No Good Boyo escorted myself and Arianrhod to our local commemoration of an English backyard auto-de-fé last night, at which pink-faced plumbers ate pork products as their children danced around a bonfire. It looked like any given Saturday night in the High Carpathians to me.
Boyo was intrigued to see that our neighbour's wife had broken her leg. "Does that mean you're housebound and unable to run fast?" he asked politely.
We returned home shortly afterwards for a variety of closely-linked reasons.
Boyo sought to comfort me with an offer to have the choice moments of my web blog published in book form. "The postcard format is making a comeback," he explained.
I laughed until he'd stopped crying.