Slate roof tiles provide a platform for today's pigeon which flies into my ken as pigeons inevitably do.
Wake today to the thought that milk delivered to the front door is now almost if not completely a thing of the past. Most of my life there have always been milkmen. When I stayed with my grandparents in London I remember one with a horse and cart. I can almost hear its hooves on the tarmac as it trots past. "What I asked my mother is that?" as the milkman fastened a bag over the horse's mouth. "The horse is feeding" I was told. Now we and nearly everyone I know buy milk from supermarkets or convenience stores. Though I gather that in country districts milk is still delivered to the door. As someone who only takes milk in tea and occasionally uses it as a cooking ingredient, I can't say I care much about the change of custom. Perhaps others, if they are old enough, are more nostalgic.
Low slung basset hounds, with their melancholy faces and long, floppy ears almost brushing the ground, are scarcer than they used to be. Today we see two. One of the them sits down beside a man on the stepped curb at the bottom of The High Street. In this position, the dog sitting upright, the man seems only a little taller than the dog. He tickles the basset under its chin. If ever a basset hound looked cheerful this one does. Cheerful and rather proud.
1 comment:
There used to be a basset who lived at a bar in Lamballe and was a familiar figure about the main square. He was called Napoleon and at the command 'Fait le beau!' would sit up and beg. They are rather short-lived, as well as short-legged, dogs, sadly.
Post a Comment