The railway mans hat .

Summer has well and truly arrived . The mercury soaring past 100 for the third day in a row. All the small French villages we drive through on our way home lost in a dreamy , lavender scented,  lethargy . As we turn  along the lane towards the house the sound of Abba's " soo-per-troo-per" can be heard wafting , jauntily, across the village green . In our absence , Madame Bay , the saintly housekeeper, has been busy . The floors washed and polished . All the unused dog medicines taken to the vets and the old dog toys and bedding to the animal sanctuary . The rugs from the hallway aired in the sun . With everything in its correct place the house now looks , and smells, pristine . Somehow, without randomly scattered squeaky toys and water bowls , it's strangely characterless. 

The same cannot be said about Madame Bay. Today she is in her summer outfit. This consists of a  white turban held in place by a  large  ruby coloured brooch and  a seemingly endless length of white chiffon wrapped, toga like, around her Rubenesque figure . She greets us , passionately, feather duster in hand . '' M'Ongoose. I'm so glad you're safe ! The roads are so busy ! " . This is repeated a second time in case I didn't understand it the first time round .

In the little market town the annual plant sale is in full swing . By nine in the morning the place is already alive with green fingered bargain seekers . ' The font ' is approached by a man in a blue smock and railway mans hat. '' Are you keen on fuschias ? " . Angus heads off alone to the safety of the bar under the arcades.