It is Christmas Day in the house of Hastings. The time (the 1830s), the place (a suburban Victorian home), and the atmosphere (after the pudding with the children waiting to be entertained) are ripe for father to stun his audience with his knowledge of the world of natural philosophy. It is a world of exploding biscuit tins, unpredictable hard-boiled eggs, singing drainpipes, and enough amateur science to make young enthusiasts reach for their bunsen burners, and mothers for their smelling salts.
