house was listening to a compere quizing the finalists on their proficiency in well, everything. Check in political correctness at the front door. In this part of the world it seems a woman is defined by her recipe for confit de canard, her special cassoulet or her skill at repairing an iron. Much dispapproving murmuring from the audience if a recipe wasn't correct or was too avant garde . ' Diced onions! I've never heard the like'.

Highlight of the evening was when the compere asked the competitors what made their husbands really, really happy. The first lady suggested an apricot pie, the second a clafoutis. Quick as flash the third farmers wife announced ' I take him straight to bed!'. The laughter from the ladies in the audience was as nothing compared to the cheer that emanated from the masculine enclave of the beer tent . The howl of delight that left the lips of the ladys husband, the by now extremely well lubricated farmers, assorted tractor salesmen and the firemans display team could be heard in Paris . Let it never be said that France isn't different ! The bawdiness of Beaumarchais is alive and well. She won.

Wilfs suffering from his regular as clockwork, once every ten day, sore tummy. No matter what we do it recurs. Strict low protein kibble diet, once a week starving, plain rice and fish, or occasional 'naughty' treats , he still gets it. I'm up at five this morning , unable to sleep listening to the strange noises emanating from his stomach. Has anyone else experienced anything like it? It lasts for half a day and clearly causes him great discomfort. As quick as it comes, it goes.

Garlic sculptures.

What few tourists find their way to this remote part of southern France are long gone. The locals now comfortably settled back into their normal routines away from the prying eyes of Parisians and other sophisticates.

Yesterday marked the start of the two day agricultural fair in the local market town. One of the social highlights of the year. It goes without saying that 'the font' had us there bright and early for the official unveiling and the judging of the garlic sculptures. Early by our standards translates into mid-morning for these farming folk . As Wilf followed me across the concourse, stopping en route to christen the tyres on the display of John Deere tractors, we could see that the beer tent was already doing a brisk trade.

While 'the font' went to listen to the mayors speech and look at the garlic tableaux ( the child on the bench came first, the lady in the crinoline second ) we settled down at a table for a coffee and a bowl of water. With Wilf keeping a watchful eye on the bibulous farmers I was able to study the programme. It appears that at six thirty tonight there is the 'Most adept woman' competition. Clearly this means something to the French but doesn't tell an outside observer a whole lot. I'm hoping this may be a beauty pageant but am equally steeled to the fact that it could be something to do with cooking, or chainsawing. From the way he sniffed the air it was clear that Wilfs hoping that sausages will feature prominently in the 'adept woman' proceedings.

Music to a PON's ears.

Cooler now and darker. Wilfs morning walk delayed until its fully light at seven. Not that he's bothered - he grumpily ignores all pre-walk activity until he hears the front door opening and then hurtles along the corridor and down the stairs. There follows two minutes of pure pandemonium while he noisily reminds us - 'I'm here, I'm here! Don't go without me!'. Outside the leaves along the lane are thick, ideal for perfecting that heavy footed pouncing technique or for rolling in while making a satisfying crunchy ,crinkly sound. This morning just enough of a breeze to lift his right ear to a near ninety degree angle.

The new seasons wines are arriving on the shelves of the hypermarkets. Time for the old stock to be sold off at half price and time for yours truly to stock up for the coming year. How the time flies! The whole experience made even better by the discovery of British style bacon and sausages in a neighbouring deep freeze. Not brands one recognizes but how bad can they be? Bacon and sausage - pure music to my, and Wilfs, ears. At the check out 'the font' sighs in exasperation as the breakfast goodies are rung up - point out this is a bit rich from someone who has just filled the larder with air dried sprat. A new 'Great Britain' section in the main food hall - heavy on pickle,crisps, baked beans and mayonnaise. I survey the display of pot noodles and wonder whether they are a British or American invention.

Evil mens footsteps.

A small sandstone cottage at the end of a beech lined Forfarshire lane. On one side the shifting grey then blue then grey again expanse of the North Sea. On the other the wheat chequered hills of the Mearns. The ploughman and his wife who lived here weren't well off but the cottage windows always sparkled and the paintwork of their old car car shone in a 'grateful for what we have' type of way. A place of lasting Scottish virtue, Lewis Grassic Gibon country. The greatest treasure of all the blond tousled haired,ruddy cheeked farm lad who grew up there. The only child; Rachel like gifted late in life. A kind, lug of a lad, who helped his father with the harvest and was as good at his studies as he was on the rugby pitch. Sometimes in his mothers eyes a look of unbelieving gratefulness.

Dux of the school, then Edinburgh, then a job with an investment firm on Charlotte Square. Soon, six months in Hong Kong, then a more senior job in New York, then a promotion. We met twice in the bar of the Carlyle, once, and more to his liking, in the Royalton. Early, wrong side of the tracks gaucherie giving way to a competent young man in dark suit, plain shirt and solid, professional, tie. A feeling that he was enjoying life and breaking a few American girls hearts. A world his parents could never dream existed and never share.

Glancing up from lunch in the Dover Street Chez Gerard I saw the scenes on the television above the bar. A rush back to my desk, calls to the US impossible, all circuits down. No way of contacting the Manhattan office.

Home on the Thursday night. Tired, irritable, no flights, the car at the airport, the trains full, security making the journey back to Scotland endless. Down the drive and through the gates into the courtyard, a chance to change, relax and have a drink. A grim faced 'font' meeting me at the door, two six month old puppies leaping on my feet. Could I go to see the folk in the cottage to put their mind to rest? The half formed 'I don't know them. Can't I do it later ?' caught in my throat before spoken. Better placed than most to help. 11/11.

The slow recognition that hope is an untrustworthy friend. Uncomprehending heads sinking deep onto shoulders, gentle people shrinking before your eyes. Hasty calls to friends, harried employers,embassy folk, a colleague ringing the bell of the Columbus Circle apartment. Anyone who might know . Later, much later,a memorial service with an old pump organ; biting my tongue - hard - to stop the tears, the 'fonts' hand unwavering holding onto my arm. Seeing them driven home to a silent, dark cottage through streets of bowed heads. Grief,they say, the price one pays for love. The waste.

If left unchallenged the footsteps of evil men pass even the most peaceful door.