Celestial wonders.

A fresh, brisk morning. Out of the front door with Wilf to find the sky crisscrossed with contrails. For some reason the major air routes from north to south redirected over our little village. Barcelona, Johanessburg, Lagos, Marakkesh in one direction. Paris, London, Berlin in the other. Distant destinations etched out in the arctic cold sky above . Scores and scores of celestial St.Andrews Crosses stretching to the horizon, hanging undissolved in the still air. Strangely beautiful . A modern version of Constantines vision at the Milvian Bridge.

Wilf is off the new medicine and back onto Prednisone. Relief all round. He turned in at eight last night and slept solidly until six this morning. No bi-hourly garden visits. 'The font' has headed back to London for a couple of days to look after 'Granny Font' so the decorating of the Christmas tree can proceed without constant interruption. Pizza for lunch and a chicken stew , 'all you have to do is turn on the oven', for dinner. Wilf can hardly wait.

Where did you put the lights ?

Spurred into action by the realisation that Christmas is now less than two weeks away 'the font' drove into the local market town ordered a Christmas tree and arranged to have it delivered. " How tall is it ? " I asked. 'Oh. About four metres ' came the matter of fact reply.

Nothing could have prepared me for the tree that finally arrived. Usually we leave ordering a tree to the last minute. Each year we end up with a gaunt spindly thing, the arboreal worlds version of the runt of the litter. Not this year. The tree was enormous. It was all of six metres high and surrounded by wave upon wave of luxuriant branches. Impenetrable, verdant, eye poking girth.

A metre came off the top and another metre from the base before the thing was hoisted through a window on the first floor and hammered into its stand. Wilf watches the performance with interest. In its foreshortened version it fits, just. Some of the upper branches actually touch the ceiling but that gives it a seasonal charm. Then the annual pageant of getting the decorations down from the attic and the unanswerable question 'Where did you put the lights ?'. After an hours searching the lights remain elusive. Tree decorating delayed . Time to open a bottle of sanity restoring champagne.

Deep in the undergrowth the gardeners found an old eighteenth century moss and ivy covered weather vane. We've cleaned it up as best we can and set it on the brow of the hill overlooking the valley. Digbys Cedar of Lebanon on one side and a spot for Wilf, when its needed, nose to nose alongside. A place that gets the first and the last of the days light. The actions and memories that slowly turn a house into a home.

In the evening down into the valley for a gentle stroll under the setting sun with Wilf. It seems that he's somehow intolerant to the new medicine. Walk fifty yards, rest. Walk fifty yards, rest. Not a sound apart from his paws on the gravel, the water trickling in the brook, and the ocassional high pitched squeal of an eagle. Peace.

Farewell lady professors!

The three lady professors from Cincinatti are heading home today. Quite how the three of them - without even a smattering of French, insufficient warm clothing and an inability to drive a stick shift - ended up in this most rural and isolated part of France still remains a mystery. The term 'otherworldly' seems quite an apt description for our angora cardiganed academic trio. Over dinner they announced that they will be going to visit Merv in Lebanon for Christmas. I thought the middle east was rather a brave choice of venue but soon discovered that Lebanon is a town in Ohio. Probably a wiser, if less adventurous, choice for the holidays. Hezbollah and Mervs show tunes would make unlikely bedfellows.

While 'the font' drove the trio to Toulouse for the first flight to Paris , Wilf and yours truly did the Sunday shopping. For once the little supermarket which ministers to our daily needs was completely empty, the absence of jostling farmers wives giving me a chance to study the wine racks at leisure. One of the peculiarities of this part of France is that rose and red wines are drunk in prodigous quantities while white wine is relegated to a distant third place on the supermarket shelves.

On our way home a quick detour to the Sunday market. While Wilf waited patiently in the back of the car I bought bread and cheese. Two marvellous stalls - one selling plastic flowers and the other esoteric kitchen items. Who buys these things ? We were going to the cafe but Wilf has had a rather difficult night. The poor old thing hasn't been able to keep anything down and has been out into the garden every two hours. Hopefully, the result of something indescribable he's eaten while out scavenging rather than anything more serious. It will be plain rice for the next 24 hours. He's now resting, looking glum,on the front step and I'm going upstairs to catch up on my sleep before 'the font' returns.

The Polish Lowland Kitchen Dog.

Out of the front door to find a fine coating of frost on the car windshield. Wilf takes one look at the wintry scene and scurries back to the warmth of the kitchen. " I'm Polish not Siberian ! ". Our scruffy companion with the large black nose looks imploringly at 'the font' and gets a bowl of warm porridge and honey. Both demolished with relish.

He has decided to stay in the kitchen while the lunchtime poularde farcie is prepared . Who knows what the day has in store? There may be more porridge or honey or chicken or coconut ice cream.

Thank you Edward Calvin Kendall.

To the vets for the results of Wilfs tests. En route a quick detour to the cafe in the square for a coffee. A chance for an unbelieving 'font' to see the aluminium foil dress, fish nets tights and flashing 'Bon Noel' apron combination in all its glory. 'Amazing ?' I asked. " Alarming !" came the reply. 'The font' now convinced that the cafe is the local equivalent of one of those bars found next door to Greyhound bus depots in large American cities. While I'm choosing a croissant a gentlemen in a white cap , bedroom slippers and white socks offers to buy 'the font' a pastis. " Thank you but never before ten ".

The waiting room at the vets full. A sure sign that the clinical young veterinaire from Paris is not working. On the opposite side of the reception a French lady with blue rinsed hair cradling a blue rinse toy poodle in her lap. " Isn't it odd how some people end up looking like their dogs?" I ask . 'The font' looks across the room, then looks at Wilf, then looks at me. "She's probably thinking the very same thing" . We're both still laughing uproariously when it's our turn to go in.

A special word of thanks to Edward Calvin Kendall . Professor Kendall was awarded the Nobel prize for developing Cortisone exactly sixty years ago this week. The magic medication has had nothing short of a miraculous effect on Wilf, delaying the inevitable. The large tumours growth has slowed and the spread into the other organs has, for the moment, been halted. Apart from an opportunistic respiratory infection , the arthritis and some liver impairment he's as well as can be expected. The vet says cancer is like detecting un voleur dans la nuit - a thief in the night. Some additional medication and the next check-up scheduled for early in the New Year. " You'll be getting turkey and potatoes for Christmas " I say to Wilf as he's lifted into the back of the car. He gives me a look that says ' and don't forget the coconut ice cream with the pudding '.

Home to find the hyper-active gardeners chopping down trees and planting new ones. Wilf heads off for a celebratory tyre christening.

Fishnet tights.

Wilf has settled into a simple daily routine. He ventures out when its light and he goes to bed when its dark. To fit in with this schedule our trip to the cafe is now delayed until the sun is high in the sky at eight thirty. This morning, the weather being warm, the two of us sat outside under the arcades alongside the parked motability scooters and white Peugeot vans.

Wilf settled down by the table while I went in to fetch a bowl of water, a coffee, and our shared croissant. A hearty chorus of ' Salut ' from the beer and absinthe crowd who were getting onto their third drink of the morning. Living proof of the generosity of the French pension system. Interestingly, this being France, the peroxide haired waitress was wearing thigh length boots, black fish net stockings, her flashing 'Bon Noel' apron, and what appeared to be a dress made out of aluminium foil. Sparkly, shiny, shimmering and seasonal. No wonder she wouldn't venture outside to serve us. " Blimey! That's not something you'd see in Kirkintilloch " said Wilf. 'Blimey! You're right ' I replied.

The world can be divided into two separate types of people. Those who are prepared for Christmas. And those who aren't. This family falls squarely in the second category. We were reminded of this by the sudden appearance of the village Christmas decoration. A large illuminated star has been assembled on the telegraph pole in the old farmers back garden. It must be all of fifteen feet high and hold about a thousand bulbs. One thing you can't do is ignore it. The heavenly presence casts its 10,000 watt glow far and wide but mostly directly into our drawing room. At midnight last night you could happily read by the light of the star - even with the curtains drawn tight.

Back down to the vets later today for the results of yesterdays tests.

Arthritis forgotten.

Summer has unexpectedly returned to South West France. After last weeks chill winds this morning dawned bright and fair. Azure blue skies and temperatures of 18 degrees ( 65 for our friends across the ocean ). Wilf stuck his head out of the door, decided this climate was definitely to his liking, and trotted off, unbidden, to the car. Arthritis completely forgotten. As I lifted him up he gave me a look that said " what's been keeping you. Don't you know it's croissant time ?" .

The cafe was humming. We had to circle the square twice before finding a parking space. It seems the good weather had brought out every van driver within a fifty kilometer radius. Every van driver that is with the exception of anyone or anything to do with work on the rickety old farmhouse. Sightings of our electrician or plumber are every bit as rare as confirmed sightings of the Loch Ness monster.

Never had a ' Bonjour Vilfeee ' from the peroxide haired waitress in the battery operated ' Bon Noel' apron with flashing lights sounded as good. Wilf settled into his vantage point in the corner of the cafe by the radiator and watched as I dutifully shook hands with the regulars . A bowl of water, a head tousling, and a piece of croissant. Normal service resumed. In the market square a man in a splendid chefs hat had set up a stall to sell freshly made doughnuts. Both Wilf and yours truly agreed that it was worth a detour. Another delicacy added to his list of favourite foods.

Home to find a turbaned Madame Bay waltzing along the corridor with the hoover, lip-synching badly to Julie Andrews singing ' I could have danced all night'. Wilf and yours truly shall be going to the vets later today for his fifteen day check-up.