When I lived in France, all those years ago, my syntactically minded flatmate and I stole a garden gnome from someone’s front yard as we ran for the last metro. We named him Chomsky. The joke didn’t really translate into French.
We took him everywhere with us: restaurants, nightclubs, concerts. It was a great conversation starter. Though, as I said, no-one really understood his name.

I miss Chomsky. He had a fishing rod and when we were really drunk, friends used to attach bits of sangria soaked fruit to it and try and cast them into each other’s mouths. That’s what a university education will get you these days.

I wonder where he is now. Poor old Chommers.