It’s one of those lazy, hazy, quiet afternoons. Daniel and Emma find themselves enjoying the soft air and the barely perceptible gurgle of the stream as it winds its way ever so slowly between the many stones of the riverbed.

“You know,” Emma says, after a long quiet spell, “these stones make me think of your potatoes. Except this flat one. I think this is the only unpotato stone around for miles.”

“Lucky us,” says Daniel.

“Yes,” agrees Emma. “I guess the stones, the round ones, also remind me of your balls.”

“Balls of stone,” Daniel says.