I sometimes worry about my mental health. Last night, after having frater - and, of course, in these days of gender sensitivity, soror - ised in New Room after Chapel (and, thank goodness, for those of you who heard me 'mess up' the anthem's organ part during the rehearsal, I managed to get it right in the service), I returned to Newton where I found the usual mix of clothes-putting-away, home-clothes-dumping-into-baskets, Top-Gear-viewing, and, seeing as they asked so nicely, a few who wanted to watch The Simpsons in our sitting room while adulating the dog.

Yes, you may be thinking, that was all pretty normal Newton stuff - which it was. It was the fact that, when the boys came upstairs for silent reading, I found myself standing at the top of the stairs, pretending to be a flight attendant, welcoming them aboard, looking at their boarding passes and telling them where their seat was. Of course, being the lovely boys that they are, they humoured the old man and played along, often with considerable wit. One passenger, who was clearly en route to Paris, asked for a glass of water once he had ensconced himself into his First Class upper bunk ....

If that had been where it had ended, perhaps I wouldn't be so concerned. However, when I discovered that I had been issuing a tirade of imperatives to a duvet, I began to think that perhaps I should see someone.

"Sir, X is under his duvet on the floor."

"Get into bed - right now. It's not funny: you should be in bed and reading silently. Come ON!"

"Yes, sir. But I'm actually over here," said the duvet's owner, from behind the door.

Collapse of stout party. More tomorrow - unless they've taken me away.