Wouldn't that be wonderful ?

The day of the annual harvest festival. By eight o'clock the field by the old windmill is a hive of activity. The mayor gives a few words of inaudible welcome. We all clap. Today he's in his grey crimplene trousers, black lace up shoes, red checked shirt and pork pie hat. The tout ensemble slightly marred by the fact that he's managed to do up his shirt so that the first button is in the second hole, and so on. This gives him a somewhat lopsided look.

No prizes for the very old farmers less than pristine tomatoes. However, better luck for Monsieur Bay's purple peppers. He gets a red white and blue third place ribbon. The school secretary, who is always late for work and speeds dementedly through the village every morning in her little black Citroen,  has decorated her squash with blue felt eyes to make them look like swans. The judges are greatly taken with this inspired creativity and award her joint second place .She shares this with the old widows garlic strings. Top prize however goes to Madame Mayors floral onion baskets. She is presented not with a rosette but with a sash. We all clap.

Outside the village hall four highly polished , and clearly much adored, vintage cars. Angus looks at a rather dapper red and white roadster and suggests that we should consider buying it . ' The font ' inspects the rather spartan , comfort free, interior and replies with a  less than enthusiastic ' wouldn't that be wonderful ? '. Sometimes it's not the words but the tone of voice that says it all.

This afternoon the tractor parade and the judging of the hens and geese. The hectic pace of life in deepest, deepest France profonde.