Being Friday the Eighteenth of February, 2016 ...

Being also a near-anniversary.
(Ken knows the precise date.)
Yes, the City Folk Folk, having survived such challenges as hypothermia, potential flooding, near-conflagration, interpersonal abuse, toys being thrown out of prams, long words like 'discombobulation' and several other minor tribulations ...

We're twelve years old!

... and we're still friends.

Importantly, the music has just kept on getting better and better.

Did we celebrate?

Well, not particularly.

All we needed to do was get on, under Paul's benign direction, with what we do to the best of our ability.

Paul rocked his soul in the bosom of a patriarch ...

"Do not lay a hand on the boy,” he said.
“Do not do anything to him ... "
It's this way to Birmingham.

Angela considered the meaning of life in a jar ...

We're captive in ...

Elayne educated the company regarding a rustic euphemism about the song of the nightingale ...

How was it for you, sweetheart?
Did the earth move?

Then we considered the metaphor of the cuckoo's nest.

Bob's music-stand illumination was likened to some extra-terrestrial beastie ...

Mick nobly accepted an earlier challenge ...

Here's your prize, Mick ...

Cut, paste and print
it yourself!

Roger contributed to the death-count ...

Our masts and our rigging they were all shot away ...

Elayne went into remembrance mode ...

Do the angels cry like me?

Debbie sang of the months of the year so far and ...

... one more broken heart.

Dogsbody was joined in optimism about possibilities for the morrow ...

(OK, this video is archaic, but you'll get the idea.)

There followed much clambering about on chairs in order to retrieve our lighting.

Tables were cleared and returned to the cupboard.

Lights were extinguished. toilets inspected, doors locked and heating turned off.

Everybody said thank you to everybody, friendly kisses were exchanged and we departed in peace.