Well, bugger (which incidentally is the first word I ever uttered much to my mother's embarrassment and coincidentally will be my final word as I realise at the age of 103 that I've just flicked my cigar onto the petrol tank of my powerboat). I seem to have shot myself in the foot with my own petard, if you'll allow me to mix metaphors in order to give a sense of how much I feel I've dug my own grave. I've been attempting to get the group active, confident, enthusiastic, motivated and, believe it or not, it seems after much prodding and poking to be working (I have an almost full seminar time table until April). However, when asked "do I want to give a performance at the spring festival party?", my heart sank as I realised what I'd done. It would be ultimately hypocritical of me at this point to say "well, emmm, actually I don't really enjoy performing or being on stage much" (even though I've given four hours of seminars since I arrived), I fear I must follow my own gospel.

It's a fact, about as factually factive as facts get that I sure as hell ain't gonna sing (their first request) and I ain't gonna dance (their second - something I'm happy to do in a club but not on my own in front of 300, yes 300 physicists, students and families). I would juggle but I think that what with the Chinese being placed closely behind the Russians at being a bit nifty with the old clubs, I wouldn't impress anyone. So as far as I can think, with my clothes staying firmly on, the only thing left is to read something. My first thought which actually quite appeals is to read either Edward Lear or Lewis Carol. I think it's going to have to be The Walrus and the Carpenter or The Jabberwocky. Not sure how nonsense poetry will go down with people who have no idea what I'm saying most of the time anyway. This could go one of two ways...watch this space.