It was the shoe polish, I'm sure. Yes, that's what it was. Tonight, as you will already have gathered, no doubt, it was shoe-cleaning night, with the weekly competition being judged by your faithful correspondent. The troops seemed particularly lively, so I strolled purposefully towards the laundry room, wherein the aforementioned cleaning was taking place. Of course, it doesn't take much for 11-year-old boys to determine innuendo in something, especially when they're quite bubbly, so as parents you can no doubt imagine the kind of giggly dialogue that accompanied the brushing and polishing. All rather silly, and as always happens in this kind of situation, and as all of our own parents assured us, in the clairvoyant manner, it would all end in tears.

So I conclude that it was the shoe polish. After all, it can't have been the fruit, or the Quality Streets, the latter of which I managed to secrete a couple past the eagle eyes of Mrs C. That last sentence doesn't read very well, does it. Trouble is, I'm suffering from eye strain at the moment, and it's pretty uncomfortable, you see. It's something that has lingered on periodically since my traumatic eye dramas (retinal detachments, twice and seriously) that happened all those years ago in the mid 90s.

Anyway, the LMs are all tucked up and silent, and they've all calmed down now, after I barked a bit, so I will leave it there for tonight, and wish you a calm goodnight.