Newton was very empty last night, with so many boys enjoying Credits. Back at Camp Newton all went well, although my own attempts to sort out the mechanics (again) of the DVD served only to prove to all remaining inmates and my nearest and dearest that as far as anything vaguely technical is concerned then my abenorsity is on a par with a chimpanzee typing out the complete works of Shakespeare. (The similarity being, apparently, that both of us would get there in the end.) You can imagine the scene, no doubt.
"Send for Hannah, someone!" shouted I, imperiously and in a manner befitting one who enjoys his own empire. She arrived.
"Can YOU sort this wretched thing out, Hannah?" I demanded.
"If you're going to be like that about it .... " etc., etc. Of course, simultaneously, all Newtonians proffered what I'm sure was sound advice about which coloured buttons, and on which remote control, to employ. Two others whose boredom threshold had been reached and surpassed were ragging under the duvets that they had brought with them in order to watch the film comfortably.
"Right. You two, I've told you once (John Cleese would have been proud of me), if you're going to make that silly screaming noise any more you can go back to your dorm."
"Can we come back in about five minutes, sir, once we've calmed down?" enquired the screamers, smiling knowingly.
"Only if you can calm down. Is it working now, Hannah?"
"No. And as you're just being grumpy about it, you'd better do it."
Well anyway. To cut a not very interesting or long story short, Mrs Sparrow arrived (as it is she, she tells me, who sorts out Mayfield's technical problems)and all was well.
Oh, and in case you're wondering, it was the mains lead that had unplugged itself from the back of the DVD. No problem.
Except that I had to go and tell Hannah.