A heavy overnight frost – the last forecast – followed by a blue sky. A load of logs arrived. It’s the third this year, extravagant but the fire is nice to look at and there’s still two thirds of a tank of oil. I’d just finished stacking them when the angelus rang out from the church and I looked up to watch four deer delicately picking their way in front of the chateau. Who knows how long one’s sojourn is in any place, but there’s still nowhere I’d rather be.
I go to the lovely dentist tomorrow to have one of my few remaining teeth removed. I have no regret. It’s a nasty brute. But I’m beginning to warm to American teeth, a row of perfectly matched and shiny gnashers, preferably large and horse-like. Should I have a new set of falsies made to such a design, or just plug the gap? I shall have a discussion tomorrow. The maire has suggested that the extracted tooth could be encased in gold filigree and encased in a crystal box to become the church’s first reliquary, but I would have to pay for it.

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