So there I was, you see, strumming my piano as if I were calming the punters in a sleazy nightclub (the last time I was in such a place was many, many years ago in Bath, when, as I recall, several of us ended up in a hedge halfway up Landsdown Hill, so the less said about that the better), when suddenly I found myself surrounded by young admirers who generously informed me that they thought it was the radio. Oh well, there's hope yet, then.

Panda Rescue came into its own tonight, with a tricky situation to deal with down the side of a bunk, but you'll be pleased to know that we didn't, in the end, have to call for helicopter assistance and that all the experience that the team had gained in the teddy rescue of two weeks ago proved to be invaluable. I pointed out the appropriateness of my initials being PRC, which some understood. (Panda Rescue Company, lest you, too, should be struggling. Better than People's Republic of China, which was the moniker (is that the right word?) that was bestowed upon me by no less a figure than Richard Curtis, when I told his brother, Jamie, that his initials, which are JCRC, could be read as Junior Common Room Curtis.)

Shoe-cleaning took place tonight, which was tackled with the customary diligence and a singalong with Miss Alex's radio, which was anything but tuneful. There were five lucky winners, who had given their footwear a decent shining, and each received an edible prize. I feel puns coming on, but it's a bit late to make up silly sentences about sole winners, or lacey boys.

Jaffa Cakes rounded off the evening, and silent reading came and went, well, silently. And now they're all asleep, after a very enjoyable time.

All is well.

Goodnight.