When Dorothée was seven months old, we took her on her first holiday to the Limousin. On the way, we stopped at La Guerche de Bretagne to buy bread for a picnic. We ate this by the shore at the local lake, and it was delicious. But in the evening, when we arrived at our cottage, my wife said. 'Where's the push-chair?' Looking back, we realised we hadn't had it since La Guerche. 'And', she added, 'my purse was in the basket on the back'.
The next morning we found a telephone, asked Directory Enquiries for the number of the Town Hall in La Guerche, and the Secretary gave us the number of the bakery. 'Oh yes', said the baker's wife, 'the push-chair was there all day. We wondered whose it was. When we closed, we took it in. It's waiting for you in our garage.'
A week later, we called in at the bakery on our way home. The push-chair was there. So was the purse. So were the contents of the purse. Nobody was in the least surprised.
