What's to become of us?

Ages since I babbled about the local elections here, and now we have a new Mayor and completely new team. It didn't even get to the Second Round.


Of course, nothing could extract from me which candidates George and I were sticking up for, but I suspect those in charge might guess - we were the only ones to lick our envelopes and so drench them in dribble.

How were we to know they didn't have glue? Apparently the idea is simply to fold them shut with voting papers hidden inside, then the clerk shoves them rapidly inside the box. In our cases, he was particularly keen to let go.

One of the new administration's major headaches must be the sudden disappearance of the village butcher. Myriad rumours, but most likely reason is unpleasantness between him and his boss. Even more disturbing, however, are rumours of the imminent disappearance of the baker! Bread is of paramount importance in France - a mere week's holiday for the baker results in agonised gnashing of teeth and renting of garments.

I wonder how desperate they'd have to be to eat George's recent Hot Cross Bun efforts. Which, despite puzzling consistency of the Cross, are very flavoursome (make sure teeth are firmly glued).