Timshel's plans begin with what he ominously terms a 'fondling circle,' wherein each company member administers a shoulder rub to the person before them and receives one from the person behind. The exercise is more pleasant than the label, especially given that you happen to stand next to the dark-haired dancer Moargen who clearly has more proficiency than you in fondling and being fondled.
The rest of the day's activities are more cryptic: navigating a partner around while blindfolded with one of Timshel's threadbare handkerchiefs; falling backwards towards the assembled group and trusting you'll be caught; pretending to toss and catch an imaginary ball of force from across the room.
"Breathe from your bladders," Timshel shouts merrily during the exercise. "Grunt with all your might each time the ball changes hands!"
The exercises grow tedious as the hours wear on, and the old guard—Millicent, Gilbert, and Joan—are particularly disengaged. Timshel seems oblivious to the prevailing sentiment, which baffles you. How can a fool survive without learning to read a room?
Onward