Standing in the main square of Avignon admiring the grand municipal buildings, Grumpy commented: "Have you noticed how every place we've been in has a Hotel de Ville?"
There were so many places I could go with this. I wanted to say, "Yeah, and they're all in the best old buildings and right in the middle of town. Must be quite a chain. Surely they're owned by Sheraton or Hilton or something."
I have an Uncle Garth who used to race at Bathurst. I said to Grumpy once, in jest and assuming he realised as much, "Of course, you do know that Garth Tander was named after Uncle Garth." It wasn't until several years later that this came up again and Grumpy was aghast to learn it had all been a joke: every time he'd been at a gathering with his mates and there was mention of Garth Tander he'd noted the family link.
So in Avignon I simply gave his arm an affectionate pat and explained what a Hotel de Ville was. Then we had an ice cream, which heals all wounds much, much faster than mere time ever could.