It’s a canicule, said my neighbour this morning. And at 77 degrees by 7 am, it certainly promised to be uncomfortably cosy. The weather is forecast to be blue and in the mid 90s for a week or more. Today it promised some thunderstorms which do not look likely so we can expect old ladies to keel over in the street and dogs and infants to be barbecued inside cars. It was not nice yesterday either when I did the 2.5 hour run to Spain bearing various commissions to buy cheap tobacco. Along the ribbon of tarmac that pierces the massif of the Pyrenees the border villages have turned themselves into vending machines to cater for the French chasing cheap goods, and most of France seemed to be there fighting in the supermarkets for goodies. It’s the holiday season, of course, and folk have nothing better to do. With the dog I sat in the air-conditioned car in a dusty car park where one might expect slitty-eyed Clint Eastwood to chink his spurs past on his way to blast some Mexican bandito. Far above the mountains looked cool and green and way over them a tiny speck wheeled against a puffy white cloud. I hadn’t my binoculars, so I assumed it was a vulture. Rather that than a hoverfly a dozen feet above the car.