A second day of not looking beyond the valley; from the shop, no noise reaches my ears. It's peaceful here, it's good not to read of bombs and absurdities.
Not that peaceful. Belinda is still ill in bed for a second day with flu and there is no time to pick up the newspaper. It sits, delivered as ever on time by Gilles at exactly 1.00 p.m., wrapped in plastic, later to be burned, unread, a world unknown.
I look after the boys; Millie goes to our neighbours for the night. Belinda rests.
In the afternoon a friend of a friend comes for my help in buying a pedigree spaniel from England. He speaks no English. We think we have found a litter, due in mid-April.
He's also going to take Nell for two weeks - he's a professional dog trainer - to dress her to quarter properly, something she is still not doing. The land here is too steep, the forest too thick, the fields too open. He'll do better with her in the plain.
In return, I will accompany him to England for two days, to pick up his puppy we hope. It is a dog he wants. Herein lies his chance, although the price is still £800. The English only want bitches.
F. cannot understand why.
Despite our easily arrived at exchange which is never discussed as such, he leaves behind two bottles of wine; I say we will drink them when we succeed.
Perhaps I'll read the International Herald Tribune tomorrow. Perhaps the Fed has gone bust, perhaps I should turn on the radio. Perhaps not.