Choir practice

You stroll over to the chapel, whence you can hear the clarion tones of the choir before you even open the heavy door to the transept. The building is one of the oldest in the college, built to last and it takes both hands to swing even the wicket wide enough to gain entrance. The sound of two dozen choirgirls envelops you and is undisturbed by the resonant thud when the door slams shut behind you. The place isn't packed, but there are a few students and staff scattered around, together with a fair number of visitors from outside the university, mostly tourists, some relatives of the performers.

This is just a rehearsal, so instead of the demure white overdresses worn on special occasions, the girls are in their usual clothes, dresses and tops hiked up to just under their breasts so that the choirmaster can whip their bellies when required. You cast your eye over the choristers, every one of them lovely, of course, while you find an empty pew, finally focussing on the blonde Palme twins, whose ethereal beauty makes them well worth looking at wherever they are. One thing that always strikes you about the choir is how joyful its members seem to be when singing, even when old Bernie flicks his lash at them.

You drag your eyes away from the twins' flawless hourglass figures to glance at some of the listeners. Loredana Santi, the redheaded vocal coach, stands beside Bernie, gesturing emotively with hand signals that only make sense to the musically trained. Mr. and Mrs. Duffy, proud parents, are here, along with their elder daughter, a former student (although not one of yours). Finally, you notice a pair of outstandingly attractive Asian tourists who appear to be a couple from the way the older (who has no personal implement) has her arm around the younger (who carries a narrow black paddle).

The music's not the main reason you're here and as soon as the hymn comes to an end, you're on your feet, making your way towards your target for the morning.