So there we were attempting to sing Adeste Fideles in a variety of tones, depending on the extent to which our voices had broken and ranging from deep baritone (broken) to grating croak (half-broken) to girly squeak (unbroken):
♫ Adeste fideles læti triumphantes
Venite, venite in Bethlehem ♫
When suddenly with a stentorian roar one of the big boys at the back burst into the chorus of The Quartermaster’s Store:
♫ My eyes are dim, I cannot see ♫
And spontaneously some of the other big boys joined in:
♫ I have not brought my specs with me ♫
By which time all the rest of us joined in, creating a sound that would have been the envy of a Welsh Male Voice Choir:
♫ I have not brought my specs with me ♫
Meanwhile, Miss Plinky-Plonk had stopped plinky-plonking and Bertie Wooster, his gown flapping around him, was rushing to the back of the hall in search of the culprit. “Which one of you shady coves is responsible?” he was demanding.