The return of Dr Biswell, a man with a sharp eye for detail, has revealed to us that one of two young women who were with us last week was evidently not one to take an insult lying down — it was suggested to her that she might care to help with the washing-up, a suggestion which was greeted as contravening the spirit of the Hague Convention on Human Rights, or thereabouts. But she did, anyway, due to the brutal oppressiveness of the household: the evening’s discovery was that the Professor’s godmother’s fish-slice (an item of some historical significance, it having belonged to Huskisson, briefly Prime Minister, and the first man to have been killed by a railway train) had been posted down the back of the dining room radiator — the tip was just visible. And a stout item of early Victorian silver cannot be finagled out, due to aforementioned stoutness. What! we said. We have three PhDs between us. Are we to be defeated by a mere puling miss with Issues? It took the best part of half an hour, a hooky thing made of wire, the blind cord, and a piece of bamboo but between us, we got it out. Bah, we say to the Teenage World. You may think you are something, but we are still cleverer than you are.