The newsagent has installed a new display of toys by the front door of his shop. Garish pink dolls and luminescent purple teddy bears and rabbits. An alarming sight so early in the morning . A gaggle of enamoured toddlers and less enamoured mothers are standing , imobile, in front of it. Although it's barely seven the things are already beginning to fly off the shelves. Clever product placement.
Off to the cafe under the arcades for a coffee. I shake hands with the beer and absinthe crowd .The local paper reports on the village fete. The banner headline : " Une fete quelque peu perturbe par la pluie ". Could anything be further from the rained out truth ? The story under the headline talks of the great day being graced by a soleil timide . Perhaps the reporter spent his day inside with the old farmer and a bottle of armagnac .
Much excitement . It seems that open warfare has broken out between the established baker and the new competition in the small market town . The proprietrice of the established bakers, furious at losing so much custom to the new ( and better ) upstart, has daubed the slogan " Go away . We don't want your bread here " ( a polite translation of the original ) across the competitions shop window. The mayor was called. Madame proprietrice hit him over the head with a broom . The gendarmes were called . They told her to wash off the offending slogan or go to gaol. She refused and was carried screaming into the back of their van . Madame Bay relates the story with glee.
The balmy days of August in deepest France Profonde.