French bulldog portrait with bow tie on wrist

You will not believe what came up the path on Tuesday. Mrs Haverstock marched through the kitchen garden with that French bulldog under one arm, the little fawn one with ears like wing mirrors, and announced that Mr Biscuit would be judging the summer show. I said nothing. One does not argue with a woman holding a dog in a teal bow tie, not before elevenses.

Biscuit, I should say, has opinions. He sat on the potting bench for an hour and watched me repot the geraniums with those great wet eyes, as if I were a cake that had been left out. When I bent to tie in the sweet peas he snorted, and I swear the leaves of the sprigs round his frame shivered, though there was no wind.

The show was on the Saturday. He wandered the trestle tables with his bow tie askew, stopped in front of Dorothy Pell's runner beans, and sat down. Dorothy has not spoken to Mrs Haverstock since. The rosettes went exactly where the dog's bottom had been, which is to say, nowhere near the marrows.

I found him after, asleep in the cold frame among the lettuces, one paw over his nose. The bow tie had come undone. I did not have the heart to tie it again.

Love to Ted and the girls, Albert