In case you're reading this in the New Year, have a happy one. And I hope Christmas was all you hoped it would be, too.
I seem to be enjoying quite a literary Christmas, accompanied by much organ playing and music appreciation. I say literary because I'm reading John Bailey's remarakable account of Iris Murdoch. I'd love to say, honestly, that I was re-reading it, but I admit that I never read it, nor did I ever see the film. His beautiful, flowing use of our language is incomparable, other than by his late wife, of course, and his touching description of their intellectual, unusual, yet simultaneously simple marriage is remarkable in so many ways.
My holiday project of delving constantly into the works of Thomas Hardy has brought more interesting results, and I couldn't help but think, while on a walk in the beautiful Dorset countryside the other day of his magical poem 'The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House' in which he describes a deer looking into the window of a cottage in deepest rural Dorset, where the inhabitants of the cottage are sitting by the fire in the snow, unaware that they are being observed. I know who wrote it, but who was the narrator? I often ponder that.
And then that made me think of Louis MacNiece's brilliant poem 'Snow', in which he manages to explain the shortest period of time in which something wonderful happened.
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural.
I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
Don't you love that? I do.
Monday 28 December 2009
Wednesday 23 December 2009
There's no snow here in West Dorset, nor, according to our daughter Hannah, who's in Oxford, is there any up there, either. Nor is there any in Tokyo, or so Tom tells us, via Skype. So we believe that all the footage currently being shown on national telly is from the archives. Icy, though, and it's quite fun doing a Clarkson - when it's safe to do so! (Much to Mrs C's chagrin!) No biking, though: I'm not entirely mad. (Whatever your young may think.)
Anyway, if you're at a bit of a loose end and, for whatever reason, have blog-logged, I hope you're having a wonderful time, as we are - even in our snowless state. The Matriarch is due to arrive tomorrow, coming by 4x4 (someone's driving her: she doesn't own one), so that should be, er, fun. I hope the kitchen won't catch fire this year, as it did two years ago, and I hope that I don't get bogged down by theological 'discussion' to such an extent that I ended up writing to the Telegraph about it. I hope, too, that I shan't have any cause to cover my hysterics at her malapropical pronunciations! Last year, when discussing savage dogs and the fact that they are, in her view, all a menace to society, I dared to venture that if they're looked after properly, they're as placid as a Newtonian watching Songs of Praise waiting for sweet rations. She didn't think much of THAT!
"Well, would YOU like to own a Rotor Weller?" she demanded.
Here's our Christmas letter. Yes, I know most of you think they're ghastly things, but we're all family together. So enjoy. Have a great time and much love from us both. P and D.
NEWTON LODGE MAYFIELD ROAD OXFORD OX2 7EN
Telephone: 01865 459246 E-mail: prc@summerfields.com
Dear Friends
Another year has come and gone and much has happened. We are still very happy here at Summer Fields, where we are in our sixteenth year, and very pleased that we decided to return to houseparenting after our (much-enjoyed) ‘sabbatical’. We are privileged to live in a very fine four-bedroomed house in North Oxford, surrounded during term time by 27 ten and eleven year old boys, all of whom are very agreeable and appreciative. With just two more years until retirement, we can’t think of a nicer place to be.
The Cheater family members are all well and thriving. Hannah has had a momentous year, in which she worked for six months as a gap-student teacher at St Cyprian’s School in Cape Town. She had a truly amazing time, based at the foot of Table Mountain, and now she has just completed her first term at Bristol UWE, where she’s studying for a B.A. degree in Early Childhood Studies and Linguistics. She has enjoyed it all tremendously and has made many new friends and joined numerous extra-curricular activities.
Tom is currently in Japan for seven months, having arrived there last week. It was horrid saying goodbye to him at Heathrow, but any distress was somewhat alleviated by the fact that he discovered, when booking in, that he had been upgraded to Business Class – free of charge! He is, of course, delighted to be reunited with his Japanese girlfriend, Risa, and, to judge from the Skype conversations that we have had with him, although he was rather jet-lagged to begin with, he is greatly enjoying his time there. He left Monkton with sufficiently good A levels to gain a place at London University’s School of African and Oriental Studies, to read for a B.A. degree in Japanese, starting in September.
Alice left Monkton at the end of last year, having gained a perfectly respectable clutch of GCSEs and has returned to her previous school, Rye St Anthony, here in Oxford. She has adapted remarkably well and, after an initial period of missing her Bath friends greatly, is now very content with her lot – especially as she now has free weekends!
Paul is still the school’s ‘Senior Master’, teaching English and French and being the School Organist. His research fellow status was raised to that of ‘Adjunct Research Fellow’ at Monash University in Melbourne, and he continues to be heavily involved with the development of the Afghanistan National Institute of Music, of which he is now a member of the Governing Council. He may be visiting Kabul in the not too distant future, to organise and lead a training course for a number of music examiners. He was very fortunate to have visited New York once again in April last year, and he will be back there again this year, too.
Diana continues as wife, mother, house mother, head of department, chief dog-walker and head of logistics for the Cheater family! Any one of those would appear to be a full-time occupation, so quite how she manages to execute all of them and never drop one of the spinning plates is a constant mystery!
Diana’s mother, now 88, is as incorrigible as ever and, although not as mobile as in days of yore, when a ten-mile hike was de rigueur for any Corner House visitor (and I should know!), she’s still very sharp, still driving, still playing Bridge and still making her own bread!
We all enjoyed a lovely occasion to celebrate Paul’s mother’s 90th birthday in April: all the various family members were together and she gave a truly wonderful speech, made all the more remarkable that she has very limited sight now, which meant that she had to speak without a note in front of her.
As for the animals, Isla, our black lab, is now two years old and very affectionate, and Jasmine, our ancient tabby of indeterminate provenance, is now very old indeed, but remains adorable.
And that, dear friends, should bring you all up to date with Cheater family news. Diana and I know that we are very fortunate and we count our blessings regularly. We wish you a very happy Christmas and a joyful and peaceful New Year.
With love from Paul, Diana, Hannah, Tom and Alice. (And Isla and Jasmine, of course.)
Anyway, if you're at a bit of a loose end and, for whatever reason, have blog-logged, I hope you're having a wonderful time, as we are - even in our snowless state. The Matriarch is due to arrive tomorrow, coming by 4x4 (someone's driving her: she doesn't own one), so that should be, er, fun. I hope the kitchen won't catch fire this year, as it did two years ago, and I hope that I don't get bogged down by theological 'discussion' to such an extent that I ended up writing to the Telegraph about it. I hope, too, that I shan't have any cause to cover my hysterics at her malapropical pronunciations! Last year, when discussing savage dogs and the fact that they are, in her view, all a menace to society, I dared to venture that if they're looked after properly, they're as placid as a Newtonian watching Songs of Praise waiting for sweet rations. She didn't think much of THAT!
"Well, would YOU like to own a Rotor Weller?" she demanded.
Here's our Christmas letter. Yes, I know most of you think they're ghastly things, but we're all family together. So enjoy. Have a great time and much love from us both. P and D.
NEWTON LODGE MAYFIELD ROAD OXFORD OX2 7EN
Telephone: 01865 459246 E-mail: prc@summerfields.com
Dear Friends
Another year has come and gone and much has happened. We are still very happy here at Summer Fields, where we are in our sixteenth year, and very pleased that we decided to return to houseparenting after our (much-enjoyed) ‘sabbatical’. We are privileged to live in a very fine four-bedroomed house in North Oxford, surrounded during term time by 27 ten and eleven year old boys, all of whom are very agreeable and appreciative. With just two more years until retirement, we can’t think of a nicer place to be.
The Cheater family members are all well and thriving. Hannah has had a momentous year, in which she worked for six months as a gap-student teacher at St Cyprian’s School in Cape Town. She had a truly amazing time, based at the foot of Table Mountain, and now she has just completed her first term at Bristol UWE, where she’s studying for a B.A. degree in Early Childhood Studies and Linguistics. She has enjoyed it all tremendously and has made many new friends and joined numerous extra-curricular activities.
Tom is currently in Japan for seven months, having arrived there last week. It was horrid saying goodbye to him at Heathrow, but any distress was somewhat alleviated by the fact that he discovered, when booking in, that he had been upgraded to Business Class – free of charge! He is, of course, delighted to be reunited with his Japanese girlfriend, Risa, and, to judge from the Skype conversations that we have had with him, although he was rather jet-lagged to begin with, he is greatly enjoying his time there. He left Monkton with sufficiently good A levels to gain a place at London University’s School of African and Oriental Studies, to read for a B.A. degree in Japanese, starting in September.
Alice left Monkton at the end of last year, having gained a perfectly respectable clutch of GCSEs and has returned to her previous school, Rye St Anthony, here in Oxford. She has adapted remarkably well and, after an initial period of missing her Bath friends greatly, is now very content with her lot – especially as she now has free weekends!
Paul is still the school’s ‘Senior Master’, teaching English and French and being the School Organist. His research fellow status was raised to that of ‘Adjunct Research Fellow’ at Monash University in Melbourne, and he continues to be heavily involved with the development of the Afghanistan National Institute of Music, of which he is now a member of the Governing Council. He may be visiting Kabul in the not too distant future, to organise and lead a training course for a number of music examiners. He was very fortunate to have visited New York once again in April last year, and he will be back there again this year, too.
Diana continues as wife, mother, house mother, head of department, chief dog-walker and head of logistics for the Cheater family! Any one of those would appear to be a full-time occupation, so quite how she manages to execute all of them and never drop one of the spinning plates is a constant mystery!
Diana’s mother, now 88, is as incorrigible as ever and, although not as mobile as in days of yore, when a ten-mile hike was de rigueur for any Corner House visitor (and I should know!), she’s still very sharp, still driving, still playing Bridge and still making her own bread!
We all enjoyed a lovely occasion to celebrate Paul’s mother’s 90th birthday in April: all the various family members were together and she gave a truly wonderful speech, made all the more remarkable that she has very limited sight now, which meant that she had to speak without a note in front of her.
As for the animals, Isla, our black lab, is now two years old and very affectionate, and Jasmine, our ancient tabby of indeterminate provenance, is now very old indeed, but remains adorable.
And that, dear friends, should bring you all up to date with Cheater family news. Diana and I know that we are very fortunate and we count our blessings regularly. We wish you a very happy Christmas and a joyful and peaceful New Year.
With love from Paul, Diana, Hannah, Tom and Alice. (And Isla and Jasmine, of course.)
Saturday 19 December 2009
WITH EVERY GOOD WISH FOR A REALLY GOOD CHRISTMAS AND A GREAT NEW YEAR.
D and I felt greatly humbled by your kind gifts and generous words: we love looking after your Little Men and it's great to know that they enjoy their Newton days as much as we do. We'll be writing 'proper' thank you letters, of course.
Thank you, everyone, for following the Newton blog each day - and I'll be back in January. (Unless I'm inspired to write something during the festive season itself. Mother-in-law might feature if I do ...... )
Tuesday 15 December 2009
I know it sounds unlikely, but, 'twixt form tidying, choir practices, practsing the organ for tomorrow, handwriting competitions, 'treasures' (don't ask) and changing room clearance, a 'window' has actually appeared. That probably means nothing more than that I have missed something on a notice somewhere, and I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time. If that should be the case, then I will simply upload whatever I've churned out.
I thought I'd just tell you a little more about the lodge party. We started by having a lodge meeting, which, to the Newtonians, means only one thing: Sir's cross. He pretended to be, of course, just to get people into the spirit of the evening, you understand, and then announced that there was to be a party in lodge. And we think the boys are perverse! Fortuitously (although you might not think so) for us, X Factor's Got Dancing Talent or whatever it's called was on, which meant the final of that could run 'concurrently'. (Such a great word.)
Thus, we divided the lodge members up into three groups and had ten minutes of a game in three different venues. Pictionary, the Chocolate Game (you know, the one where they have to put hat and gloves on and consume a bar of Dairy Milk) and charades all came into their own, and everyone seemed to enjoy them. Each group had a go at each game, of course.
X Factorisation occurred, while the staff prepared the eating and drinking part of the evening. Don't worry, there was nothing alcoholic - apart from the fizz in the adults' glasses. The boys were coaxed away from the screen and came to consume.
The evening concluded with immense cheering of Joe, followed by community carol singing in our drawing room. It was all very pleasant indeed and all over too quickly.
And now, sure enough, I have to go. See you tomorrow.
I thought I'd just tell you a little more about the lodge party. We started by having a lodge meeting, which, to the Newtonians, means only one thing: Sir's cross. He pretended to be, of course, just to get people into the spirit of the evening, you understand, and then announced that there was to be a party in lodge. And we think the boys are perverse! Fortuitously (although you might not think so) for us, X Factor's Got Dancing Talent or whatever it's called was on, which meant the final of that could run 'concurrently'. (Such a great word.)
Thus, we divided the lodge members up into three groups and had ten minutes of a game in three different venues. Pictionary, the Chocolate Game (you know, the one where they have to put hat and gloves on and consume a bar of Dairy Milk) and charades all came into their own, and everyone seemed to enjoy them. Each group had a go at each game, of course.
X Factorisation occurred, while the staff prepared the eating and drinking part of the evening. Don't worry, there was nothing alcoholic - apart from the fizz in the adults' glasses. The boys were coaxed away from the screen and came to consume.
The evening concluded with immense cheering of Joe, followed by community carol singing in our drawing room. It was all very pleasant indeed and all over too quickly.
And now, sure enough, I have to go. See you tomorrow.
Monday 14 December 2009
I am so sorry, dear readers. Things are so manic, in this extraordinary mixture of fun, frivolity and lid-keeping that I didn't have a chance to write an entry yesterday. But it was a great day, culminating in the unique Summerfieldian game of Bombers and Fighters (which, true to SF ways, has absolutely nothing to do with bombers or fighters), followed by a surprise staff entertainment in Macmillan for the school - after they'd been told that it had been cancelled - followed by the Newton lodge party. Great fun and all went really well. You would have been impressed by all of your litle men and the way in which they all expressed their gratitude after the event!
Because of the League Feast tonight, the residents have all come across early, so I must go. I thought I had ten minutes to write this: sure enough, I haven't.
I'll try and write again tomorrow.
No promises.
Because of the League Feast tonight, the residents have all come across early, so I must go. I thought I had ten minutes to write this: sure enough, I haven't.
I'll try and write again tomorrow.
No promises.
Saturday 12 December 2009
I just have to tell you this!
You see, because we're at 'that' stage of term now, with feelings running pretty high, I became (almost) embroiled in an altercation with a colleague. Professionalism kicked in, of course, as you'd expect in a quality place like this. I was so irritated, though, that I composed a fairly acid e-mail to my adversary, but, just as I was about to click on 'Send', I thought better of it. Instead, because I wanted someone, at least, to be aware of my irritation, I wrote in the subject-line, 'Failed Exocet', and sent it to Our Leader, simply to make him aware of the 'situation'. Honestly, we're worse than the boys when it comes to immaturity, sometimes. Anyway, he kindly replied, with the words 'Don't worry, I have my Rapier Missile Interceptor at the ready'.
Stupidly, I had left the screen in my form room on 'Computer 1', which meant that any e-mailed messages (or anything else) could be seen by anyone! Well, you can imagine, can't you. Members of 3S, having been made aware of the aforementioned cyberspatial dialogue, are now utterly convinced that Mr BT and I are hatching a plan to take over the world. I have not disabused them of this notion - and now you know what he'll be doing after he leaves. Not a word.
Friday nights are non-TV nights - in fact the only ones that are are Wednesdays and Saturdays - but they are Radio nights. There's a pretty good 'hi-fi' system in the common room, and upon entering the room, I came across a Newtonian 'trying to find a decent station'. I told him to leave it to me, and whizzed the dial (see how old I really am?) down to Radio 1 and turned the volume up 'considerably'. Well, (a) the station-seeker was amazed that a geriatric should have even heard of Radio 1, and (b) that he should have the nerve to turn the volume up that far, when he knew (but I didn't) that You-Know-Who was only metres away.
"Er - who turned the radio up that far?" came the stentorian tones from the lower corridor. Now, I've been in that situation before: remember the chocolate and the dog? - but, tempting though it was to stride out of the common via the main entrance and leave my admirers in the lurch, such a lack of integrity was not required. And anyway, how could I?
"Mr Cheater did, Mrs Cheater."
I think I'm going to change my name to Basil. As I said, worse than the boys.
You see, because we're at 'that' stage of term now, with feelings running pretty high, I became (almost) embroiled in an altercation with a colleague. Professionalism kicked in, of course, as you'd expect in a quality place like this. I was so irritated, though, that I composed a fairly acid e-mail to my adversary, but, just as I was about to click on 'Send', I thought better of it. Instead, because I wanted someone, at least, to be aware of my irritation, I wrote in the subject-line, 'Failed Exocet', and sent it to Our Leader, simply to make him aware of the 'situation'. Honestly, we're worse than the boys when it comes to immaturity, sometimes. Anyway, he kindly replied, with the words 'Don't worry, I have my Rapier Missile Interceptor at the ready'.
Stupidly, I had left the screen in my form room on 'Computer 1', which meant that any e-mailed messages (or anything else) could be seen by anyone! Well, you can imagine, can't you. Members of 3S, having been made aware of the aforementioned cyberspatial dialogue, are now utterly convinced that Mr BT and I are hatching a plan to take over the world. I have not disabused them of this notion - and now you know what he'll be doing after he leaves. Not a word.
Friday nights are non-TV nights - in fact the only ones that are are Wednesdays and Saturdays - but they are Radio nights. There's a pretty good 'hi-fi' system in the common room, and upon entering the room, I came across a Newtonian 'trying to find a decent station'. I told him to leave it to me, and whizzed the dial (see how old I really am?) down to Radio 1 and turned the volume up 'considerably'. Well, (a) the station-seeker was amazed that a geriatric should have even heard of Radio 1, and (b) that he should have the nerve to turn the volume up that far, when he knew (but I didn't) that You-Know-Who was only metres away.
"Er - who turned the radio up that far?" came the stentorian tones from the lower corridor. Now, I've been in that situation before: remember the chocolate and the dog? - but, tempting though it was to stride out of the common via the main entrance and leave my admirers in the lurch, such a lack of integrity was not required. And anyway, how could I?
"Mr Cheater did, Mrs Cheater."
I think I'm going to change my name to Basil. As I said, worse than the boys.
Friday 11 December 2009
It's not every day that one receives an invitation from the Ministry of Education in Kabul to go and train up a few music examiners, is it? Nice to be asked, but I think I'll have to give that one some considerable thought. I must confess that I would be fascinated to go. And come back.
Which brings me to music-making nearer home. Mrs C and I were at Burford last night, as were many of you, as the choir were giving a concert there. It seemed to go very well and it was good to meet a number of prospective parents, too. Mr Porter was therefore acting Captain, and he informed me that all had gone well, which was good (essential!) to hear. Diana and I were treated to a luxurious ride home in a lovely Newtonian-parental car and we arrived back in time to take over from our assistant and to say goodnight to our charges. Some of whom were asleep.
Today has been full of musical activity, too, as we went to sing carols at Sobell House, the hospice for terminally ill patients, as we do every year at this time. All very moving, as it always is, and puts our own lives into perspective. Tonight, I've just returned from accompanying the choir at Ponsonby House for the Aged, here in Summertown, and the residents there were aslo hugely appreciative.
And now to Lodge. Sorry these entries are rather late in appearing, but everything gets a bit manic at this time of the term. When the residents here are calm, as they will be tonight (!), 'lodge duty' is a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of the day.
I'm not ready for the rest home yet.
Which brings me to music-making nearer home. Mrs C and I were at Burford last night, as were many of you, as the choir were giving a concert there. It seemed to go very well and it was good to meet a number of prospective parents, too. Mr Porter was therefore acting Captain, and he informed me that all had gone well, which was good (essential!) to hear. Diana and I were treated to a luxurious ride home in a lovely Newtonian-parental car and we arrived back in time to take over from our assistant and to say goodnight to our charges. Some of whom were asleep.
Today has been full of musical activity, too, as we went to sing carols at Sobell House, the hospice for terminally ill patients, as we do every year at this time. All very moving, as it always is, and puts our own lives into perspective. Tonight, I've just returned from accompanying the choir at Ponsonby House for the Aged, here in Summertown, and the residents there were aslo hugely appreciative.
And now to Lodge. Sorry these entries are rather late in appearing, but everything gets a bit manic at this time of the term. When the residents here are calm, as they will be tonight (!), 'lodge duty' is a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of the day.
I'm not ready for the rest home yet.
Thursday 10 December 2009
Newton is a happy place once more. We had a lodge meeting last night, in which I explained, in a pretty forthright and fulsome manner, that certain forms of behaviour were completely unacceptable, that all Newtonians were old enough to know the difference between right and wrong, and that I was not going to allow Miss Ruthie's final days in the lodge to be ruined by thoughtlessness. Christmas, I informed the residents, robustly, was going to be a happy and joyful time for all of us, whether they liked it or not. So there.
Well, it worked. Last night was a lovely evening once my fulminations were complete and we all had a peaceful, happy and pleasant time. Whatever derailment of the Newton Flyer there might have been had been rectified and we found ourselves back on course for the e of t. All is well; all is calm, all is (well, most of the time) bright.
Thank you to those who expressed concern about my health in the light of the fact that yesterday's blog entry didn't get posted until late in the day: I can assure all of you that I am now in rude health (no, I'll forego the pleasure I could have had there, for the sake of decency) and it's only because the end-of-term timetable is so different from the norm that it's sometimes quite difficult to find a slot where I can indulge. But I'm touched that you care, and I'm delighted that some of you do read my ramblings! I sometimes think that I'm churning out this stuff simply because I enjoy writing it! And if my computer, which has just told me that it wants to turn itself off and restart does anything of the kind, it will find itself as the recipient of punitive action far beyond anything that any Newtonian has had to bear!
Safe so far - although it's still making ominous gurgling noises. I think I'll stop there, just in case.
An e-mail from Miss Chloe, by the way, informs me that she has a pet wombat. Yes, I thought you'd like that snippet. More tomorrow.
Well, it worked. Last night was a lovely evening once my fulminations were complete and we all had a peaceful, happy and pleasant time. Whatever derailment of the Newton Flyer there might have been had been rectified and we found ourselves back on course for the e of t. All is well; all is calm, all is (well, most of the time) bright.
Thank you to those who expressed concern about my health in the light of the fact that yesterday's blog entry didn't get posted until late in the day: I can assure all of you that I am now in rude health (no, I'll forego the pleasure I could have had there, for the sake of decency) and it's only because the end-of-term timetable is so different from the norm that it's sometimes quite difficult to find a slot where I can indulge. But I'm touched that you care, and I'm delighted that some of you do read my ramblings! I sometimes think that I'm churning out this stuff simply because I enjoy writing it! And if my computer, which has just told me that it wants to turn itself off and restart does anything of the kind, it will find itself as the recipient of punitive action far beyond anything that any Newtonian has had to bear!
Safe so far - although it's still making ominous gurgling noises. I think I'll stop there, just in case.
An e-mail from Miss Chloe, by the way, informs me that she has a pet wombat. Yes, I thought you'd like that snippet. More tomorrow.
Wednesday 9 December 2009
People, I am not a very happy bunny. There are several reasons for that, and the one that makes me particularly sad is that last night we had a case of what can only be called bullying. That, about which more in a moment - and it's a very good job I never mention any names on this blog - and an unacceptable degree of silliness and lack of respect last night for my assistant, Mr Bryan, has made me very disappointed.
If one is being charitable, I suppose the bullying incident (and you will note that I have not, as I often do with such words, placed it in inverted commas) was a case of two ten-year-olds having a go at one another, but what makes it unacceptable is that it became unpleasant. I have spoken very firmly indeed to the two Newtonians involved, and made it as clear as I know how that this kind of behaviour is utterly contrary to the conduct code that Diana and I insist upon, and I can only hope that the degree of contrition shown by both was genuine. It had better be.
As for the over-exuberance, well, that's just Christmas, I suppose. But I'd welcome any parental back-up that you can offer, because I want the last few days of this term to be fun for all of us, not ones in which I become more and more cantankerous and have to exercise more leash-tightening than I would wish.
Grrrr. I shall tell Sarnta if they're not careful. So they'd better watch out - as the song suggests.
If one is being charitable, I suppose the bullying incident (and you will note that I have not, as I often do with such words, placed it in inverted commas) was a case of two ten-year-olds having a go at one another, but what makes it unacceptable is that it became unpleasant. I have spoken very firmly indeed to the two Newtonians involved, and made it as clear as I know how that this kind of behaviour is utterly contrary to the conduct code that Diana and I insist upon, and I can only hope that the degree of contrition shown by both was genuine. It had better be.
As for the over-exuberance, well, that's just Christmas, I suppose. But I'd welcome any parental back-up that you can offer, because I want the last few days of this term to be fun for all of us, not ones in which I become more and more cantankerous and have to exercise more leash-tightening than I would wish.
Grrrr. I shall tell Sarnta if they're not careful. So they'd better watch out - as the song suggests.
Tuesday 8 December 2009
Thanks to the parents' evening, and after many very agreeable conversations with Fifth Year parents,I strolled back into Newton just after my dear wife had extinguished all of the lights. By that I mean that she had turned them out, rather than that they went out as a result of her blowing a fuse.
Such casual behaviour on my part meant that I had to wait until this morning (after a rather fitful night, spent, for the most part, worrying about Tom spending time in the Land of the Rising Sun. Ha! There's an phonetic irony: land of the rising son! As if. Still, you never know) until I saw the decorations and Christmas trees festooning the dorms! I think a little bit of licence was taken as far as the interpretation of when such adornment of the sleeping quarters might occur, but as the deputy headmaster did not visit Newton last night I think they (i.e.: we) got away with it. And it does make the place look very jolly.
I forgot to tell you that Diana was savaged in Lloyds Bank the other day. Oh don't worry, it was only verbally. When she told me about her unfortunate encounter I couldn't help but think that if I'd been a bank robber and seen what awaited me I would have nipped up the road to HSBC. Perhaps Lloyds have started a new security initiative. (Oh smacked hand. I'm a great fan of 'Mock the Week'. I know it's outrageous and I shouldn't be.)
All of the residents were very sleepy this morning when I woke them, but they soon got into gear and they were all out of lodge punctually. I've been feeling slightly under the weather for the past three days and this culminated in my developing a very seductive voice this morning. Not great for a lodge parent, of course, for all kinds of reasons, but I was touched by one, who, on hearing me acknowledge his 'good morning' with a voice that sounded like gravel rolled in treacle, enquired, 'Are you all right, sir?'
I'm fine. Especially as Mr Bryan's on duty tonight. I can go to bed with a hot toddy. Not the innuendos, if you don't mind.
Such casual behaviour on my part meant that I had to wait until this morning (after a rather fitful night, spent, for the most part, worrying about Tom spending time in the Land of the Rising Sun. Ha! There's an phonetic irony: land of the rising son! As if. Still, you never know) until I saw the decorations and Christmas trees festooning the dorms! I think a little bit of licence was taken as far as the interpretation of when such adornment of the sleeping quarters might occur, but as the deputy headmaster did not visit Newton last night I think they (i.e.: we) got away with it. And it does make the place look very jolly.
I forgot to tell you that Diana was savaged in Lloyds Bank the other day. Oh don't worry, it was only verbally. When she told me about her unfortunate encounter I couldn't help but think that if I'd been a bank robber and seen what awaited me I would have nipped up the road to HSBC. Perhaps Lloyds have started a new security initiative. (Oh smacked hand. I'm a great fan of 'Mock the Week'. I know it's outrageous and I shouldn't be.)
All of the residents were very sleepy this morning when I woke them, but they soon got into gear and they were all out of lodge punctually. I've been feeling slightly under the weather for the past three days and this culminated in my developing a very seductive voice this morning. Not great for a lodge parent, of course, for all kinds of reasons, but I was touched by one, who, on hearing me acknowledge his 'good morning' with a voice that sounded like gravel rolled in treacle, enquired, 'Are you all right, sir?'
I'm fine. Especially as Mr Bryan's on duty tonight. I can go to bed with a hot toddy. Not the innuendos, if you don't mind.
Monday 7 December 2009
I was always told by my various English teachers that I should never begin any piece of writing with the word 'well'. But rules, of course, are made to be broken.
Well! That was an interesting weekend! I hope that all of you had a great time with your young, and now we can look forward to the winding down (er, up,) of the end of term.
I am pleased to report that I have now completed all of my reports, but, thanks to the machinations of our wonderful new system, I can change any of them at any time! I shall not hesitate to inform any of my pupils of that particular feature of the system if any of them should consider, for more than a nano-second, that their lodge master/English/French teacher needs winding up!
That all sounds a bit tetchy, doesn't it? I suppose the nearest I can get to an excuse is that I had to say goodbye to our son, Tom, this morning, as he left for Japan or seven months. All a bit emotional, I fear, and I'm afraid that I'm not very good at farewells - especially when it involves one's own family members. I received a text message from Hannah, our daughter, asking me directly whether I cried. Of course not. i.e.: yes. I have to say, though, that my distress was somewhat alleviated by the fact that when he checked in, was informed that although he was in economy class from London to Zurich, hehad been upgraded to Business Class thereafter. All right for some. And I've just learnt from the Swissair website that he's landed in Tokyo. I'm sure his girlfriend, Risa, will be very pleased - as are we.
Ruthie, if you're reading this, which I'm sure you are, thanks for everything. I have just heard from your successor, Miss Chloe, that she will be taking over from you in January. She sounds almost as nice as you, and I hope that she will have a very happy time with us.
Chloe, if you're reading this, which I'm sure you are, we're really looking forward to welcoming you here, and I hope that you will have a very happy time with us.
Do you think I got away with that? I'm sure one or both of them will let me know!
It's great to have your little men back with us. It's strange how we miss them. No, honestly - we do!
Well! That was an interesting weekend! I hope that all of you had a great time with your young, and now we can look forward to the winding down (er, up,) of the end of term.
I am pleased to report that I have now completed all of my reports, but, thanks to the machinations of our wonderful new system, I can change any of them at any time! I shall not hesitate to inform any of my pupils of that particular feature of the system if any of them should consider, for more than a nano-second, that their lodge master/English/French teacher needs winding up!
That all sounds a bit tetchy, doesn't it? I suppose the nearest I can get to an excuse is that I had to say goodbye to our son, Tom, this morning, as he left for Japan or seven months. All a bit emotional, I fear, and I'm afraid that I'm not very good at farewells - especially when it involves one's own family members. I received a text message from Hannah, our daughter, asking me directly whether I cried. Of course not. i.e.: yes. I have to say, though, that my distress was somewhat alleviated by the fact that when he checked in, was informed that although he was in economy class from London to Zurich, hehad been upgraded to Business Class thereafter. All right for some. And I've just learnt from the Swissair website that he's landed in Tokyo. I'm sure his girlfriend, Risa, will be very pleased - as are we.
Ruthie, if you're reading this, which I'm sure you are, thanks for everything. I have just heard from your successor, Miss Chloe, that she will be taking over from you in January. She sounds almost as nice as you, and I hope that she will have a very happy time with us.
Chloe, if you're reading this, which I'm sure you are, we're really looking forward to welcoming you here, and I hope that you will have a very happy time with us.
Do you think I got away with that? I'm sure one or both of them will let me know!
It's great to have your little men back with us. It's strange how we miss them. No, honestly - we do!
Thursday 3 December 2009
We all thoroughly enjoyed the First Year play tonight - and it was terrific. Mrs Stoop's debut as director was one to remember for all the right reasons and she can afford to be very proud.
It was all pretty liberal here tonight (yet with firm hand just touching the tiller, just in case things should go awry. Which they didn't.) The ubiqutous 'it' was leagues, cords and guernseys tonight, and once we'd collected them all in, we were able to enjoy an evening which offered the options of games in the dorms, 'Bang Goes the Theory' on TV in Curlew, or Heart FM in the common room. All accompanied by orange segments, custard creams and the last remaining geological evidence that there had once been a chocolate mountain. It was suggested by one resident that the common room should be re-styled as the 'Newton Club', as there was a fair amount of dancing to the music going on, so I'm waiting for a suitable name to be dreamt up!
As for the decorations saga, I am pleased to report (although the Newtonians are not pleased to learn) that the pronouncement from on high, which has now become an SF numbered policy (something like SF/6574/Dec/09/RB/CS/1a, and it forbids the embellishment of any dorm until after the forthcoming short leave, and then only with the express per of the Deputy Head. (Who will probably have to access a permission form from the policy file before it can be authorised.)
And talking of dancing, as I was earlier, picture the following scene:
Me, on seeing a Heronian dancing in a rather eccentric manner: "Would you mind getting into your bed, rather than performing Japanese ballet?"
Another Heronian: "Sir, what does Japanese ballet look like?"
Me (without hesitation; it's that time of term): "Like this."
I then, for reasons that any psychiatrist would explain rather quickly, decided to give a demonstration of the said dancing genre, including what I thought was a rather good pirouette, culminating in a leap across the floor.
"Like that." I said.
Once the Heronians had picked themselves up from under their duvets and wiped their eyes (in amazement, I think, I told them that that was probably the first and last time a Newton lodgemaster would give a demonstration of Japanese ballet.
Oh well, Tom's off to Japan for seven months on Monday morning, so he can tell me all about what it's really like when he gets back.
It was all pretty liberal here tonight (yet with firm hand just touching the tiller, just in case things should go awry. Which they didn't.) The ubiqutous 'it' was leagues, cords and guernseys tonight, and once we'd collected them all in, we were able to enjoy an evening which offered the options of games in the dorms, 'Bang Goes the Theory' on TV in Curlew, or Heart FM in the common room. All accompanied by orange segments, custard creams and the last remaining geological evidence that there had once been a chocolate mountain. It was suggested by one resident that the common room should be re-styled as the 'Newton Club', as there was a fair amount of dancing to the music going on, so I'm waiting for a suitable name to be dreamt up!
As for the decorations saga, I am pleased to report (although the Newtonians are not pleased to learn) that the pronouncement from on high, which has now become an SF numbered policy (something like SF/6574/Dec/09/RB/CS/1a, and it forbids the embellishment of any dorm until after the forthcoming short leave, and then only with the express per of the Deputy Head. (Who will probably have to access a permission form from the policy file before it can be authorised.)
And talking of dancing, as I was earlier, picture the following scene:
Me, on seeing a Heronian dancing in a rather eccentric manner: "Would you mind getting into your bed, rather than performing Japanese ballet?"
Another Heronian: "Sir, what does Japanese ballet look like?"
Me (without hesitation; it's that time of term): "Like this."
I then, for reasons that any psychiatrist would explain rather quickly, decided to give a demonstration of the said dancing genre, including what I thought was a rather good pirouette, culminating in a leap across the floor.
"Like that." I said.
Once the Heronians had picked themselves up from under their duvets and wiped their eyes (in amazement, I think, I told them that that was probably the first and last time a Newton lodgemaster would give a demonstration of Japanese ballet.
Oh well, Tom's off to Japan for seven months on Monday morning, so he can tell me all about what it's really like when he gets back.
Wednesday 2 December 2009
'Vengeance is mine', etc. I knew I should have left the chocolate mountain alone in the first place, rather than brag about the fact that I'd found it. While shaving this morning, which is usually a time for quiet contemplation and focus on the demands of the day, as I've mentioned before on this blog, there was a very unpleasant twang from my back, which proved to be so agonising that I practically fell to the ground. I felt like the dentist in that well-known Mr Bean sketch where Mr B accidentally jabs the anaesthetic syringe into the leg of the dental practicioner. The humourous element of the said sketch, though, was sadly lacking in my particular version.
So, depsite counsel from Mrs C and a visit to Hobsons, I'm hobbling around the place like someone twice my age. Well, a few years older, perhaps. OK, a year older. The boys, I must say, are being remarkably sympathetic.
Mr Bryan tells me that all went well, although he was (not) surprised by one or two Newtonians who decided that newer members of staff might not be fully aware of episcopalian regulations concerning the adornment of the lodge by decoration, and 'tried it on'. I suppose you can't blame them, really; didn't we all try something similar during our schooldays? What the residents had not recalled, however, that Mr Bryan is a Cambridge Classics graduate, with a fine degree, and therefore at least five, if not more, steps ahead of even the most laser-beam-minded Newtonian. Oh yes. He could see right through it. (Dangerous that, you know, as the Chaplain reminded us on Sunday.)
Of course, there always has to be one, doesn't there. Clever-clogs incarnate, who decides that he's not going to accept any of this 'you-can't-put decorations-up-until-Mr-Bishop-says-so' lark. So what does he do? He takes it to the top. To Mr BT- and asks him.
And what does Mr BT say? He says it's up the lodge master. Oh great. I will not bore you with the minutiae (again), I will simply tell you that a Casesarean decree about Christmas decorations, from somewhere above was passed this morning.
So, depsite counsel from Mrs C and a visit to Hobsons, I'm hobbling around the place like someone twice my age. Well, a few years older, perhaps. OK, a year older. The boys, I must say, are being remarkably sympathetic.
Mr Bryan tells me that all went well, although he was (not) surprised by one or two Newtonians who decided that newer members of staff might not be fully aware of episcopalian regulations concerning the adornment of the lodge by decoration, and 'tried it on'. I suppose you can't blame them, really; didn't we all try something similar during our schooldays? What the residents had not recalled, however, that Mr Bryan is a Cambridge Classics graduate, with a fine degree, and therefore at least five, if not more, steps ahead of even the most laser-beam-minded Newtonian. Oh yes. He could see right through it. (Dangerous that, you know, as the Chaplain reminded us on Sunday.)
Of course, there always has to be one, doesn't there. Clever-clogs incarnate, who decides that he's not going to accept any of this 'you-can't-put decorations-up-until-Mr-Bishop-says-so' lark. So what does he do? He takes it to the top. To Mr BT- and asks him.
And what does Mr BT say? He says it's up the lodge master. Oh great. I will not bore you with the minutiae (again), I will simply tell you that a Casesarean decree about Christmas decorations, from somewhere above was passed this morning.
Tuesday 1 December 2009
In my (very brief) study of 'pataphysics, so beloved of Paul McCartney, I read about 'the tangential point between zero and infinity'. I mention that because, to lower the tone somewhat, from the mega-intellectual to the subterranean, having written my very up-beat post, I went from 'Ho ho ho' to 'No no no!' in minus seconds after lights out, following some very 'unfortunate' behaviour after lights out.
There we were, Mrs C and I, happily taking stock of the day, reading the paper with David Attenborough's voice purring away in the background, the dog supine on the sofa when I became aware of an ominous clomping from above. It's a familiar sound, and it always heralds trouble. I raced upstairs.
"Explain!" I commanded, upon seeing four recidivistic Newtonians fooling around in the vins.
I was then treated to a less than fascinating exegesis on exactly why it was that certain people were being de-bagged, and why there should be much to-ing and fro-ing. I decided that, if this state of affairs were to be nipped in the embryonic bud, I needed back-up.
"H'm. Let's see what the Director of Boarding has to say about this, shall we? I'll ring Mr Sparrow on my mobile."
The guilty looked anxious.
"Ring ring, ring ring. Hello?"
"Ah, Mr Sparrow." I then put his voice onto loudspeaker and provided him with chapter and verse. The guilty looked even more anxious.
"I think they need to come and see me in Mayfield at 7.20 tomorrow morning, Mr Cheater. I look forward to their arrival."
Well, arrive they did - and I haven't heard any more about it. I hope I don't. I think they did, though.
They can run, but they can't hide.
There we were, Mrs C and I, happily taking stock of the day, reading the paper with David Attenborough's voice purring away in the background, the dog supine on the sofa when I became aware of an ominous clomping from above. It's a familiar sound, and it always heralds trouble. I raced upstairs.
"Explain!" I commanded, upon seeing four recidivistic Newtonians fooling around in the vins.
I was then treated to a less than fascinating exegesis on exactly why it was that certain people were being de-bagged, and why there should be much to-ing and fro-ing. I decided that, if this state of affairs were to be nipped in the embryonic bud, I needed back-up.
"H'm. Let's see what the Director of Boarding has to say about this, shall we? I'll ring Mr Sparrow on my mobile."
The guilty looked anxious.
"Ring ring, ring ring. Hello?"
"Ah, Mr Sparrow." I then put his voice onto loudspeaker and provided him with chapter and verse. The guilty looked even more anxious.
"I think they need to come and see me in Mayfield at 7.20 tomorrow morning, Mr Cheater. I look forward to their arrival."
Well, arrive they did - and I haven't heard any more about it. I hope I don't. I think they did, though.
They can run, but they can't hide.
Monday 30 November 2009
It really is worth a guinea a minute here tonight. The resident shoe-shine boy is in action, complete with his self-appointed assistant and there is the usual array of shoes in the downstairs corridor. A wondrous sight indeed.
Christmas, as I mentioned in an earlier post, is certainly coming, and the excitement level is cdertainly increasing by the minute! Unusually, the Ospreyites were in particularly high spirits, causing me to intercept and extinguish such exuberance by one of my usual routines, thus:
"What on EARTH is going on in here? I've never heard such a noise coming from this dorm! And you, X, need to get a serious move on!" (Quite how one defines a 'serious' move on as opposed to a silly one, I'm not entirely sure, but you can bet the Newtonians will try it.) Anyway, back to the anecdote. One of the (taller) members of the dorm looked crestfallen for a moment, but then caught my eye and I could see that he was wondering if he could chance his arm.
"I hope you're acting, sir," said he.
Brave, I thought, that.
There is much talk about decorations, but unfortunately for the residents, they're not allowed until Mr Bishop says so, as I told them, and he's not very likely to say that until after Short Leave. But Newtonians have an answer for everything, of course.
"Sir, if I go and ask Mr Bishop tomorrow, and he says yes, is that OK with you?"
"Er, well, er, um, yes, I suppose so."
Fat chance of him saying yes, so I reckon I'm on pretty safe ground. I'm going to look pretty silly if he does.
Final bit of news for you tonight: I've discovered where Mrs C has hidden the chocolate mountain.
Ho ho ho!
Christmas, as I mentioned in an earlier post, is certainly coming, and the excitement level is cdertainly increasing by the minute! Unusually, the Ospreyites were in particularly high spirits, causing me to intercept and extinguish such exuberance by one of my usual routines, thus:
"What on EARTH is going on in here? I've never heard such a noise coming from this dorm! And you, X, need to get a serious move on!" (Quite how one defines a 'serious' move on as opposed to a silly one, I'm not entirely sure, but you can bet the Newtonians will try it.) Anyway, back to the anecdote. One of the (taller) members of the dorm looked crestfallen for a moment, but then caught my eye and I could see that he was wondering if he could chance his arm.
"I hope you're acting, sir," said he.
Brave, I thought, that.
There is much talk about decorations, but unfortunately for the residents, they're not allowed until Mr Bishop says so, as I told them, and he's not very likely to say that until after Short Leave. But Newtonians have an answer for everything, of course.
"Sir, if I go and ask Mr Bishop tomorrow, and he says yes, is that OK with you?"
"Er, well, er, um, yes, I suppose so."
Fat chance of him saying yes, so I reckon I'm on pretty safe ground. I'm going to look pretty silly if he does.
Final bit of news for you tonight: I've discovered where Mrs C has hidden the chocolate mountain.
Ho ho ho!
Sunday 29 November 2009
Advent. Fom 'advenio', as I know that you know. We had a lovely Advent service tonight, with an entertaining sermon from the Chaplain, and, as the organist for the occasion, I counted only one erroneous note. The trouble was that it was a somewhat predominant note, and so, however many zillions of right notes there may have been, I know you all heard it, so I'm very sorry. I told Mr Music-Price that my playing is like a Turkish carpet: unless there's a flaw in it somewhere, it can't be genuine. He opined that his was the same. (Which it isn't.)
Newtonians - of which I class Mrs C, Miss Ruthie and my offspring as members - have just had a postive feast. The normal fruit and biscuits were enhanced considerably by the most wonderful birthday cake, utterly melt-in-the-mouth cookies and the chocolate mountain. Thank you so much to all our generous friends: they were all delicious! Mrs C attempted to suggest that the latter was too much, but I'm afraid I over-ruled such a ruling. You can't have a guzzlefest without chocolate. Being the very essence of practicality (thank heavens, or we'd all be in trouble and Newton would be reduced to an anarchic state within a couple of days), she did rule that dorms should be called one at a time to the Laundry, which once again had echoes of Big Brother about it as I intoned 'Curlew to the Laundry!!'. etc., etc.
All that AND X-Factor! Boy Heaven. Probably.
I need to lie down.
Newtonians - of which I class Mrs C, Miss Ruthie and my offspring as members - have just had a postive feast. The normal fruit and biscuits were enhanced considerably by the most wonderful birthday cake, utterly melt-in-the-mouth cookies and the chocolate mountain. Thank you so much to all our generous friends: they were all delicious! Mrs C attempted to suggest that the latter was too much, but I'm afraid I over-ruled such a ruling. You can't have a guzzlefest without chocolate. Being the very essence of practicality (thank heavens, or we'd all be in trouble and Newton would be reduced to an anarchic state within a couple of days), she did rule that dorms should be called one at a time to the Laundry, which once again had echoes of Big Brother about it as I intoned 'Curlew to the Laundry!!'. etc., etc.
All that AND X-Factor! Boy Heaven. Probably.
I need to lie down.
Saturday 28 November 2009
It's a little quiet in Newton tonight, as a number of the residents decided that enough was enough and that they are, or rather were, suffering from post-examination stress disorder - and I will avoid the inevitable wordplay on possible acronyms for that! Still, those left were able to enjoy a welcome tube of fruit gums, although yes, I'm sure that the options available elsewhere more than outweigh those on offer here.
Our daughter, Hannah, also decided that she was suffering from PESD, and returned home from uni (as the young will have it), where she's studying something frightfully grown-up like childhood studies and linguistics, and has to write essays. Fathers, those of you who have not yet experienced the joy of an undergraduate offspring, be prepared: requests for a little judicious 're-wording' of the odd paragraph or two may not be slow in coming. (Although, to be fair, the essay I've just read stood up well to extreme scrutiny by this blogger. (And sometime freelance contributor to the Daily Tel.) She informed me that she was woken this morning by her mother's commanding voice, enquiring of one particular Newtonian whether he had handed his home clothes in. I always thought that one that our house was soundproof, actually. Oh well, you live and learn.
So that's about it for tonight, really. Your little men are all asleep (i.e.: I can't hear them chatting, and my desk is right next door to the dorms), Hannah and Isla are watching X Factor downstairs, Tom's serving the multitudes in Xia'n, earning a bit of loot, prior to leaving for Japan for seven months next Monday, Alice has gone to Bath to see some friends perform in a play, and the cat's fussing because she wants her supper. Mrs C has gone through to do a final check on laundry (yes, we did watch 'Casulaty'), and I'm signing off.
Goodnight.
Our daughter, Hannah, also decided that she was suffering from PESD, and returned home from uni (as the young will have it), where she's studying something frightfully grown-up like childhood studies and linguistics, and has to write essays. Fathers, those of you who have not yet experienced the joy of an undergraduate offspring, be prepared: requests for a little judicious 're-wording' of the odd paragraph or two may not be slow in coming. (Although, to be fair, the essay I've just read stood up well to extreme scrutiny by this blogger. (And sometime freelance contributor to the Daily Tel.) She informed me that she was woken this morning by her mother's commanding voice, enquiring of one particular Newtonian whether he had handed his home clothes in. I always thought that one that our house was soundproof, actually. Oh well, you live and learn.
So that's about it for tonight, really. Your little men are all asleep (i.e.: I can't hear them chatting, and my desk is right next door to the dorms), Hannah and Isla are watching X Factor downstairs, Tom's serving the multitudes in Xia'n, earning a bit of loot, prior to leaving for Japan for seven months next Monday, Alice has gone to Bath to see some friends perform in a play, and the cat's fussing because she wants her supper. Mrs C has gone through to do a final check on laundry (yes, we did watch 'Casulaty'), and I'm signing off.
Goodnight.
Friday 27 November 2009
This is really a PS to today's entry, because I cannot forbear from keeping an episode from tonight to myself. It's pure vanity really, so forgive me.
I always dim the lights at 8.30pm, for silent reading. The corridor lights are on dimmer switches, and so they go down, and the main lights in the dorm are switched off. Something I learnt from my many hours in the Radcliffe Infirmary when I had all my ophthalmological problems in the mid-nineties.
A Newtonian walked past me, on his way back from the vins. He stopped and looked up.
"You're not really like a lodge parent, are you, sir.'
"Am I not?" I enquired, mystified.
"No, you're like a real parent."
Lodgemastering doesn't get much better than that.
I always dim the lights at 8.30pm, for silent reading. The corridor lights are on dimmer switches, and so they go down, and the main lights in the dorm are switched off. Something I learnt from my many hours in the Radcliffe Infirmary when I had all my ophthalmological problems in the mid-nineties.
A Newtonian walked past me, on his way back from the vins. He stopped and looked up.
"You're not really like a lodge parent, are you, sir.'
"Am I not?" I enquired, mystified.
"No, you're like a real parent."
Lodgemastering doesn't get much better than that.
A good report from Dr Dean about last night, despite his having drawn the shortest of straws in that it was he who found himself on duty here the night that exams finished! Still, hecan cope: he can simply bamboozle the residents with existentialism if they start getting uppity.
It was another 'everything' morning this morning - and I wish you'd been here. I am now more convinced than ever that the working of the male and female mind is totally different, and my research is based on the fact that when I announced to each dormitory that 'it's everything this morning', at least one representative from each place enquired whether that included certain items that, apparently, did not constitute what they or I might imagine to be 'everything'. Thus, when enquiring of the Ubergrupenfuhrerein whether towels and flannels were included, the only possible answer was, apparently, 'Don't be ridiculous. Of course they're not. 'Everything' means 'linen'. Can't you work that out?' Er, no. And I bet Dr Dean couldn't, either, even with a Ph D in Renaissance lit.
Behold four males, then, lodgemeister included, standing around the usual array of three baskets, looking confused and helpless.
"Um, sir, do these go in there? Or in there?"
"Yes. Actually, no."
"Do sheets go in here, sir, or, or ....... "
In the end I admitted defeat. I called for Miss Ruthie, who was waking tardy inmates, who arrived without hesitation and solved all 'issues' immediately.
Existentialism is much easier to understand.
It was another 'everything' morning this morning - and I wish you'd been here. I am now more convinced than ever that the working of the male and female mind is totally different, and my research is based on the fact that when I announced to each dormitory that 'it's everything this morning', at least one representative from each place enquired whether that included certain items that, apparently, did not constitute what they or I might imagine to be 'everything'. Thus, when enquiring of the Ubergrupenfuhrerein whether towels and flannels were included, the only possible answer was, apparently, 'Don't be ridiculous. Of course they're not. 'Everything' means 'linen'. Can't you work that out?' Er, no. And I bet Dr Dean couldn't, either, even with a Ph D in Renaissance lit.
Behold four males, then, lodgemeister included, standing around the usual array of three baskets, looking confused and helpless.
"Um, sir, do these go in there? Or in there?"
"Yes. Actually, no."
"Do sheets go in here, sir, or, or ....... "
In the end I admitted defeat. I called for Miss Ruthie, who was waking tardy inmates, who arrived without hesitation and solved all 'issues' immediately.
Existentialism is much easier to understand.
Thursday 26 November 2009
When things work as they should, it can be just about as right as one could wish for. Last night was such an evening, and, even though my prep school days are no more than distant memories from a very different era, I was like a pig in muck - and I think the Newtonians were, too. Why?Well let me tell you.
Football on the telly in the common room, for a start. Now I'm not an ardent follower of the game described as a gentleman's game played by hooligans, but I know a lot of the followers of this blog are, and so are your offspring. So that was one thing. 'Top Gear' on the TV in Curlew was another. And as a petrolhead myself (and one who has spent far too much hard-earned cash on ridiculously expensive vehicles), I joined those of a similar persuasion and amazed my fellow car enthusiasts by answering all of Mr Clarkson's questions before had finished asking them! (What I didn't tell them was that I'd already seen the episode on Sunday night.)
And, of course, the chocolate mountain. Mrs C, in her infinite and practical wisdom, had decreed that the boys should collect their nightly ration from the laundry room, thus rendering the said room as a cross between the Diary Room from Big Brother (oh, come on, I know some of you watch it: I even know that one of you records every episode ..... !!) and Sarnta's (sic) grotto. (Yes, that's enough suggestions as to which part I was playing. And anyway, I don't have a beard.)
"You may leave the laundry room now", intoned Miss Ruthie, as the residents collcted their presents. And their pants and socks.
It's always entertaining when the residents try to catch me out. I was talking to them about hiding places for illegal sweets, and how I reckoned I knew most of them, if not all.
"I bet you'll never get X's hiding place," remarked one of my audience.
"I bet I will," I responded.
"Never."
At that, I walked out of the dorm and into the corridor, which was empty at the time. I listened to the convo for a while, secretly, and then crept back in. Sure enough, they thought I'd gone downstairs. And there, of course, was my audience - emptying a woolly football.
Gotcha! As The Sun might say.
Football on the telly in the common room, for a start. Now I'm not an ardent follower of the game described as a gentleman's game played by hooligans, but I know a lot of the followers of this blog are, and so are your offspring. So that was one thing. 'Top Gear' on the TV in Curlew was another. And as a petrolhead myself (and one who has spent far too much hard-earned cash on ridiculously expensive vehicles), I joined those of a similar persuasion and amazed my fellow car enthusiasts by answering all of Mr Clarkson's questions before had finished asking them! (What I didn't tell them was that I'd already seen the episode on Sunday night.)
And, of course, the chocolate mountain. Mrs C, in her infinite and practical wisdom, had decreed that the boys should collect their nightly ration from the laundry room, thus rendering the said room as a cross between the Diary Room from Big Brother (oh, come on, I know some of you watch it: I even know that one of you records every episode ..... !!) and Sarnta's (sic) grotto. (Yes, that's enough suggestions as to which part I was playing. And anyway, I don't have a beard.)
"You may leave the laundry room now", intoned Miss Ruthie, as the residents collcted their presents. And their pants and socks.
It's always entertaining when the residents try to catch me out. I was talking to them about hiding places for illegal sweets, and how I reckoned I knew most of them, if not all.
"I bet you'll never get X's hiding place," remarked one of my audience.
"I bet I will," I responded.
"Never."
At that, I walked out of the dorm and into the corridor, which was empty at the time. I listened to the convo for a while, secretly, and then crept back in. Sure enough, they thought I'd gone downstairs. And there, of course, was my audience - emptying a woolly football.
Gotcha! As The Sun might say.
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Er. Rather a strange salutation, you may be thinking, but perhaps it becomes a little less strange when I tell you that I've just been reading a fascinating article, passed on to me by one of my doctored colleagues, about how we are prone to sticking -er on to the end of nouns. And just in case anyone is thinking that I'm about to follow a road upon which may be found a bishop and an actress, well, I'm sorry to disappoint. So, er, yes. Thinking through the Newton gamut (if one can do that without seeming too surreal), we could have 'late-getter-upper', 'laundrier', (although that looks like a rather indecent French verb, to me), 'pant-and-socker', 'duveter', - oh, etc., etc. You know what I mean.
We are in what we call 'the silly season' here at SF: exams, report-writing, the occasional minor fall-out in the staff room during which (if one is a witness rather than an arguer) one feels rather as one did when watching lions doing unmentionable things on the telly when one's parents were in the room, and an earnest desire to see the woods for the trees. i.e.: the end of term amidst the chaos. To be fair, things are very well organised here, and I'm not just saying that because he who is (in addition to being the colleague of whom I spoke earlier) in charge of exams is also a Newton parent.
The residents were thrown into confusion yesterday morning, as Newton duty board announced that Mr Bryan AND Mr Porter were to be on duty last night, in our absence. It was all very easy to follow really. Mr Bryan usually does Tuesdays. Mr Porter assists or presides, depending on the week, on Thursdays. Last night was Tuesday, which meant that Mr Bryan was on duty. However, Mr Porter, who normally does Thursdays, in one capacity or other, was also on duty on Tuesday this week. Thus, a Thursday duty master, who normally shares a Thursday night with Dr Dean, became a Tuesday duty master, sharing his Tuesday evening duty with Mr Bryan, rather than his normal Thursday partner, Dr Dean. Mr Bryan did the first half, and then Mr Porter took over from the end of silent reading until Mrs C and I returned.
Er, yes. Simple.
We are in what we call 'the silly season' here at SF: exams, report-writing, the occasional minor fall-out in the staff room during which (if one is a witness rather than an arguer) one feels rather as one did when watching lions doing unmentionable things on the telly when one's parents were in the room, and an earnest desire to see the woods for the trees. i.e.: the end of term amidst the chaos. To be fair, things are very well organised here, and I'm not just saying that because he who is (in addition to being the colleague of whom I spoke earlier) in charge of exams is also a Newton parent.
The residents were thrown into confusion yesterday morning, as Newton duty board announced that Mr Bryan AND Mr Porter were to be on duty last night, in our absence. It was all very easy to follow really. Mr Bryan usually does Tuesdays. Mr Porter assists or presides, depending on the week, on Thursdays. Last night was Tuesday, which meant that Mr Bryan was on duty. However, Mr Porter, who normally does Thursdays, in one capacity or other, was also on duty on Tuesday this week. Thus, a Thursday duty master, who normally shares a Thursday night with Dr Dean, became a Tuesday duty master, sharing his Tuesday evening duty with Mr Bryan, rather than his normal Thursday partner, Dr Dean. Mr Bryan did the first half, and then Mr Porter took over from the end of silent reading until Mrs C and I returned.
Er, yes. Simple.
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Good morning, everyone.
First, an apology. It occurred to me while shaving this morning that I had made reference to 'the surgical details relating to the extraction of the contents of Teddy's stomach'. I then realised with horror that the parents of anyone who happened to be called Teddy must have had a very sleepless night, imagining what on earth went on in the lodges at Summer Fields! Lest any of you should be anxious, may I hasten to assure you that he wasn't a 'real' Teddy, just a teddy teddy.
Sleepless nights brings me to examinitis. You might imagine that some of our residents had cried themselves to sleep with anxiety and spent the night knocking on our bedroom door. Not so. All appeared to have slept particularly well, without let or hindrance, and all jettisoned themselves with alacrity very early this morning, in order to get a bit of last-minute cramming in! (Incidentally, the only late-night visitor Mrs C and I have ever had in exam time was a member of Mayfield, who had convinced himself that he was going to fail CE, and decided that he would seek solace from the lodgemeister and his wife at 3am! Of course he passed well, and went on to get a good degree in theology from Oxford! Tempting though it is to try and get 'God knows how' into this little anecdote, I will resist it - especially as I hear that theology has little to do with God these days.)
To matters chocolatey. The megabar was broken up yesterday, by Tom Cheater, at our request. It was chunkified and placed into a very large mixing bowl, and, after a short speech from me about its provenance, how it was to be consumed, and how, if anyone was seen feeding the dog they would be subjected to teddy-like measures (no, not really), those wishing to engage in such enriching, exam-calming pleasures were able to take a chunk from the bowl that I was proferring. Mrs C, in her desire to enjoy an uninterrupted night, suggested that two chunks was enough and that the rest would keep for the future. I almost got away with dipping my hand into the trough four times, but such was the sybiline stare at the fourth that I thought that enough was probably enough unless it was I who was to be the recipient of the unaforementioned surgical details.
Finally, just in case any of you should be concerned about your offsprings' performances in exams, take heart from Winston Churchill, whose Latin paper, you will recall, when completed bore no uncertain resemblance to something from the studios of Damien Hirst. Such concealed excellence enabled the authorities at Harrow to consider him sufficiently erudite to enter Harrow.
Where there's life, there's hope.
First, an apology. It occurred to me while shaving this morning that I had made reference to 'the surgical details relating to the extraction of the contents of Teddy's stomach'. I then realised with horror that the parents of anyone who happened to be called Teddy must have had a very sleepless night, imagining what on earth went on in the lodges at Summer Fields! Lest any of you should be anxious, may I hasten to assure you that he wasn't a 'real' Teddy, just a teddy teddy.
Sleepless nights brings me to examinitis. You might imagine that some of our residents had cried themselves to sleep with anxiety and spent the night knocking on our bedroom door. Not so. All appeared to have slept particularly well, without let or hindrance, and all jettisoned themselves with alacrity very early this morning, in order to get a bit of last-minute cramming in! (Incidentally, the only late-night visitor Mrs C and I have ever had in exam time was a member of Mayfield, who had convinced himself that he was going to fail CE, and decided that he would seek solace from the lodgemeister and his wife at 3am! Of course he passed well, and went on to get a good degree in theology from Oxford! Tempting though it is to try and get 'God knows how' into this little anecdote, I will resist it - especially as I hear that theology has little to do with God these days.)
To matters chocolatey. The megabar was broken up yesterday, by Tom Cheater, at our request. It was chunkified and placed into a very large mixing bowl, and, after a short speech from me about its provenance, how it was to be consumed, and how, if anyone was seen feeding the dog they would be subjected to teddy-like measures (no, not really), those wishing to engage in such enriching, exam-calming pleasures were able to take a chunk from the bowl that I was proferring. Mrs C, in her desire to enjoy an uninterrupted night, suggested that two chunks was enough and that the rest would keep for the future. I almost got away with dipping my hand into the trough four times, but such was the sybiline stare at the fourth that I thought that enough was probably enough unless it was I who was to be the recipient of the unaforementioned surgical details.
Finally, just in case any of you should be concerned about your offsprings' performances in exams, take heart from Winston Churchill, whose Latin paper, you will recall, when completed bore no uncertain resemblance to something from the studios of Damien Hirst. Such concealed excellence enabled the authorities at Harrow to consider him sufficiently erudite to enter Harrow.
Where there's life, there's hope.
Monday 23 November 2009
Christmas, it seems, has arrived early. The most enormous, as well as the heaviest, bar of chocolate has arrived in Newton - and, frankly, I've never seen anything like it! Like all excited recipients of gifts, I have felt it all over and there seem to be me to be two options: one, that it is one great slab that can be carved up into Newtonian-sized chunks, or, alternatively, it's made up of individual bars that can de dispensed as and when. Whatever the case, it is hugely (!) appreciated, and to our generous benefactor I'd like to say an enormous thank you. Or, more appropriately, merci mille fois.
Nothing much to report about last night, really: everyone returned happily and set about the usual Sunday night business of watching a bit of X-Factor and tucking into fruit, chunky Kit-Kats (not as chunky as the above, though!), crisps and, no doubt, one or two illicit items of confectionery that have made their way into the lodge ....... ! (Oh don't worry, thirteen years in Mayfield taught me where to look for it. In the mattress, in the duvet, in the bed itself, behind the clock (rather a clever one, that, I always thought), in the lampshade (risky, and dangerous) and behind the notice boards. I used to think that that was all pretty exhaustive - until one night I met with the innocent gaze of a teddy. Teddy, I have to tell you, was pretty full that night - and I will spare you the surgical details of his stomach's contents' extraction.)
And that brings me neatly to Manky Cat from Northumberland. It seems that he has been rather down at heel, recently, and travelling around the country. Whilst hoping that he will avail himself of another theatrical opportunity very soon am pleased to say that his stand-in did very well. Remarkably, really, seeing as he started life as a tiger. Until Mrs Sparrow got her hands on him and gave more than just a make-over!
Nothing much to report about last night, really: everyone returned happily and set about the usual Sunday night business of watching a bit of X-Factor and tucking into fruit, chunky Kit-Kats (not as chunky as the above, though!), crisps and, no doubt, one or two illicit items of confectionery that have made their way into the lodge ....... ! (Oh don't worry, thirteen years in Mayfield taught me where to look for it. In the mattress, in the duvet, in the bed itself, behind the clock (rather a clever one, that, I always thought), in the lampshade (risky, and dangerous) and behind the notice boards. I used to think that that was all pretty exhaustive - until one night I met with the innocent gaze of a teddy. Teddy, I have to tell you, was pretty full that night - and I will spare you the surgical details of his stomach's contents' extraction.)
And that brings me neatly to Manky Cat from Northumberland. It seems that he has been rather down at heel, recently, and travelling around the country. Whilst hoping that he will avail himself of another theatrical opportunity very soon am pleased to say that his stand-in did very well. Remarkably, really, seeing as he started life as a tiger. Until Mrs Sparrow got her hands on him and gave more than just a make-over!
Sunday 22 November 2009
Saucepans one day: pots and kettles the next. But I'll come to those in a moment.
First, though, it's 'Stir-up' Sunday, as I'm sure those followers who were in their local churches this morning will already know. I'm feeling particularly virtuous, as I've just returned from playing the organ for not one, but two services down here in our little corner of West Dorset, and I was rather struck in the second one by the phrase 'enthusiastic apathy' - although as I was preparing the stops for the final hymn at the time, I fear that the relevance of the phrase passed me by.
To pots and kettles. Last night, Mrs C and I found ourselves watching 'Strictly Come Dancing'. Of course, he says quickly, we don't usually follow such MVPs, or Mass Viewing Programmes, but my dear wife has a thing about the BBC sports reporter, Chris Hollins, so no chance of escape. However, it was not he whom we were watching, but some other female dancer, whose name eludes me.
"She doesn't look very good, does she?" enquired my better half. I looked up from the paper and opined, rather unkindly, perhaps, that such dancing ability reminded me of a great wallowing hippopotamus.
"You can talk," was the razor-sharp rejoinder.
See you tonight.
First, though, it's 'Stir-up' Sunday, as I'm sure those followers who were in their local churches this morning will already know. I'm feeling particularly virtuous, as I've just returned from playing the organ for not one, but two services down here in our little corner of West Dorset, and I was rather struck in the second one by the phrase 'enthusiastic apathy' - although as I was preparing the stops for the final hymn at the time, I fear that the relevance of the phrase passed me by.
To pots and kettles. Last night, Mrs C and I found ourselves watching 'Strictly Come Dancing'. Of course, he says quickly, we don't usually follow such MVPs, or Mass Viewing Programmes, but my dear wife has a thing about the BBC sports reporter, Chris Hollins, so no chance of escape. However, it was not he whom we were watching, but some other female dancer, whose name eludes me.
"She doesn't look very good, does she?" enquired my better half. I looked up from the paper and opined, rather unkindly, perhaps, that such dancing ability reminded me of a great wallowing hippopotamus.
"You can talk," was the razor-sharp rejoinder.
See you tonight.
Saturday 21 November 2009
Saucepans. Fathers, when you empty the dishwasher - although of course, that is a task that your offspring will be readily offering to perform on your behalves this weekend - don't you find that, however hard you try, the saucepans never quite fit into their particular niches? Ours most certainly don't, and, try as I might, although the majority will fit neatly into a particular hole, there's always one that prevents one from shutting the cupboard door. So they have to be, to use a contemporary word, 're-configured'. Translated, that invariably means that I become particularly frustrated with the casserolian collection that has been withdrawn from the dishwasher, and that the cacophony in the kitchen crescendoes into a climactic sforzando, followed by a piercing soprano solo of 'What ARE you doing?' From that point onwards, the symphony moves into a much slower movement, and, with a few deft movements, a calm that is reminiscent of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony is restored to our Dorset idyll.
Talking of cacophonies, I see from today's Telegraph that Prince Charles has visited the Jedward Academy. Well, to be fair, Jim White has suggested that he might have done. As an educationalist I wasn't sure whether Mr White was writing a satirical piece or a more factual account, especially when he reported that the teacher involved in hosting HRH's visit was trying his best to get the class to proclaim the school motto of 'Wha'eva'.
It's pouring down here in the West Country - or, as some of our fellow citizens call it, the Wet Country. So any chance of biking is out, I fear, and, as the arch-procrastinator of the century, I am only too aware that I should be composing informative reports for your sons, rather than writing this blog! But when I recall that it's now read in Moscow, Basra, Tokyo, Durban, many parts of this country and, who knows, in the highest offices in the corridors of power in the land, (Greetings, Prime Minister, just in case your mother-in-law has seen fit to pass on the web link) I feel that I have a considerable responsibility towards my readers!
As for finding a culminating link between saucepans and world travel, well, the best I can do is to refer you to the motoring section of today's 'Telegraph'. You will see, if you haven't already, a photograph of Mr James May with a culender on his head.
Now that would solve my saucepan dilemma.
Wednesday 18 November 2009
Tom Sawyer has come, and, sadly, gone. Tonight was another triumph for all those involved - and thank you so much, all of you, for such lovely comments. It's always a bit flat when plays are over, but who knows, more seeds may have been sown during this term, and I really hope that all those involved will have been motivated to sign up for future productions. I am so grateful to one and all.
Don't you think 'Spooks' is an amazing series? I've just watched tonight's episode, and I have to say that I'm very glad that if security service work is anything like it's portrayed in the programme (which, I believe, it isn't, but it looks pretty realistic to me), then I'm pretty relieved that I said 'no' rather than 'yes', when I was invited to become a part of them in 1988. I don't doubt that you're sitting there, thinking that my storytelling penchant, if such it be, is getting the better of me. And you'd be right, my friends, if Diana hadn't been there at the time. A knock on the door at 11pm, a long, long discussion into the night and early morning, a conversation monitored by people listening in the car outside, and two tickets - which I held in my hand - for the United States, all pretty exciting stuff for a prep school teacher, believe me. Who were they? To be honest, I don't know. But asked I was, and how life would have changed for us both if I'd replied in the affirmative.
Of course, my children think I said 'yes'. Why on earth else would I go regularly to London, they ask, to 'National College of Music' board meetings? And why would I go to Cheltenham, the home of GCHQ, to 'examine' candidates in music at the University of Gloucester? How the imagination of the young works. As if I'd be doing anything other than that. Ridiculous. Isn't it.
I learnt last night that our blog is read regularly in Basra! Greetings to all out there, and how exciting to think that my humble ramblings are read - apparently with pleasure - almost every day!
And so to laundry. (No escape, I'm afraid.) Comments tonight ranged from 'It's not complicated in our house, sir; all you do is drop it into the laundry basket', to 'My dad hasn't got a clue. He once confused a washing machine for a tumble dryer and all the clothes got burnt'.
H'm. I know who I'm siding with! Sorry, with whom I'm siding.
Don't you think 'Spooks' is an amazing series? I've just watched tonight's episode, and I have to say that I'm very glad that if security service work is anything like it's portrayed in the programme (which, I believe, it isn't, but it looks pretty realistic to me), then I'm pretty relieved that I said 'no' rather than 'yes', when I was invited to become a part of them in 1988. I don't doubt that you're sitting there, thinking that my storytelling penchant, if such it be, is getting the better of me. And you'd be right, my friends, if Diana hadn't been there at the time. A knock on the door at 11pm, a long, long discussion into the night and early morning, a conversation monitored by people listening in the car outside, and two tickets - which I held in my hand - for the United States, all pretty exciting stuff for a prep school teacher, believe me. Who were they? To be honest, I don't know. But asked I was, and how life would have changed for us both if I'd replied in the affirmative.
Of course, my children think I said 'yes'. Why on earth else would I go regularly to London, they ask, to 'National College of Music' board meetings? And why would I go to Cheltenham, the home of GCHQ, to 'examine' candidates in music at the University of Gloucester? How the imagination of the young works. As if I'd be doing anything other than that. Ridiculous. Isn't it.
I learnt last night that our blog is read regularly in Basra! Greetings to all out there, and how exciting to think that my humble ramblings are read - apparently with pleasure - almost every day!
And so to laundry. (No escape, I'm afraid.) Comments tonight ranged from 'It's not complicated in our house, sir; all you do is drop it into the laundry basket', to 'My dad hasn't got a clue. He once confused a washing machine for a tumble dryer and all the clothes got burnt'.
H'm. I know who I'm siding with! Sorry, with whom I'm siding.
Tuesday 17 November 2009
Well, lordy. Ah feel real proud tonight! Proud of what I've just seen in Macmillan, yes, but much, much more proud of all the boys who made sure that tonight's performance of 'Tom Sawyer' was as good as it gets. I couldn't have asked for more from the whole cast, and I couldn't have asked for a more appreciative audience, either; boys, parents, or colleagues. Events like tonight make me realise just how fortunate Diana and I are to live and work here at Summer Fields, to be able to enjoy the level of competence of the boys in our charge and our care, to work with such supportive colleagues and dear friends, and to have the genuine support of the parents with whose sons we are entrusted. Notwithstanding the kind of differences that any family might experience, there really is a 'Summer Fields family', as Mr BT often says. We are very, very fortunate - and I couldn't have asked for more from anyone tonight.
And, dear friends, I am now, not to put too fine a point on it, knackered. I'm going downstairs to watch 'Holby', which Tom very kindly recorded for us - and just in case you're thinking that that's a pretty sad thing to be doing, the producer, Diana Kyle, and I are on e-mailing terms - and I was hoping that she might be in the audience tonight or tomorrow: we'll see!
Did you know that I was once approached by the intelligence services? I wouldn't be telling you that if I'd signed the Official Secrets Act - but that story can wait until another time.
Until tomorrow.
And, dear friends, I am now, not to put too fine a point on it, knackered. I'm going downstairs to watch 'Holby', which Tom very kindly recorded for us - and just in case you're thinking that that's a pretty sad thing to be doing, the producer, Diana Kyle, and I are on e-mailing terms - and I was hoping that she might be in the audience tonight or tomorrow: we'll see!
Did you know that I was once approached by the intelligence services? I wouldn't be telling you that if I'd signed the Official Secrets Act - but that story can wait until another time.
Until tomorrow.
Monday 16 November 2009
I've just re-read what I wrote last night. Goodness, I do witter on, don't I! However, I still maintain that Mary and Joseph would have appreciated a good bar of CDM, or, perhaps more appropriately, a megabar of Galaxy, because I'm blowed if I'd have known what to do with a bar of myrrh.
Still, notwithstanding the predilections of the Holy Family (and I apologise unreservedly if I've offended any particular sensibilities), I've just returned from the dress rehearsal of 'Tom Sawyer', and I'm very pleased to report that all went well - other than the inadvertent omission of one particular scene (which we rehearsed after the rehearsal, if you get my drift), and one other occasion when the producer stopped the proceedings and advised the cast on stage that they had omitted a second scene, only to be put firmly in my place by a clearly irked cast who reminded me that the scene I was banging on about was, in fact, pursuant to the one that I had just arrested. I'm glad to report that the feline stand-in acquitted itself very well, and I'm sorry that the original one felt that being poisoned by an eleven-year-old was too much to bear and decided that it couldn't face the pressures of the bright lights. I do sympathise.
The play feast after the rehearsal went extremely well, and you would have been proud of your offspring(s) as they behaved impeccably in the dining room. Either that, or the peperoni pizza was so spicey that it rendered the dining room volume level a lot more quiet than normal. ('Dining' is often mis-spelt in exercise books as 'dinning': an error that causes me to hesitate before correcting same!)
Anyway, I hope you'll be here tomorrow, and if you are, I hope you'll thoroughly enjoy the show. Drinks afterwards in New Room, btw. ('By the way', my daughter assures me. Come on, get a grip, your children will be sitting GCSEs in text-messaging in a couple of years - or so the Telegraph tells us!)
Still, notwithstanding the predilections of the Holy Family (and I apologise unreservedly if I've offended any particular sensibilities), I've just returned from the dress rehearsal of 'Tom Sawyer', and I'm very pleased to report that all went well - other than the inadvertent omission of one particular scene (which we rehearsed after the rehearsal, if you get my drift), and one other occasion when the producer stopped the proceedings and advised the cast on stage that they had omitted a second scene, only to be put firmly in my place by a clearly irked cast who reminded me that the scene I was banging on about was, in fact, pursuant to the one that I had just arrested. I'm glad to report that the feline stand-in acquitted itself very well, and I'm sorry that the original one felt that being poisoned by an eleven-year-old was too much to bear and decided that it couldn't face the pressures of the bright lights. I do sympathise.
The play feast after the rehearsal went extremely well, and you would have been proud of your offspring(s) as they behaved impeccably in the dining room. Either that, or the peperoni pizza was so spicey that it rendered the dining room volume level a lot more quiet than normal. ('Dining' is often mis-spelt in exercise books as 'dinning': an error that causes me to hesitate before correcting same!)
Anyway, I hope you'll be here tomorrow, and if you are, I hope you'll thoroughly enjoy the show. Drinks afterwards in New Room, btw. ('By the way', my daughter assures me. Come on, get a grip, your children will be sitting GCSEs in text-messaging in a couple of years - or so the Telegraph tells us!)
Sunday 15 November 2009
Christmas, I am told by the various outlets in Summertown, who have decided that it should be a marketing occasion not to be missed under any circumstances, is coming. The much-celebrated goose, I believe, is becoming even more rotund than your correspondent, and those selling 'The Big Issue' are presumably hoping for more than just one penny to be placed in their greasy palms rather than under their headgear.
Which probably goes some way to explaining the fact that our Newtonians are becoming excited about something, but they may not realise quite what it is yet - as Rolf Harris would say. I've tried subduing the troops with suggestions that examinations may be something to which they may be looking forward with some alacrity, but there appears not to be a great meeting of minds about that! So yes, I expect it's Christmas.
As we 'borrowed' the festival from the pagans in the first place, I suppose we have only ourselves to blame for whatever the 'festive season' may bring, and I am reminded of a night in Mayfield on the penultimate night of the Michalemas term, when a boy who went on to win a top scholarship to Radley invited me to step into his dorm 'for a word'.
"Yes, Thomas?" I enquired.
"Sir, you seem to be very stressy tonight. Will you PLEASE calm down? Do you know, sir, when you're like this, you're worse than my mother on Christmas Day!"
"Oh. Sorry, Thomas."
Which brings me to Advent calendars, and the chocolateness of same. Do I mind? Well, no. Not really. Although if I'm being honest, I'm not sure what Our Lord would have made of chocolate, although, when you think about it, I'm not sure that gold, frankincense or myrrh would have been that appealing, either. Given the choice, I imagine that a hunking great block of Cadbury's Dairy Milk would have gone down rather well with his parents, if not with Himself. So no, I don't mind. Although they must be 'nut-free', of course.
Incidentally, Mrs C's mother calls Santa 'Sarnta'. So does Mrs C. I think that's very strange: how can 'a-n' be pronounced 'arn'? All very odd.
I shall tell the boys that tomorrow night's laundry is 'parnts and socks'.
Which probably goes some way to explaining the fact that our Newtonians are becoming excited about something, but they may not realise quite what it is yet - as Rolf Harris would say. I've tried subduing the troops with suggestions that examinations may be something to which they may be looking forward with some alacrity, but there appears not to be a great meeting of minds about that! So yes, I expect it's Christmas.
As we 'borrowed' the festival from the pagans in the first place, I suppose we have only ourselves to blame for whatever the 'festive season' may bring, and I am reminded of a night in Mayfield on the penultimate night of the Michalemas term, when a boy who went on to win a top scholarship to Radley invited me to step into his dorm 'for a word'.
"Yes, Thomas?" I enquired.
"Sir, you seem to be very stressy tonight. Will you PLEASE calm down? Do you know, sir, when you're like this, you're worse than my mother on Christmas Day!"
"Oh. Sorry, Thomas."
Which brings me to Advent calendars, and the chocolateness of same. Do I mind? Well, no. Not really. Although if I'm being honest, I'm not sure what Our Lord would have made of chocolate, although, when you think about it, I'm not sure that gold, frankincense or myrrh would have been that appealing, either. Given the choice, I imagine that a hunking great block of Cadbury's Dairy Milk would have gone down rather well with his parents, if not with Himself. So no, I don't mind. Although they must be 'nut-free', of course.
Incidentally, Mrs C's mother calls Santa 'Sarnta'. So does Mrs C. I think that's very strange: how can 'a-n' be pronounced 'arn'? All very odd.
I shall tell the boys that tomorrow night's laundry is 'parnts and socks'.
Sorry, everyone, but will you forgive a rather self-indulgent 'stop press'?
You remember that I wrote about my involvement with the creation of Afghanistan's first and only dedicated music college? Well, I am delighted to tell you that we have just been awarded a prestigious international prize! It's called the International Music Rights Award, and if you'd like to read about it, the link is
http://www.afghanistannationalinstituteofmusic.org/news.html
You can navigate around the rest of the college website from there, too, if you're interested.
You remember that I wrote about my involvement with the creation of Afghanistan's first and only dedicated music college? Well, I am delighted to tell you that we have just been awarded a prestigious international prize! It's called the International Music Rights Award, and if you'd like to read about it, the link is
http://www.afghanistannationalinstituteofmusic.org/news.html
You can navigate around the rest of the college website from there, too, if you're interested.
Saturday 14 November 2009
I went to a school debate tonight, It was all about celebrities and how the whole nation is being adversely affected by the obsession with celebrity status. Fascinating, it was, on the whole, and I have to confess that when I was about 18 - and a lot more innocent than I am now - I wanted to be Elton John. Despite my best efforts, and trying to copy his chords on the piano, I failed miserably, of course, although frankly, there were certain aspects of his persona that were to come to light later that ensured that his path and mine went along separate tracks .... !
Perhaps, I thought to myself after the debate, I didn't really understand this celeb thing, and perhaps I was being a little harsh in being so dismissive of X Factor. Beseeched as I was by my two daughters to come and join them in order to listen to Mr Cowell, I found myself listening to him telling the nation that Sting had referred to such wannabes as may be found on our screens on a Saturday night as - and I quote - 'Karaoke no-hopers'. How unfair, I thought. What a horrid man. Even more cantankerous than your correspondent on a bad night.
And then I listened to Jamie singing. I use the word somewhat euphemistically - and we know about euphemisms. Mr Sting, I think, may have a point.
And I'm off to watch Casulaty. See? I still can't spell it!
I have now finished my weekly viewing of Casulaty (no, can't do it) and watched a programme called 'The Impressions Show', which followed it. One of the sections of the programme involved a person on X Factor, in front of 'S Cowell, Esq', emitting unmentionable emissions into a didgerydoo.
Perhaps, I thought to myself after the debate, I didn't really understand this celeb thing, and perhaps I was being a little harsh in being so dismissive of X Factor. Beseeched as I was by my two daughters to come and join them in order to listen to Mr Cowell, I found myself listening to him telling the nation that Sting had referred to such wannabes as may be found on our screens on a Saturday night as - and I quote - 'Karaoke no-hopers'. How unfair, I thought. What a horrid man. Even more cantankerous than your correspondent on a bad night.
And then I listened to Jamie singing. I use the word somewhat euphemistically - and we know about euphemisms. Mr Sting, I think, may have a point.
And I'm off to watch Casulaty. See? I still can't spell it!
I have now finished my weekly viewing of Casulaty (no, can't do it) and watched a programme called 'The Impressions Show', which followed it. One of the sections of the programme involved a person on X Factor, in front of 'S Cowell, Esq', emitting unmentionable emissions into a didgerydoo.
And to think that I used to think that impressionists were people who poked fun at people .......
Casualty x 3. Casualty casualty casualty. You have NO idea how long that took!
Friday 13 November 2009
You just never know what's around the next corner, do you. I was about to write tonight's entry, full of wit, verve and bonhomie, telling you all about the wasp in Osprey, the sheet changing fiasco, the shower issue, the shoecleaning, the fact that the dorm doors, which are noise-sensitive, shut every time I raise my voice, and another lively game of Romans, when my ex-tutee and great friend Mr Edwards appeared, to tell me the very sad news that his father, who had been battling with a muscle-wasting disease for some time now, had just passed away.
It's doubly sad for Diana and for me, because we used to teach with him at Papplewick School, when we were on the staff there. Brilliant classicist, outstanding pianist - one who could rattle through a Brahms Intermezzo with far more panache than I - and a genuinely lovely man, it's hard to imagine that someone who was so upright, poised and who possessed genuine presence is no longer with us. Tom himself has left to be with his mother, and I know that our thoughts are with them both.
Hard to be witty and anecdotal tonight. Tim was a good friend, too - and, like Tom, a great colleague.
I think I'll leave it at that for tonight.
It's doubly sad for Diana and for me, because we used to teach with him at Papplewick School, when we were on the staff there. Brilliant classicist, outstanding pianist - one who could rattle through a Brahms Intermezzo with far more panache than I - and a genuinely lovely man, it's hard to imagine that someone who was so upright, poised and who possessed genuine presence is no longer with us. Tom himself has left to be with his mother, and I know that our thoughts are with them both.
Hard to be witty and anecdotal tonight. Tim was a good friend, too - and, like Tom, a great colleague.
I think I'll leave it at that for tonight.
‘It’s everything’. And indeed it is, as I have mentioned once before – and was, again this morning. Armed with such information, I went off to do my morning rounds. I knew what was going to happen before I went into any of the dorms – and the reason I was possessed of such prophetic powers was that I am now more convinced than ever that there is a vast difference between the conceptual awareness of the male and female brain. In fact, were I clever, I would embark upon a Ph D all of my own, to prove my hypothesis. You see, to me, ‘it’s everything’ means, in terms of laundry, sheets, pillowcases, duvet covers, pyjamas, towels, flannels, the lot. To the feminine mind, the comprehensive concept means only some of the aforementioned, and certainly not towels and flannels. Or underblankets. Or, as top bunk man enquired (very sensibly, in my opinion) dressing gowns.
However many items ‘everything’ means, however, ‘it’ requires no more than three laundry baskets, which, I am assured, is the standard receptacular number for whatever ‘it’ may mean on any one day, whether ‘it’ is two items or six. Or any other random number. And there I was, imagining that I was beginning to grasp the metaphysical and surreal properties of laundry collection. I have much to fathom out yet.
Dr Dean was deputy Nutenfuhrer last night, as Mrs C and I were without. And in case you find yourself wondering whether we are ever within, for info the weekly schedule is that we are off duty on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Unless, of course, we swap a Thursday for a Friday, as we did last week, or a Tuesday for a Wednesday. Add into the equation that we have three assistant lodgemasters for two nights and you end up with laundry-basket syndrome. (LBS, in contemporary parlance, no doubt.)
Newton is a very confusing place to live, you know.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
I know I'm the arch-sentimentalist of all time, but I really nearly became more than just a bit dewy-eyed tonight. A couple of weeks ago, there had been an 'incident'. It was, in fact, nothing to do with Newton, but, for reasons into which I won't go into just here, it was 'related'.
"You know, X," I said, " I was really disappointed with what happened a couple of weeks ago."
"Yes, sir, I know you were."
"Will you promise me - absolutely promise me - that nothing like that will ever happen again?"
"Yes, sir. I promise."
And so saying, the person involved (I do hate the word 'culprit') looked up at me and, without a moment's hesitation, gave me an enormous hug.
Another moment from last night for you to savour:
"Sir! A 'Now wash your hands sign has fallen into the vins!"
"Ah. Now what would you like me to do about that, then? Would you like to extract it?"
"Er, no thank you, sir. I think I'll leave that to you."
"Thank you, X. How kind."
I invited my informant to request the pleasure of the Nutenobergrupenfuhrererine, as her success-rate with such things is rather better than mine.
"Er, Diana, it seems that a sign has fallen into the vins."
I waited for the most apposite of ripostes. (I do like the word 'apposite'.)
"Oh, that, Yes, those notices keep falling off, don't they?"
Yes. Of course they do.
Don't they?
"You know, X," I said, " I was really disappointed with what happened a couple of weeks ago."
"Yes, sir, I know you were."
"Will you promise me - absolutely promise me - that nothing like that will ever happen again?"
"Yes, sir. I promise."
And so saying, the person involved (I do hate the word 'culprit') looked up at me and, without a moment's hesitation, gave me an enormous hug.
Another moment from last night for you to savour:
"Sir! A 'Now wash your hands sign has fallen into the vins!"
"Ah. Now what would you like me to do about that, then? Would you like to extract it?"
"Er, no thank you, sir. I think I'll leave that to you."
"Thank you, X. How kind."
I invited my informant to request the pleasure of the Nutenobergrupenfuhrererine, as her success-rate with such things is rather better than mine.
"Er, Diana, it seems that a sign has fallen into the vins."
I waited for the most apposite of ripostes. (I do like the word 'apposite'.)
"Oh, that, Yes, those notices keep falling off, don't they?"
Yes. Of course they do.
Don't they?
Thank you, Mr Bryan, for ensuring that peace reigned last night. My deputy lodgemaster informs me that all went well, other than a rather highly-charged game of ‘Romans’, but, as I was at pains to point out, the aforementioned race were not really known for a particularly peaceful modus vivendi.
I was also delighted to see that the Duplo set that Mrs C and I have donated to the lodge was in use. Remember Duplo? We actually brought it back from Dorset so that the particularly young members of the community, namely little Bryans and little Aldreds, could avail themselves of such a facility while their parents were engaged in other pleasures - like eating and imbibing – but if Newtonians want to construct model ice-breakers and the like with it, then that’s fine by us. (The reference to ice-breakers, by the way, is in homage to one of the most amusing books I’ve ever read, ‘Tomkinson’s Schooldays’. If you haven’t read it, I won’t spoil it for you, save to say that Tomkinson is caught building a full-scale model of an ice-breaker in the hobbies hut.) I must confess that I was more a Lego man myself, and – believe this – at the age of eight I used to go downstairs, make my parents a cup of tea that they could enjoy in bed, and present them each morning with a newly-built house! Add that to the fact that I used to enjoy (apparently, according to my mother) sitting under the kitchen table at the age of seven and reading words from the dictionary aloud, simply because I liked the sound of them and you may begin to understand that which stands before you in parents’ meetings now! Oh goodness, this is like Confession!
Picture this morning’s scene. Three (!) baskets for towels and flannels, Guernseys need to be collected from the laundry room, and poppies need to be attached to the latter. Meanwhile, Isla has misappropriated a boy’s slipper and is triumphantly parading it around the lower corridor and three boys have yet to appear! Miss Ruthie is enjoying her well-earned morning off, and Diana has been in to explain how the system of Guernsey-collection and poppy-fixing is to work, that towels and flannels should be pressed down in the respective baskets in order to make it easier for sorting, and I have been threatened with deuteronomical consequences - or worse- if any boy should leave the lodge poppyless.
So! Just a day’s teaching, duty and games-taking to go, then! What a breeze.
I was also delighted to see that the Duplo set that Mrs C and I have donated to the lodge was in use. Remember Duplo? We actually brought it back from Dorset so that the particularly young members of the community, namely little Bryans and little Aldreds, could avail themselves of such a facility while their parents were engaged in other pleasures - like eating and imbibing – but if Newtonians want to construct model ice-breakers and the like with it, then that’s fine by us. (The reference to ice-breakers, by the way, is in homage to one of the most amusing books I’ve ever read, ‘Tomkinson’s Schooldays’. If you haven’t read it, I won’t spoil it for you, save to say that Tomkinson is caught building a full-scale model of an ice-breaker in the hobbies hut.) I must confess that I was more a Lego man myself, and – believe this – at the age of eight I used to go downstairs, make my parents a cup of tea that they could enjoy in bed, and present them each morning with a newly-built house! Add that to the fact that I used to enjoy (apparently, according to my mother) sitting under the kitchen table at the age of seven and reading words from the dictionary aloud, simply because I liked the sound of them and you may begin to understand that which stands before you in parents’ meetings now! Oh goodness, this is like Confession!
Picture this morning’s scene. Three (!) baskets for towels and flannels, Guernseys need to be collected from the laundry room, and poppies need to be attached to the latter. Meanwhile, Isla has misappropriated a boy’s slipper and is triumphantly parading it around the lower corridor and three boys have yet to appear! Miss Ruthie is enjoying her well-earned morning off, and Diana has been in to explain how the system of Guernsey-collection and poppy-fixing is to work, that towels and flannels should be pressed down in the respective baskets in order to make it easier for sorting, and I have been threatened with deuteronomical consequences - or worse- if any boy should leave the lodge poppyless.
So! Just a day’s teaching, duty and games-taking to go, then! What a breeze.
Tuesday 10 November 2009
Looking back on the blog entries of the past few days I can’t help but notice that there are references to (a) Victor Meldrew, (b) Mr Mackay of ‘Porridge’ and (c) Basil Fawlty. As all such references allude to your correspondent and scribe, you must be thinking that Newton is ruled by a cantankerous old …. – well, fill in as appropriate. Let me take this opportunity, then, to assure you that the lighter moments within Newton far outweigh the Nutenfuhrer’s grumpiness!
Yesterday, I was sitting in my form room at 3.15pm, awaiting my next class. A Newtonian entered, with a smile.
“Hello, sir! Did you have a good lunch?” I think he must imagine that I’m still living in the 1980s, a cast-off from the financial world of the time! Even with our new kitchens, lunch does not extend until mid-afternoons!
Last night I was hoist by my own petard – whatever a petard may be , but whatever it is it is that by which I was hoist – so let me tell you about that, too.
Scenario: A Heronian is making himself heard rather excessively. I enter the dorm and the following dialogue ensues:
PRC: Rather a lot of noise, don’t you think?
Heronian: Well, I was only telling X that he needed to give me my ball back!
PRC: And what do you think your tutor would think about all this racket, then? Mr Randolph, is it not?
Heronian: Oh, he wouldn’t mind.
PRC (extracting mobile telephone from pocket): Shall we – would you – like to ask him, then?
Heronian: Ha! I bet there’s no-one on the other end! (Newtonian parental secret: I usually dial our house in Dorset, but theNewtonians don’t know that.)
The telephone rings and rings – and to the Heronian’s surprise, Mr Randolph answers.
PRC: Ah, Hugh. One of your tutees doesn’t believe that I really ring tutors. Would you care to speak with X?
Heronian: Oh hello, sir. Mr Cheater doesn’t usually ring anyone. He admitted it in PSE last year. He said that sometimes when he writes names down on a piece of paper he’s only scribbling. So he doesn’t usually ring anyone at all.
And there I was thinking that I was being so clever, too. Silly me: I was forgetting that they are sharp-witted Newtonians!
Yesterday, I was sitting in my form room at 3.15pm, awaiting my next class. A Newtonian entered, with a smile.
“Hello, sir! Did you have a good lunch?” I think he must imagine that I’m still living in the 1980s, a cast-off from the financial world of the time! Even with our new kitchens, lunch does not extend until mid-afternoons!
Last night I was hoist by my own petard – whatever a petard may be , but whatever it is it is that by which I was hoist – so let me tell you about that, too.
Scenario: A Heronian is making himself heard rather excessively. I enter the dorm and the following dialogue ensues:
PRC: Rather a lot of noise, don’t you think?
Heronian: Well, I was only telling X that he needed to give me my ball back!
PRC: And what do you think your tutor would think about all this racket, then? Mr Randolph, is it not?
Heronian: Oh, he wouldn’t mind.
PRC (extracting mobile telephone from pocket): Shall we – would you – like to ask him, then?
Heronian: Ha! I bet there’s no-one on the other end! (Newtonian parental secret: I usually dial our house in Dorset, but theNewtonians don’t know that.)
The telephone rings and rings – and to the Heronian’s surprise, Mr Randolph answers.
PRC: Ah, Hugh. One of your tutees doesn’t believe that I really ring tutors. Would you care to speak with X?
Heronian: Oh hello, sir. Mr Cheater doesn’t usually ring anyone. He admitted it in PSE last year. He said that sometimes when he writes names down on a piece of paper he’s only scribbling. So he doesn’t usually ring anyone at all.
And there I was thinking that I was being so clever, too. Silly me: I was forgetting that they are sharp-witted Newtonians!
Monday 9 November 2009
When men strive together one with another, and the wife of the one draweth near for to deliver her husband out of the hand of him that smiteth him, and putteth forth her hand, and taketh him by the secrets: then thou shalt cut off her hand, thine eye shall not pity her.
Er, yes. Quite. Now why on Earth, you may be asking, would I want to start today's blog entry with that?! Oh, and just in case any of you should be suffering from amnesia this morning and cannot recall exactly where that quotation is from, it's Deuteronomy 11, 25.
Euphemisms, that's why. And if I tell you that I availed myself of the opportunity to inform the Newtonians that they were somewhat on the rowdy side on Saturday night, you may be beginning to see 'where I am coming from'. And where I was coming from at that particular time was out of my drawing room door, halfway through last week's edition of' Casualty! Not good; no, not good at all. I was not pleased. (Another euphemism.) Off I went again, Basil Fawlty all over, "Right, that's it. If you can't stop making all this ridiculous noise , etc, etc." You know the sort of stuff. The lodge members silently made their way to their dorms, some wearing somewhat indignant looks as they considered that they were not party to the rowdiness, but decided that saying anything at that stage would not be wise, as their indignant gazes met my rather more thunderous one! And you can guess the cause of all of that, of course. Yes, that's right: that something X something Factor! I tell you, if I ever meet up with something Jedward, or something Danyl, Deuteronomy will have given me some particularly helpful advice!
Anyway, enough of my ranting. Last night was a much happier affair, and we were all able to consume the delicious and delightful contribution of a kind Mummy, who had supplied us all with the most scrummy 'Rocky Road'! It was superb - and quickly devoured! Thank you very much!
H'm. 'Rocky Road'. How apposite. Let's hope that this week will bring a smoother path, and not one that might be akin to that traversed by the Ice Road Truckers ...... !
Happy Monday.
Er, yes. Quite. Now why on Earth, you may be asking, would I want to start today's blog entry with that?! Oh, and just in case any of you should be suffering from amnesia this morning and cannot recall exactly where that quotation is from, it's Deuteronomy 11, 25.
Euphemisms, that's why. And if I tell you that I availed myself of the opportunity to inform the Newtonians that they were somewhat on the rowdy side on Saturday night, you may be beginning to see 'where I am coming from'. And where I was coming from at that particular time was out of my drawing room door, halfway through last week's edition of' Casualty! Not good; no, not good at all. I was not pleased. (Another euphemism.) Off I went again, Basil Fawlty all over, "Right, that's it. If you can't stop making all this ridiculous noise , etc, etc." You know the sort of stuff. The lodge members silently made their way to their dorms, some wearing somewhat indignant looks as they considered that they were not party to the rowdiness, but decided that saying anything at that stage would not be wise, as their indignant gazes met my rather more thunderous one! And you can guess the cause of all of that, of course. Yes, that's right: that something X something Factor! I tell you, if I ever meet up with something Jedward, or something Danyl, Deuteronomy will have given me some particularly helpful advice!
Anyway, enough of my ranting. Last night was a much happier affair, and we were all able to consume the delicious and delightful contribution of a kind Mummy, who had supplied us all with the most scrummy 'Rocky Road'! It was superb - and quickly devoured! Thank you very much!
H'm. 'Rocky Road'. How apposite. Let's hope that this week will bring a smoother path, and not one that might be akin to that traversed by the Ice Road Truckers ...... !
Happy Monday.
Saturday 7 November 2009
Remembrance Day deserves something special. I wrote the poem below while visiting the war graves, and subsequently set it to music. The works in italics, at the top and bottom of the poem were words that were written on two young soldiers' graves.
I looked at our – no, your - Newtonians this morning, and I thought about how parents of Summerfieldians whose sons lost their lives must have felt: it made me realise, not for the first time, just how privileged Diana and I are.
It is but one more day
Until tomorrow’s dawn;
When earthly days are done
And travelling days are past.
A mother’s love,
Which only she can know,
Has nothing more
In this brief life to show.
In days when victory seems lost
For those who count their fellows
On the field;
They look towards
The pastel-shaded sky
And weep
With tears
That gently fall to ground
Like silver scimitars
Of human sacrifice.
And when the final trumpet-call
Invites the fallen
to their place
of tranquil rest;
Those who have given freely
In the name of Love:
Behold, we count them happy
Which endure.
I looked at our – no, your - Newtonians this morning, and I thought about how parents of Summerfieldians whose sons lost their lives must have felt: it made me realise, not for the first time, just how privileged Diana and I are.
It is but one more day
Until tomorrow’s dawn;
When earthly days are done
And travelling days are past.
A mother’s love,
Which only she can know,
Has nothing more
In this brief life to show.
In days when victory seems lost
For those who count their fellows
On the field;
They look towards
The pastel-shaded sky
And weep
With tears
That gently fall to ground
Like silver scimitars
Of human sacrifice.
And when the final trumpet-call
Invites the fallen
to their place
of tranquil rest;
Those who have given freely
In the name of Love:
Behold, we count them happy
Which endure.
I sometimes wonder what The Queen and Prince Philip talk about at breakfast, don’t you? (Actually, this being Summer Fields, I don’t doubt that some of our readers know the answer to that, as they have enjoyed the privilege of dining royally, but as you will be bound to secrecy, I shall never know.) But just in case you should wonder what Mrs C and discuss over our respective bowls of Red Berries Special K, you might be interested to know that we were talking about the various forms of the word ‘agenda’ this morning, as my dear wife was preparing her agenda for the First Year staff meeting. I opined that agenda is a plural word and that too many people fall into the trap of thinking that it’s singular and that therefore the plural must be agendae. It was only when I started to explain that agenda is already plural and that therefore its singular form is agendum that I realised that the spoon of my spouse, to put it alliteratively, was going to find its way down my throat. My learned discourse on such matters faded out, just in time.
Mr Porter was at the helm last night, as Mrs C and I were dining out, with our former colleagues, Messrs Darling, Mayall and McCrae. I am pleased to report that all are well – and thoroughly enjoying retirement. There were other guests present, too, one of whom was recently a contestant on Mastermind, answering questions on the Greeks, or Greek names, or something like that. Mr McCrae was able to compete adequately with such erudition, informing our end of the table that during this year he has completed reading the complete works of Herodotus. In the original Greek, naturally.
As for the Newtonians, all is well. It must be, as there’s not really much to report! Well, apart from one more cat request response:
Yes sir, I have a cat, but it’s really a tiger. Would that be OK?
Excitingly, though, thanks to the blog, I am pleased to announce that a manky moggy from Northumberland will be playing the part of the family pet in the play! In the end I decided that a tiger would perhaps alter the storyline somewhat excessively.
Friday 6 November 2009
Glowsticks - or however you spell it! I tell you, if I see another one of those wretched things I'll, I'll, I'll wrap it around its owner's neck! (Which is, in fact, just one way in which Newtonians chose to sport their bonfire nightwear, so it would be nothing new. Some chose to wear them as halos, which, in certain cases, was somewhat unexpected.) Still, I mustn't go on about them, especially as I promised my assistant lodgemaster that I would make no blog refererence to the one that spolit open the other night (of its own volition, I am given to understand by its former owner) and released its contents onto the carpet, resulting in a mass clear-up operation before the Newtonian Fuhrer arrived home.
Enough of last night's festivities, and I will make no reference at all to sticky toffee apples and the dispensing thereof, because I don't want to get bogged down in all that. All I can say is that I am extremely thankful that it rained heavily just after the display, and the excitement of watching a fire burn. (Dear me, I sound more like Victor Meldrew every day, don't I?)
I must share an e-mail dialogue or two with you, as they came as replies from my 'all student' round robin to the school, asking if anyone had a teddy cat that I could borrow for the play. The answers were priceless, especially the following three:
no sorry sir i dont. i have a cool monkey though
sorry i don't, BUUUUT I do have an ENORMUUOUS BUNNY
no sorry sir, but i could get my mum to buy one
I can't wait to log back on to my e-mail system and see what today's cyberspatial postbag brings!
Another pleasing comment came from a Newtonian just now, as he watched me write a comment in another boy's English exercise book. I started by writing the word 'Good'.
"Oh sir, your Gs are SO cool!"
So there you are. Oh, there was one other comment, following my observation to a non-Newtonian that he displayed too many of the characteristics that I displayed at school, i.e.: handing in work that was probably just about good enough, reasonable enough, because he knows that he can get away with it.
"See how you'll turn out," said I. "And I know what you're thinking, too. You don't want to end up as a fat 58 year old."
"Oh sir! You read my mind!"
Telepathy. It's a useful skill as a schoolmaster.
Enough of last night's festivities, and I will make no reference at all to sticky toffee apples and the dispensing thereof, because I don't want to get bogged down in all that. All I can say is that I am extremely thankful that it rained heavily just after the display, and the excitement of watching a fire burn. (Dear me, I sound more like Victor Meldrew every day, don't I?)
I must share an e-mail dialogue or two with you, as they came as replies from my 'all student' round robin to the school, asking if anyone had a teddy cat that I could borrow for the play. The answers were priceless, especially the following three:
no sorry sir i dont. i have a cool monkey though
sorry i don't, BUUUUT I do have an ENORMUUOUS BUNNY
no sorry sir, but i could get my mum to buy one
I can't wait to log back on to my e-mail system and see what today's cyberspatial postbag brings!
Another pleasing comment came from a Newtonian just now, as he watched me write a comment in another boy's English exercise book. I started by writing the word 'Good'.
"Oh sir, your Gs are SO cool!"
So there you are. Oh, there was one other comment, following my observation to a non-Newtonian that he displayed too many of the characteristics that I displayed at school, i.e.: handing in work that was probably just about good enough, reasonable enough, because he knows that he can get away with it.
"See how you'll turn out," said I. "And I know what you're thinking, too. You don't want to end up as a fat 58 year old."
"Oh sir! You read my mind!"
Telepathy. It's a useful skill as a schoolmaster.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
There are many, many joys to living at Summer Fields. Quality of lfe is unsurpassable, colleagues are all friends, and everything is within a stone's throw of one's habitat.
What you may not know is that every Wednesday and Saturday evening, we take it in turns to host what we euphemistically call 'football/rugby/cricket drinks' at our respective homes, to which all members of the community are invited. Tonight it was our turn - and we had a wonderful party. It vwas tremendous to entertain people with whom we work and consider to be our friends, and everyone came, including Mr and Mrs BT.
So there we were, wine glasses in hand, nibbles a-plenty, and everyone getting on with everyone else. Minor squabbles were quickly forgotten, and all was well. Mr Bryan and I were engaged in a very nerdy conversation about the where the emphasis lies in the pronunciation of the infinitives of second and third conjugation Latin verbs, and the sporting fraternity (of which Mr Bryan is one - and I am less so) discussing sporty stuff.
The boys, of course, love seeing their preceptors getting on with one another, and were not slow to enquire as to whether one had had a good time, or whether anyone had 'overdone it'. They had not!
And so it went on , leading into silent reading and lights out. The boys were quiet, and all was well. I went into the Heronians, and turned out their lights. Ensuring that silence reigned, which it did, I paced across the room in the dark. (You're ahead of me!) I paced back to the door, and, of course, crashed into a Heronian locker, sending its contents around the immediate area.
Oh well, at least it gave the Heronians a laugh.
What you may not know is that every Wednesday and Saturday evening, we take it in turns to host what we euphemistically call 'football/rugby/cricket drinks' at our respective homes, to which all members of the community are invited. Tonight it was our turn - and we had a wonderful party. It vwas tremendous to entertain people with whom we work and consider to be our friends, and everyone came, including Mr and Mrs BT.
So there we were, wine glasses in hand, nibbles a-plenty, and everyone getting on with everyone else. Minor squabbles were quickly forgotten, and all was well. Mr Bryan and I were engaged in a very nerdy conversation about the where the emphasis lies in the pronunciation of the infinitives of second and third conjugation Latin verbs, and the sporting fraternity (of which Mr Bryan is one - and I am less so) discussing sporty stuff.
The boys, of course, love seeing their preceptors getting on with one another, and were not slow to enquire as to whether one had had a good time, or whether anyone had 'overdone it'. They had not!
And so it went on , leading into silent reading and lights out. The boys were quiet, and all was well. I went into the Heronians, and turned out their lights. Ensuring that silence reigned, which it did, I paced across the room in the dark. (You're ahead of me!) I paced back to the door, and, of course, crashed into a Heronian locker, sending its contents around the immediate area.
Oh well, at least it gave the Heronians a laugh.
"Morning all! It's towels and flannels this morning!" was my cheery greeting as I switched on the lights at 7.10am. I received the customary grunts that translate as 'Good morning, sir' and the like. (As far as I know. They may well translate in other ways, too ....) But hark! The sound of real words landed upon my ears!
"I thought you didn't 'do' laundry', was the gentle riposte.
"I don't. It's just towels and flannels'.
Grunt of acknowledgement and head replaced on pillow.
So that was that. I sat, with my customary mug of coffee, watching towels and flannels of every colour being flung into the (three, of course, just to confuse me) baskets. But I'm wise to that one now, so I can offer oracular advice about what goes where if I see anyone look flummoxed.
7.30 arrived and it coccurred that the three baskets were not as full as they should be. Experience told me that there were still recalcitrant Newtonians at large. I made my way to the dorms.
"Right, you lot!" said I, doing my Mr Mackay ('Porridge', remember?) impression, "OUt of this dorm NOW! Five, four, three .... I'm thinking sweet rations ... ..."
Now if that had been Blighter B, I would been pretty scared. Smiles of knowingness and gentle repartee (not too much, because they never quite know if things are going to get serious) accompanied the degree of haste. (Which was hardly unsurpassable.)
"Twoooooooooooooo ........... one ................ "
I was going to start on fractions, but with my amathematical ability I'd probably come a cropper, so I abandoned that plan. The door slammed shut with a merry 'Have a nice day, sir' - and another day began.
"I thought you didn't 'do' laundry', was the gentle riposte.
"I don't. It's just towels and flannels'.
Grunt of acknowledgement and head replaced on pillow.
So that was that. I sat, with my customary mug of coffee, watching towels and flannels of every colour being flung into the (three, of course, just to confuse me) baskets. But I'm wise to that one now, so I can offer oracular advice about what goes where if I see anyone look flummoxed.
7.30 arrived and it coccurred that the three baskets were not as full as they should be. Experience told me that there were still recalcitrant Newtonians at large. I made my way to the dorms.
"Right, you lot!" said I, doing my Mr Mackay ('Porridge', remember?) impression, "OUt of this dorm NOW! Five, four, three .... I'm thinking sweet rations ... ..."
Now if that had been Blighter B, I would been pretty scared. Smiles of knowingness and gentle repartee (not too much, because they never quite know if things are going to get serious) accompanied the degree of haste. (Which was hardly unsurpassable.)
"Twoooooooooooooo ........... one ................ "
I was going to start on fractions, but with my amathematical ability I'd probably come a cropper, so I abandoned that plan. The door slammed shut with a merry 'Have a nice day, sir' - and another day began.
Monday 2 November 2009
So here we go again, then! By all accounts, Long Leave was both happy and successful on all counts - as was ours. I was delighted to overhear a goodly number of Newtonians enquiring of their peers whether they had had a good time, before clobbering said peers with pillows.
I must say that I wish I had returned to school to be greeted with fruit, Chunky Kit-Kat bars and a tin of the most wonderful cookies from a generous donor! I seem to recall that my own greeting was that rendered by a terrifying history beak, whose eagle gaze I endeavoured to avert while I smuggled in my illegal contraband! (I always managed it, and I'm jolly glad I did, because the penalty was pretty severe!) Goodness! What am I saying? Here I am, as a terrifying (well, only sometimes) English beak, admitting to the contravention of prep school rules! Oh well. And I wouldn't have given Mr Burton (or 'Blighter' Burton, as we called him, but not to his face) any unsolicited hugs, either, such as the three that I received tonight!
Nor would I have been able to watch Mr Bean on the telly, either, unlike our residents tonight! I did not confess to my ownership of a Mini 1000 in the 1970s, as I considered that this would have engendered too many suggested thoughts that Mr B and I were not entirely dissimilar in our ways .......
H'm. What a difference half a century makes. Still, I loved my prep school days, for all Blighter B's attempts at making it a frightening experience. (Although he could be quite entertaining at times, not least when he gave us a full-blown demonstration of how King Canute would have beaten the waves into submission, complete with omnipresent gym shoe.) I do hope our Newtonians love their days, too: they certainly appear to. It's good to have them back.
I must say that I wish I had returned to school to be greeted with fruit, Chunky Kit-Kat bars and a tin of the most wonderful cookies from a generous donor! I seem to recall that my own greeting was that rendered by a terrifying history beak, whose eagle gaze I endeavoured to avert while I smuggled in my illegal contraband! (I always managed it, and I'm jolly glad I did, because the penalty was pretty severe!) Goodness! What am I saying? Here I am, as a terrifying (well, only sometimes) English beak, admitting to the contravention of prep school rules! Oh well. And I wouldn't have given Mr Burton (or 'Blighter' Burton, as we called him, but not to his face) any unsolicited hugs, either, such as the three that I received tonight!
Nor would I have been able to watch Mr Bean on the telly, either, unlike our residents tonight! I did not confess to my ownership of a Mini 1000 in the 1970s, as I considered that this would have engendered too many suggested thoughts that Mr B and I were not entirely dissimilar in our ways .......
H'm. What a difference half a century makes. Still, I loved my prep school days, for all Blighter B's attempts at making it a frightening experience. (Although he could be quite entertaining at times, not least when he gave us a full-blown demonstration of how King Canute would have beaten the waves into submission, complete with omnipresent gym shoe.) I do hope our Newtonians love their days, too: they certainly appear to. It's good to have them back.
Monday 26 October 2009
I don't expect for one moment that anyone will 'blog-log' today, but as the thing has become almost an addiction for me, and the rest of the family are without, I thought I would type a few lines, just to keep things ticking over.
My Long Leave began well, as, while walking into Summertown, I received a very nice text from a former tutee, now happily ensconced at Eton. Things went downhill rather after that, as I bumped into an ex-parent in Summertown, who, after a cordial enough greeting, decided that this was the moment to shower SF - and me in particular - in a torrent of polemic. Looking into the dry cleaners' and thinking malevolent thoughts about which particular machine would lend itself most appropriately to the moment, I decided that discretion had to be the better part of valour and, although I had plenty of time to reciprocate in similar vein, that Summertown High Street was probably not the forum for such demeaning behaviour. I strode purposefully to the Health Centre to collect my inhalers, expressing, with as much heavy irony as I could summon, my delight that all was going so well now.
I then responded to my text-buddy with a brief synopsis of recent events, whose reply was instant, opining all manner of decent, kind and generous thoughts. I was much cheered by this, as you can imagine. Dorset could not come quickly enough.
Our private hideaway is the most wonderful haven. I have now finished reading John Rae's excellent diary: it's called 'The Old Boys' Network' and I do recommend it. (Only one incorrect pronoun ('I' when he should have used 'me') and one typographical inexactitude in 294 pages: not bad!) You may have heard part of it, as it was recently serialised on Radio 4' 'Book at Bedtime'. I agreed with so much of his educational philosophy - and it was reassuring to know that holding radical views about many aspects of the artificial world in which we independent schoolteachers live is nothing new. But you'll have to wait until I retire before I start pontificating about all that!
Now I am reading Alex Stobbs' book, 'A Passion for Living', which is deeply moving and enables me to put my own thoughts into perspective. His mother's 40 page introduction is something not to be missed by any parent.
Two of my passions when I am here is deepest Dorset - other than my family, of course! - are my motorbike and Thomas Hardy. It will not take much to conclude that the common factor in that is T.E. Lawrence, and, by combining all three, I am able to continue my discovery of the world about which Hardy wrote with such consummate assurance and craftsmanship.
Another passion is my piano. I am currently returning to Bach's '48' preludes and fugues and am relieved to discover that I can still get through the ones that I really enjoy (especially the C major and D major, the latter of which is a real gem, in my opinion) and have a pretty good stab at the rest.
I had a very nice e-mail from Monash University in Melbourne, telling me that the powers-that-be have decided to renew my research fellowship for another two years. I am working with the university and with the National College of Music in creating Afghanistan's first dedicated music college. My remit has been to design the music curriculum for the college, whose pupils will enter at 4 and go on until 19, and, as you can imagine, it has been a challenging, but immensely rewarding 'holiday project' for the past two years! There will be a total of 300 students, of which 50% will be orphans from the ongoing unrest in the region. Working closely with the Ministry of Education in Afghanistan is an amazing, though sometime frustrating, experience. Anyway, we're getting there, and the Afghanistan National Institute of Music is scheduled to open on March 23rd, 2010.
Gosh, have I really written that much?! Time to stop, methinks. Isla needs a walk - and so do I. Have a wonderful time, wherever you are.
My Long Leave began well, as, while walking into Summertown, I received a very nice text from a former tutee, now happily ensconced at Eton. Things went downhill rather after that, as I bumped into an ex-parent in Summertown, who, after a cordial enough greeting, decided that this was the moment to shower SF - and me in particular - in a torrent of polemic. Looking into the dry cleaners' and thinking malevolent thoughts about which particular machine would lend itself most appropriately to the moment, I decided that discretion had to be the better part of valour and, although I had plenty of time to reciprocate in similar vein, that Summertown High Street was probably not the forum for such demeaning behaviour. I strode purposefully to the Health Centre to collect my inhalers, expressing, with as much heavy irony as I could summon, my delight that all was going so well now.
I then responded to my text-buddy with a brief synopsis of recent events, whose reply was instant, opining all manner of decent, kind and generous thoughts. I was much cheered by this, as you can imagine. Dorset could not come quickly enough.
Our private hideaway is the most wonderful haven. I have now finished reading John Rae's excellent diary: it's called 'The Old Boys' Network' and I do recommend it. (Only one incorrect pronoun ('I' when he should have used 'me') and one typographical inexactitude in 294 pages: not bad!) You may have heard part of it, as it was recently serialised on Radio 4' 'Book at Bedtime'. I agreed with so much of his educational philosophy - and it was reassuring to know that holding radical views about many aspects of the artificial world in which we independent schoolteachers live is nothing new. But you'll have to wait until I retire before I start pontificating about all that!
Now I am reading Alex Stobbs' book, 'A Passion for Living', which is deeply moving and enables me to put my own thoughts into perspective. His mother's 40 page introduction is something not to be missed by any parent.
Two of my passions when I am here is deepest Dorset - other than my family, of course! - are my motorbike and Thomas Hardy. It will not take much to conclude that the common factor in that is T.E. Lawrence, and, by combining all three, I am able to continue my discovery of the world about which Hardy wrote with such consummate assurance and craftsmanship.
Another passion is my piano. I am currently returning to Bach's '48' preludes and fugues and am relieved to discover that I can still get through the ones that I really enjoy (especially the C major and D major, the latter of which is a real gem, in my opinion) and have a pretty good stab at the rest.
I had a very nice e-mail from Monash University in Melbourne, telling me that the powers-that-be have decided to renew my research fellowship for another two years. I am working with the university and with the National College of Music in creating Afghanistan's first dedicated music college. My remit has been to design the music curriculum for the college, whose pupils will enter at 4 and go on until 19, and, as you can imagine, it has been a challenging, but immensely rewarding 'holiday project' for the past two years! There will be a total of 300 students, of which 50% will be orphans from the ongoing unrest in the region. Working closely with the Ministry of Education in Afghanistan is an amazing, though sometime frustrating, experience. Anyway, we're getting there, and the Afghanistan National Institute of Music is scheduled to open on March 23rd, 2010.
Gosh, have I really written that much?! Time to stop, methinks. Isla needs a walk - and so do I. Have a wonderful time, wherever you are.
Friday 23 October 2009
No doubt you are thinking that I have taken leave of my senses and that the Dorset air is proving too much, as I am writing today's entry about a lodge which is not operative. Well, first, I do assure you that I am fine, and secondly, I'm actually in Oxford until tomorrow night, for logistical reasons, all connected with our own young. I won't trouble you with the details, as they are even more complicated than dealing with laundry baskets.
All I really wanted to do in this brief blogiphication (words with 'ph' in them always look so grown up, I feel) is to thank all of my readers for such terrific support and encouragement. Writing these daily missives is great fun: a good discipline anyway, and it enables me to appreciate just what an amazing job D and I have. Looking after your boys is a real privilege - and they're all lovely.
So, whatever you are doing, and wherever in the world you are, north, south, east or west, thank you for reading - and if you're an SFian, have a great Long Leave.
Now for something chilled and fizzy. And no, I don't mean Diana.
All I really wanted to do in this brief blogiphication (words with 'ph' in them always look so grown up, I feel) is to thank all of my readers for such terrific support and encouragement. Writing these daily missives is great fun: a good discipline anyway, and it enables me to appreciate just what an amazing job D and I have. Looking after your boys is a real privilege - and they're all lovely.
So, whatever you are doing, and wherever in the world you are, north, south, east or west, thank you for reading - and if you're an SFian, have a great Long Leave.
Now for something chilled and fizzy. And no, I don't mean Diana.
Thursday 22 October 2009
Good morning, all - and especial greetings to our new followers in Moscow and Newbury!
Some of you have may have noticed that the daily blogiphying is happening a little later in the day: this is due to what I am reliably informed is a computer upgrade, and the school computer system is not allowing me to access my own work, for reasons that I am assured are for the best!
Well anyway. Enough of my morning moans. You may recall from yesterday (or if you can't then you can read the entry) that I suggested that 'It's towels and flannels' has what I referred to as 'a whiff of the existential about it'. This morning I found myself advising all residents that 'It's everything today'. And indeed it was. Fortunately, Miss Ruthie was in the common room in an advisory capacity this morning, so everyone coped. Even me. Sorry, even I. Existentialism in Newton; my goodness! I never thought philosophy and laundry would make good bedfellows.
And talking of bedfellows - no, don't get alarmed - there were a few whose reluctance to move from their places of somnolent repose (beds) was in evidence big-time this morning, which caused some consternation to the laundry collectors! Still, the guilty found a bit of consternation coming their way pretty soon, so it fair dos all round, I felt.
I must rush. (Unlike this morning's lie-inners.) And just in case you find yourself wondering what 'it' may be, remember: 'It is everything'.
Which, I suppose, it is.
Some of you have may have noticed that the daily blogiphying is happening a little later in the day: this is due to what I am reliably informed is a computer upgrade, and the school computer system is not allowing me to access my own work, for reasons that I am assured are for the best!
Well anyway. Enough of my morning moans. You may recall from yesterday (or if you can't then you can read the entry) that I suggested that 'It's towels and flannels' has what I referred to as 'a whiff of the existential about it'. This morning I found myself advising all residents that 'It's everything today'. And indeed it was. Fortunately, Miss Ruthie was in the common room in an advisory capacity this morning, so everyone coped. Even me. Sorry, even I. Existentialism in Newton; my goodness! I never thought philosophy and laundry would make good bedfellows.
And talking of bedfellows - no, don't get alarmed - there were a few whose reluctance to move from their places of somnolent repose (beds) was in evidence big-time this morning, which caused some consternation to the laundry collectors! Still, the guilty found a bit of consternation coming their way pretty soon, so it fair dos all round, I felt.
I must rush. (Unlike this morning's lie-inners.) And just in case you find yourself wondering what 'it' may be, remember: 'It is everything'.
Which, I suppose, it is.
Wednesday 21 October 2009
Picture the scene. (To use that well-worn cliché of a beginning, so beloved of television news reporters, who even have the advantage of images on a screen.) It’s Miss Ruthie’s day off today, and I am sitting, as I do every morning, waiting for the boys to emerge from their nocturnal slumber, in the common room, sipping my coffee and watching the Breakfast news. There are three laundry baskets in front of me, and I have been advised by Mrs C that ‘it’s towels and flannels’. (A statement which always has a whiff of the existential about it, I feel.) A (tall) Newtonian walks past me, gives me a grunt of acknowledgement, accompanied by a lovely smile, and collects the clothing he should have collected last night. On his return from the laundry, he looks at the laundry baskets, quizzically, and then looks at me.
‘Towels and flannels’, I explain.
He points at the individual laundry baskets and says,
‘Towels, flannels, and …. ?
He echoes what I’ve been thinking. Towels, flannels and what else?
Realising that I have to think of a sensible answer, I say that towels go in the baskets on either side of the one in the middle, and flannels go in the centre basket. He seems happy with this response and he returns to his dorm.
Another Newtonian arrives. He, too, looks quizzically at three baskets for two items. By now I have revised my former thinking.
‘Towels in the one on the right, flannels in the left and the other one is for when the ….. erm … ‘
He, too, seems happy with this, though somewhat confused, so I revert to my original thinking, whereby the towels go in the right and left basket and the flannels go in the middle one’.
Enter the Obergrupenfurherine of Newton. (Sorry, Diana.)
‘Why three baskets for two items?’ I enquire, in all innocence and on behalf of my fellow males in the room. My other half gives me the look that suggests that she’s been married to an idiot for the past 29 years.
‘Towels and flannels go together. There are a lot of both, so we need three baskets.’
Ah. Now I get it. I think.
‘Towels and flannels’, I explain.
He points at the individual laundry baskets and says,
‘Towels, flannels, and …. ?
He echoes what I’ve been thinking. Towels, flannels and what else?
Realising that I have to think of a sensible answer, I say that towels go in the baskets on either side of the one in the middle, and flannels go in the centre basket. He seems happy with this response and he returns to his dorm.
Another Newtonian arrives. He, too, looks quizzically at three baskets for two items. By now I have revised my former thinking.
‘Towels in the one on the right, flannels in the left and the other one is for when the ….. erm … ‘
He, too, seems happy with this, though somewhat confused, so I revert to my original thinking, whereby the towels go in the right and left basket and the flannels go in the middle one’.
Enter the Obergrupenfurherine of Newton. (Sorry, Diana.)
‘Why three baskets for two items?’ I enquire, in all innocence and on behalf of my fellow males in the room. My other half gives me the look that suggests that she’s been married to an idiot for the past 29 years.
‘Towels and flannels go together. There are a lot of both, so we need three baskets.’
Ah. Now I get it. I think.
Tuesday 20 October 2009
Sir, there’s been a spillage in Osprey!’
Silently invoking the Deity and imagining that I would discover a flood of biblical proportions in the aforementioned dorm, I hastened to the disaster zone. What I found was hardly tsunamian in its proportions, just a damp area that had tumbled from an Ospreyite’s cup of water and covered the top of his locker.
“Rather a minor spillage, I’d say,’ said I.
“Not a major one,” responded another Ospreyite from his top bunk.
I then made the mistake of saying that I was looking forward to the day when we had a Mynor called Maurice, or Morris, at Summer Fields, because that would mean that he would be Maurice Mynor.
“Oh!” said top bunk man, “I love those cars! My mum used to have one of those! It got stolen, unfortunately.”
Now, if there’s one thing I can be nerdy about (apart from notes inégales in Baroque music – when two written quavers become dotted when played), it’s the Morris Minor. I could bore for England, if not the United Kingdom, about the original version, then the 848cc engine version, with its split windscreen, and then how the radiator grille and the dashboard changed but the split windscreen remained, how it became the Minor 1000, with its 998cc engine, single windscreen and enlarged rear window. I could talk about the convertible version, the estate, or ‘shooting brake’ version, with its half-timbered back, etc., etc.
We had a mass shoe-cleaning last night, notwithstanding tsunamis. It was a wonderful sight to behold, with everyone ensuring that their footwear was respectable! We then lined all the shoes up in the downstairs corridor – and to my utter delight one Newtonian decided, of his own volition, that he would take it upon himself to buff up every single pair!
Yes, it was a good evening. There was a group of six playing our newly-acquired (and generously donated) game ‘Romans’ in our drawing room, which gave immense pleasure, others were on the computer, the phone was in almost constant use and everyone, it seemed, was happy.
Silently invoking the Deity and imagining that I would discover a flood of biblical proportions in the aforementioned dorm, I hastened to the disaster zone. What I found was hardly tsunamian in its proportions, just a damp area that had tumbled from an Ospreyite’s cup of water and covered the top of his locker.
“Rather a minor spillage, I’d say,’ said I.
“Not a major one,” responded another Ospreyite from his top bunk.
I then made the mistake of saying that I was looking forward to the day when we had a Mynor called Maurice, or Morris, at Summer Fields, because that would mean that he would be Maurice Mynor.
“Oh!” said top bunk man, “I love those cars! My mum used to have one of those! It got stolen, unfortunately.”
Now, if there’s one thing I can be nerdy about (apart from notes inégales in Baroque music – when two written quavers become dotted when played), it’s the Morris Minor. I could bore for England, if not the United Kingdom, about the original version, then the 848cc engine version, with its split windscreen, and then how the radiator grille and the dashboard changed but the split windscreen remained, how it became the Minor 1000, with its 998cc engine, single windscreen and enlarged rear window. I could talk about the convertible version, the estate, or ‘shooting brake’ version, with its half-timbered back, etc., etc.
We had a mass shoe-cleaning last night, notwithstanding tsunamis. It was a wonderful sight to behold, with everyone ensuring that their footwear was respectable! We then lined all the shoes up in the downstairs corridor – and to my utter delight one Newtonian decided, of his own volition, that he would take it upon himself to buff up every single pair!
Yes, it was a good evening. There was a group of six playing our newly-acquired (and generously donated) game ‘Romans’ in our drawing room, which gave immense pleasure, others were on the computer, the phone was in almost constant use and everyone, it seemed, was happy.
Sunday 18 October 2009
A very happy Monday to all.
I nearly missed the fact that the blog celebrated its 30th birthday a couple of days ago, so I mustn't let that landmark pass unnoticed! Thank you, one and all, for your terrific following and your appreciative - and appreciated - words.
Other exciting news is that the blog has gone global, with readers having contacted me from around the world: New York and Durban to name but two areas in which our antics are being followed with eager anticipation.
Newton was preceded by a French cabaret act in Macmillan last night. It was all very bizarre, so let me tell you about it.
I can only describe what went on as a selection of people babbling on incomprehensibly, running around manically, singing strange, unusual melodies and making other peculiar noises, with activities ranging from tearing up paper and throwing it around, to dropping things on other people's heads, from adorning themselves with most unusual items, to daubing one another's faces with some kind of unpleasant goo. There seemed to be some kind of cohesion to what was going on, but it was not easy to ascertain exactly what it was, and when the lights went out at the end of the festivities, everyone collapsed into a heap and appeared to have gone to sleep.
The French cabaret was even more bizarre. (!)
Nearly Long Leave - and I don't doubt that the residents' excitement rating will escalate this week ..... ! Watch this space - and thank you for reading.
I nearly missed the fact that the blog celebrated its 30th birthday a couple of days ago, so I mustn't let that landmark pass unnoticed! Thank you, one and all, for your terrific following and your appreciative - and appreciated - words.
Other exciting news is that the blog has gone global, with readers having contacted me from around the world: New York and Durban to name but two areas in which our antics are being followed with eager anticipation.
Newton was preceded by a French cabaret act in Macmillan last night. It was all very bizarre, so let me tell you about it.
I can only describe what went on as a selection of people babbling on incomprehensibly, running around manically, singing strange, unusual melodies and making other peculiar noises, with activities ranging from tearing up paper and throwing it around, to dropping things on other people's heads, from adorning themselves with most unusual items, to daubing one another's faces with some kind of unpleasant goo. There seemed to be some kind of cohesion to what was going on, but it was not easy to ascertain exactly what it was, and when the lights went out at the end of the festivities, everyone collapsed into a heap and appeared to have gone to sleep.
The French cabaret was even more bizarre. (!)
Nearly Long Leave - and I don't doubt that the residents' excitement rating will escalate this week ..... ! Watch this space - and thank you for reading.
Saturday 17 October 2009
Psalm 8, verse 2; St Matthew's Gospel, ch. 21, verse 16. For those followers whose religious knowledge may have temporarily escaped them, I refer to the wording found in both references:
'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings'.
And I'm writing the Sunday entry tonight, because otherwise I will forget some of the classic quotes of the evening. viz.:
While watching X Factor: "Everyone wants to kiss Cheryl Cole. Well, my dad certainly wants to kiss her.'
'Sir, did you see an act called 'Grand 2000'? It was these grandparents singing. You could go on and be just like them.'
Oh, don't you wish you were here?! What wonderful sons and heirs you have; and what a privilege it is for Mrs C and me (yes, that is the right pronoun: dative case (to or for)) to look after them.
It was a lovely evening tonight: all the boys were in calm, thoughtful and affectionate humour, and the various cinemas were a pleasure to visit and enjoin. I couldn't do any of it, though, without the help of my first officer, my dear Diana, whose evening consisted of counting in the right number of leagues and cords in the baskets provided, putting the p. and s. in the machine, locating the guilty who had not acted as asked, and giving out the sweet rations. Believe me, she works a lot harder than I do!
Oh well. At least I don't have an overwhelming age to kiss Cheryl Cole. Ha! there's a Freudian slip if ever there was one! I meant to type 'urge'! Oh dear, now I really am getting into hot water!
Goodnight.
'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings'.
And I'm writing the Sunday entry tonight, because otherwise I will forget some of the classic quotes of the evening. viz.:
While watching X Factor: "Everyone wants to kiss Cheryl Cole. Well, my dad certainly wants to kiss her.'
'Sir, did you see an act called 'Grand 2000'? It was these grandparents singing. You could go on and be just like them.'
Oh, don't you wish you were here?! What wonderful sons and heirs you have; and what a privilege it is for Mrs C and me (yes, that is the right pronoun: dative case (to or for)) to look after them.
It was a lovely evening tonight: all the boys were in calm, thoughtful and affectionate humour, and the various cinemas were a pleasure to visit and enjoin. I couldn't do any of it, though, without the help of my first officer, my dear Diana, whose evening consisted of counting in the right number of leagues and cords in the baskets provided, putting the p. and s. in the machine, locating the guilty who had not acted as asked, and giving out the sweet rations. Believe me, she works a lot harder than I do!
Oh well. At least I don't have an overwhelming age to kiss Cheryl Cole. Ha! there's a Freudian slip if ever there was one! I meant to type 'urge'! Oh dear, now I really am getting into hot water!
Goodnight.
I see from this morning's edition of The Times that our Prime Minister cannot decide whether he favours the Rich Tea or the Digestive biscuit. Well, I must be careful when writing about Our Leader, as his mother-in-law lives only a few houses away from us in Dorset, and the chances are that she's reading this, but suffice it to say that the Newton Obergrupenfuhrer has no such issues: he will eat both varieties with equal alacrity. As you know. Good morning, Mrs Macaulay.
My greeting this morning was 'Sir, there's a scorpion in the vins'. Upon investigation I discovered that there was no evidence of a creature from the Outback on vacation in the Northern Hemisphere, just a particularly large daddy-long-legs. Still, it pays to be careful ..... !
Here's a definition for you. 'A large, noisy and unweildy group of jostling and shoving young people, a few of whom have been selected to emit an unpleasant caterwauling in the name of musical ability, in front of a selection of bickering self-styled experts whose intention and reason for existence is to make anyone in front of them feel as in intimidated and uncomfortable as possible.' Yes, that's right, it's any one of the wannabe programmes on any television in the world. X Factor, Britain's Got (Ho Ho) Talent, etc. Or, alternatively, as we saw last night, it is a fine description (a rather generous one, actually) of the evening's entertainment 'Curlew Hasn't Got Any Talent Whatsoever'. (As I re-christened it.) I couldn't fault anyone for enthusiasm: that was terrific. But so was the noise. At least they enjoyed it - I think (although it was a job to tell!), but silent reading came a blessed relief - and started three minutes early!
John Cage, the American composer and philosopher, 'composed' a piece (as I'm sure you know) entitled '4 minutes, 33 seconds'. It consists of four minutes and thirty-three seconds of complete silence. Now that's talent.
My greeting this morning was 'Sir, there's a scorpion in the vins'. Upon investigation I discovered that there was no evidence of a creature from the Outback on vacation in the Northern Hemisphere, just a particularly large daddy-long-legs. Still, it pays to be careful ..... !
Here's a definition for you. 'A large, noisy and unweildy group of jostling and shoving young people, a few of whom have been selected to emit an unpleasant caterwauling in the name of musical ability, in front of a selection of bickering self-styled experts whose intention and reason for existence is to make anyone in front of them feel as in intimidated and uncomfortable as possible.' Yes, that's right, it's any one of the wannabe programmes on any television in the world. X Factor, Britain's Got (Ho Ho) Talent, etc. Or, alternatively, as we saw last night, it is a fine description (a rather generous one, actually) of the evening's entertainment 'Curlew Hasn't Got Any Talent Whatsoever'. (As I re-christened it.) I couldn't fault anyone for enthusiasm: that was terrific. But so was the noise. At least they enjoyed it - I think (although it was a job to tell!), but silent reading came a blessed relief - and started three minutes early!
John Cage, the American composer and philosopher, 'composed' a piece (as I'm sure you know) entitled '4 minutes, 33 seconds'. It consists of four minutes and thirty-three seconds of complete silence. Now that's talent.
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