The day room had been transformed almost beyond recognition. We were all amazed to see the stage, the covered tables, the coloured bunting hanging from the ceiling. It was as if they had been preparing for this moment for years. Paper chains and streamers hung in long arcs and the lights had been turned down low. They had even managed to get rid of the old sour smell of boiled socks that had permeated the place before, bringing with it a hint of imminent death.

The audience, too, had undergone a transformation in a few short hours. Instead of the pyjamas and dressing gowns we had seen them shuffling around in earlier, the men and women who began to file in slowly as we set up our instruments appeared to have stepped from another age. The ladies wore long dresses and the men dinner suits and ties. There were pearl necklaces and fancy earrings. Some of these outfits looked rather threadbare and ill-fitting, but despite this the formal clothes brought a sense of occasion and dignity to the proceedings. 

Mr. Siegal bounced into the room, an impious figure clad in a perfectly fitted tailcoat and bow tie. An impresario, a man in his element. He was no longer barefoot, either, wearing not only socks but some very shiny shoes too.