Our Conventional Amusements

But there were also slightly more conventional amusements. Wednesday was set aside for a picnic to Ship Cove with a Ashing expedition for those so inclined, followed by a fancy dress dance. Few of us will quickly forget the glimpse we caught of Mr. Braybrooke clad only in a bath towel, a sponge-bag and a distraught look capering through the hall crying "Eureka! Eureka!" or of Mr. Carrad as a most composed Communist-under-the-bed or yet the wet trail of a shivering Sheila Ryburn lugubriously explaining that she was "just a wet blanket." There were, of course, quite a few members of the "special branch" represented at this gathering all seeking the blood, or at least particulars as to occupation, political affiliation, name of third paternal great aunt, etc., of Dr. J. C. Beaglehole, whose careful and revealing summary earlier in the week of the state of our civil liberties had brought them all out in their true colours. At about midnight all—or nearly all—repaired to the beach where Alex Young and a party of Colombo plan students from Malaya had organised a fish-fry to beat all fish-fries and there, comfortable between two bonfires we ate and were thankful. And then to cap it all, Fred, the launch owner. In cahoots with Ross McRostie (for once sans yoyo suggested a moonlight cruise—what more could one desire!