Well, my Friends, this is it. This and only this is the 500th bloglog - and I promised you something different, and so, read on - and see!

There I was, you see, standing behind the stumps on the Game 6 pitch, watching fielders on the boundary racing towards the ball. One member of the game retrieved it, and threw it, very, very hard, to the bowler's end. It was a pretty accurate throw, too, but there was just the one problem. Instead of hitting the top of the stumps, it crashed into your correspondent's ankle, making a horrid cracking sound as it did so, and causing pain the like of which I haven't experienced for many a year.

Stupidly, probably, I walked back after the game and tried to teach an English lesson. That lasted ten minutes, after which I excused myself and went up to Hobsons, where, I am told, I looked 'grey'. Sister was wonderful, of course, but I couldn't link up with Mrs C for a while, as she was teaching, and couldn't escape. So Mr Ives was called, who was brilliant. He sped me to the JR for an X-ray and remained there until such time as I was given clearance to return home; then chauffered me home again, where I was able to recuperate with a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio, along with Mrs Ives, who had been equally wonderful, The HM, who had heard of my misfortune and espied me a-boozing as he walked towards Beech House, and Mrs C, who strode purposefully towards Mayfield upon seeing that I had returned safely.

So now I'm supposed to be 'off school' for 48 hours, with my leg up and covered with ice, or some such. Yeah, right. Ok, yes, I'll be careful: I know that there are mummies reading this. No, I will. I promise.

And I'm indebted to Mr Ives for suggesting that I should inform the world of the 500th bloglog by saying that I celebrated by getting plastered. (In fact I didn't and I'm not, but it was a very clever line, I thought.) He also said that if I was going to end the blog, then I should make a clean break.

I still can't believe that this is the 500th entry, but it really, really is. Make no bones about it. Sorry; can't help these puns: it's my Achilles' heel. (OK, yes, that one was Dr Harskin's.) Mrs C said she was going to make one, too, but she couldn't think of it. I encouraged her by saying, 'Oh come on, it's on the tibia tongue'.

That's it, folks. Thanks for reading - and do buy the book. It'll give me a leg up.

Over and out. Goodnight, one and all.

First of all, there's encouraging news about Mrs C's mama. She's made good progress, and has been moved to what seems to us to be more of a physiotherapy unit at a hospital in Shepton Mallett, from where she spoke to her daughter tonight on the 'phone and seemed in very good spirits. That particular clan are made of stern stuff, as you may already realise (!) and I doubt whether the Matriarch is going to be beaten by some 'silly stroke'!

I knew there was something else I wanted to tell you in the last bloglog. I was playing the piano as the LMs came across, and one of them wandered in, saying, 'Please carry on, sir: that's really beautiful.' Of course, I was deeply flattered by such a gracious compliment, and I thought you might like to know the name of the piece. It's really an organ piece, by Thoedore Dubois, and it's called 'Cantilene Religieuse'. There are several versions of it on YouTube.

The Boys' Garden has at last been declared open, and the table tennis table was in constant use tonight! They seem to love it - although whether Mr and Mrs Bryan, who live in the house on the other side of the hedge appreciate the racket is a moot point. (Funny word, moot. Have you noticed that Google are informing us that it's Robert Moog's birthday today? He of the Moopg synthesiser, so ubiquitous in the 70s and early 80s.)

Don't you just love African nights? Kenyan ones, especially. I say that, because last night Mrs C and I, along with Mr and Mrs Bush, were royally entertained in the lovely Front Lodge gardeny by Mr and Mrs Woodcock, who provided us with the most wonderful meal and sparkling company. It was a night to remember for many years, and just like the nights that Mrs C and I enjoyed in Kenya some years ago.

And finally, Mrs C and a Fifth Year boy managed to get into the final of the BOSFAM tennis this evening, being only narrowly beaten by Mr Woodcock and another Fifth Tear boy.

A lovely day, and a very pleasant Newtonian evening.

Goodnight.

Sorry folks, you must have been logging on incessantly and finding that this particular cupboard was yet again bare, for which many apologies. The problem has arisen from the fact that Mrs C's aged mother suffered a stroke on Friday, and so we've been a little hors de combat. She's lost the use of her right arm, unfortunately, but things look a little more promising than we thought, because her speech, which she lost for a short while, has come back, and although she's still in hospital, she's regaining some of her former indomitability already .... ! Anyway, as you can imagine, things haven't been all that easy, but my apologies for rendering you, dear Followers, blogless.

I'm delighted to tell you that all of my 'Winchesters' as I call them have been successful in gaining entry to that fine establishment! I'm delighted, of course, and so are they, so 5C was a very happy form this afternoon, as we worked our way through double Latin .... ! We still have work to do, as there are still a number of the form who have to sit CE Level 3, so it's not all dossing and drinking cups of coffee. (Not that it ever was .... )

It's funny how days go, is it not? My morning was full of niggles and irritations (not caused in any way by your LMs), but tonight all seems to have resolved itself and we've had a most enjoyable Newtonian evening, complete with shoe-cleaning and a visit from the lodgemother of the 1990s, Mrs Heinrich, who is now HM's wife at Cumnor House in Sussex. And yes, of course she was roped in to judge the competition, and made a fine job of it, too.

That's it for tonight, so with my congratulations to all my Winchesters, I will bid you all

Goodnight.

We've come a long way since September. Your LMs are growing up fast, and I say that after encountering members of Kingfisher, upon whom I stumbled tonight, while perambulating.

LM 1: Yes she is.

LM 2: Let me see if she really is.

LM 1: No she isn't.

LM 3: Well I think she is.

LM 1 (upon seeing his lodgemeister arrive): Sir, do you think she's fit?

Your humble correspondent: Er, let me see. Erm, well, um, yes, she is.

LM1 : See? I told you she was.

For those of you who may be interested, she is. And let me assure you, lest you should be alarmed, that her picture appears in a perfectly respectable magazine, and that she appears fully clad. Give it a few years, though, and things may be otherwise.

My Colts Cs were victorious once again today, with all members of the team doing their bit, splendidly led by their skipper. It was a pleasure to umpire, and  nice to see several of you, dear Followers, supporting from the sidelines.

I must tell you, though, that I was greatly amused by what was going on behind me, namely a lesson in toxopholy, with dialogue to accompany that had me almost LOL. e.g.:

Teacher i/c: So. You have to score just a few more, and then you win the match and then .......

Who was that? Who fired that arrow? Come on, who was it? Own up! (Visions of William Tell featured in my conscious thinking) Who - fired - that - arrow? Right. If no-one owns up then I shall have to tell (ho ho) the Head (Ha ha.)

Sorry, but it just seemed very amusing to me. I looked for an apple on the head of someone important-looking after the match, but to no avail.

We just had a fire practice. That extinguished any untoward excitement ......

Goodnight.

Well ( as I was always taught not to start any piece of writing), there are just one or two nerves on show tonight, pre-Eton test day. I spoke to the Newtetonians collectively and gave them the benefit of my wisdom (didn't take long) and how they could best perform tomorrow. They all listened attentively and were duly appreciative. The rest, as Elmore Leonard almost said, 'is up to them'. (He actually said, 'the rest is up to you, as the last of his 'Ten Tips for Writing', which you can find on YouTube. He makes an interesting point about the verb 'said', by the way, completely contradicting what most of us learnt about using more imaginative verbs.)

It was black shoe cleaning tonight, and there were four worthy winners, one of whom raced to the phone after having won, and then raced back to his lodgeparents, conveying his papa's delight at such comforting news .... !

That's just about it, really, for tonight. Busy day for many tomorrow, so I'll bid you goodnight for now and be back on Wednesday night,

By the way, this is post number 496!

Goodnight.

Today, dear Friends and global Followers, Mrs C and I have made a giant step into the 20th century. (The 21st is some way off yet.) We, no doubt like most of you, are now BlackBerry owners, capable of all manner of trendy stuff (like making references to 'trendy stuff'), and have been e-mailing, texting and BBM-ing our respective offspring throughout the day. All very exciting, and modern. As I type, I keep looking at my new friend, awaiting its little red light to flash again ... ! It's new toy syndrome, of course, and I'll be fed up with the thing in a week's time, but for now, well, I'm enjoying my new found skills.

You'd think, would you not, that there might be sufficient wildlife in Newton, but all the LMs wanted to enhance their understanding of such things by watching what the BBC euphemstically calls 'Planet Live'. (Live? I don't think so.) Still, despite what others think, as reported in the Press, I think Richard Hammond's rather good at the job, although one can't help that he's more suited to Jaguars than jaguars.

Thus the following dialogue, for your enjoyment:

LM 1: Ah, that's lovely. That's incredible.

Paws. Sorry, pause.

LM 1 again: Oh! That's amazing! Wow!

Bigger paws. Pause.

LM 1 yet again: Oh! That's incredible photography!

Longer pause while felines laze around doing not much.

LM 1 again: Ahhh. How cute. I love tigers.

LM 2: They're lions.

Collapse of stout party.

I'm off to play with my new toy. Send me a message if you like.

Goodnight.

It's always rewarding when the fruits of one's labours manifest themselves. Witness, if you will, the following dialogue, rendered faithfully by members of, er, well, perhaps it would be prudent not to mention the name of the dorm.

"Sir, how many times have you been drunk?"

"Whatever kind of question is that?" (I forbore from recounting the night after A levels, when my housemaster caught us entering our own dorm via the Prefects' Room window, catching a whiff of what may have knocked him out if he and we had remained in each other's company for many more moments and said, simply and directly, 'Ah, gentlemen, nice to see you in, erm, how shall I put this, 'high - spirits''.)

"Well, I asked my parents the same question, and they said about 500 times."

One of the members of 3H, who had obviously been hanging on my every word in his English lessons recently, said 'Ha! Hyperbole!'

A wit from the other end of the dorm enjoined with 'You mean litotes!' (I have to confess that I did smile at that.)

Well, dear Friends, isn't it reassuring to know that you're getting such value for money? And as for whether it was either, I wouldn't wish to comment. All I know is that a couple of glasses of Sauvignon with Les Ives earlier this evening were very welcome, and that no, I am certainly not.

'Sir, do you mind if I call you Big Dog?'

'Well, er, yes, I'm afraid I do, rather'.

'H'm. Well how about B.D., then?' I thought quickly. I suppose that is synonymous with the degree of Bachelor of Divinity, so that wouldn't be so bad. (A qualification of which I am not possessed, by the way, although the academic hood from Oxford is quite enticing.)

Before I had a chance to express my slight concern about such a sobriquet, my coversationalist was ahead of me, telling me that as Mr Bush was called 'Daddy Bush' by all and sundry (long story), that would be  D.B., so therefore I could happily become B.D. As Anthony Buckeridge, author of the Jennings books, equipped the fiersome Mr Wilkins to opine, 'The logic of the average ten-year-old was invariably impossible to fathom'.

Anyway, whether your post-prandial intake is hyperbolic or litotical (?), I hope you, just like what's in your glass, are appropriately chilled.

Goodnight.