Today, same weather, same mother and boy, but roses . . . perhaps not a bed of, but certainly a good vase full. We talked a lot, went for a walk in a village, previously unexplored (by us), went to Carcassonne to get his phone fixed by the miserable bastards in Boeig Beoig Boueyg (however you spell it) telecom, forgot the phone, much to the only-just-hidden pleasure of the sulky 'jeune', and adjourned to the square to drink foot high fruit cocktails.
Found the boy some shoes he liked and two t-shirts that weren't black and a daft t-shirt with bluebirds on it for Mark; on our return home, the dog hadn't peed on the sofa, and the donkey birds in the garden had been replaced by two pairs of musical songsters, twittering happily in the early afternoon sunshine.