~ At the plan d'eau, what seems to be a fishing class for children is taking place. None of the participants looks much above 12; good-humoured and smiling mothers and fathers supervise the proceedings. We negotiate our way between plastic pots of earthworms. At the end of the row, an intense and serious dark-haired and pink-clad very little girl manoeuvres her sleek rod and its bright orange float, while a boy has caught a red-finned fish, a roach perhaps, about the size of a goldfish.
~ It is so long since we've had anyone over, we find there are no paper napkins except Christmas ones, not enough middle-range wine glasses - only six very precious ones or lots of mustard glasses, and, most of all to our surprise, hardly any white wine, only a Savennieres I've been saving so long I can't easily bring myself to use it just because it's all we have. We were both quite convinced we had plenty of spare white wine. Tom disappears, exasperated, with Molly. I wonder where they can be, until he returns with a wodge of white serviettes, glasses of many shapes, and a fragrant Saumur to bring a smile. And Mol's had another turn around the plan d'eau too.We pretend nostalgia about pavement cafes in Saumur, not far from where Molly was born, and admit that mostly we remember only the difficulties of gradient and one-way systems in the town.
~ A last glass to accompany the washing-up.
( Sorry, no photos available tonight).
Poem of the Week, by Jane Hirshfield
1 hour ago