Games night, accompanied by hot choc and the usual assortment of bics, all accompanied by the mellifluous strains of Radio Something-or-Other in the clubhouse was tonight's happy formula for a pleasant evening. Miss Chloe positioned herself in the middle of the Uno area, Mrs C was stationed in the laundry room, as chief dispenser of hot choc (and managed to ensure that there were no sneaky moves to obtain illicit fattening items on the part of the Lodgemeister), and I strode imperiously around my empire, speaking with my subjects on matters of varying non-importance. Such is the high-octane life in the fast lane of lodgemastering. (And in case you're wondering, I still reckon that I can whizz up the Newton stairs more quickly than any of the inmates - even at 58.) (I suppose I shall have to prove it now.)

Silent reading arrived punctually (it tends to do that) and in no time at all the pre-silent-reading ablutions had been executed and everyone was, well, reading silently. But wait! What was that that I espied, lurking suspiciously a the foot of a Heronian (bunk) bed? A rucksack! Now, dear Followers, a rucksack may look like nothing to you, but to an experienced lodgemaster it means one thing: illegals.

"Go on then, sir. I don't mind if you search it. Go on."

Aha! Not so clever as you think, young man! I've been here before you know! Double bluffs won't wash with me! Oh no! I searched the bag in a manner that any airport security officer would have envied. A book.

"Ah, but sir, how do you know that's really a book? It could just be hollow inside, and that's where the illegal sweets might be!" Triple bluff! Clever, this one. I opened the pages: it was indeed a book.

I rummaged through the rest of the bag, in a manner akin to Basil Fawlty discovering that what was under the silver salver's lid was anything but duck -

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Gute nacht. (A rather nice song by Schumann. You may know it. Oh come one, you must allow me just a moment of erudition.)