Drums in the snooker room.

Wandering again in the root cellar of Saint Feasance's hospital. My slippers were not made for such excursions. My breath is grey and visible; my dressing gown no longer proof against the increeping damp-cold. I chanced upon a kettle, several galleries back, but as yet have found no tap from which to fill it, nor gas ring upon which to set it a-boiling. Also and alas, a quick dip into my pockets yields up the knowledge that I have forgotten to bring my usual spoonsful of tea, habitually kept safe in a re-used envelope. But not today.

Some of the tools observed covered in dust in certain of these lower galleries reveal that Saint Feasance's was once a hospital that admitted ladies as well as gentlemen.

Which starts me thinking that the other patient I've been hearing crashing around the premises in the small hours might not be a chap at all.

Certainly, whoever it is, it's safe to venture that they seem to attain a certain consummation from breaking things.