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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So there I was, ruminating about how I should prioritise my 'things to do' list during our evening off, surrounded by the sound of gentle thumping from above, as usual on a Thursday night. Should I finish off the Junior Choir carol I've been writing; should I give further thought to tomorrow's English lesson with 5L, should I go and play through a Bach prelude or two, etc., etc.

Suddenly, the gentle thumping sounded like a turbo-charged herd of Hannibal's Alp-crossing elephants. I went upstairs, through the connecting door from our quarters to theirs and awaited the charge of what proved to be pillow-wielding infantry. As they arrived at the top of the stairs, their gaze was met by a less than happy lodgemaster. They melted into a genteel passivity as I signalled silently that they should sit. Once they had all frozen, I started my inevitable rant, pianissimo and in that well-rehearsed schoolmagisterial manner. (I'm sure you will remember it.)

pp: "Unblievable." (Dramatic silence.) "Utterly un-be-lievable."
(p:) "I cannot believe that boys in the third year - (mp:) the third year - could behave in such a ridiculous manner. (mf:) In all of my time as lodgemaster of Newton (which is less than a year, but they don't know that) I have never heard such an unacceptable racket! (f:) I find it absolutely extraordinary (I don't, in fact, because they're just boys having an inter-dorm pillow fight, but we'll pass that one by) that whenever Mrs Cheater and I have a free evening, (ff:) you lot - you lot - seem to think that this is an excuse to make (fff:) as much noise as you possibly (ffff, sf:) CAN!"

Like dogs that had just been rebuked for nicking the Sunday joint, they went silently back to their dorms.

I hear nothing more until almost lights out time. There is a knock on the connecting door upstairs.

"Sir, we're really sorry. Here are our apology letters." My turn to melt. And here, just for fun, is a sample of what I read.

"Dear Mr Cheater. We are extremely sorry for ruining your night off. Any punishment acceptable."

"Dear Sir, It was stupid of me to join in. I should of (sic) just stayed with xxxx and yyyy doing black magic."

Meltdown of lodgemaster complete.

As promised, Tom played to his adoring public last night. I took the role of his manager, and after I had informed him at five minute intervals before 8pm how long there was before his solo was to start, I then went downstairs and invited anyone who wanted to hear him play to come upstairs. Of course, as you can imagine, I informed the queueing audience how sensitive musicians are (and I should know!) and how they should be respectful in the presence of a celebrity, I then led them them through to the concert hall. (i.e. Tom's bedroom.)

I wish you could have seen the performance. Not because Tom's performance was first-rate - although it was - (oh come on, there have to be some privileges about being a contributing member of the blogosphere!), but because the sea of adoring and admiring faces was a true joy to behold. And, when the show was over, try as I might to cajole the masses back to their dorms, they were having none of it. Tom, to his great credit, answered all of their questions, telling them about his portfolio of instruments and how he came to achieve what he has done - and, who knows, seeds of future musical accomplishment may well have been sown last night. I hope they were.

My own celebrity status was less spectacular, although no less of a pleasure, as I had the privilege of speaking to many of my blog-followers during match tea, yesterday afternoon. There I was, chatting, greeting, signing autogr ........

Sorry: got a bit carried away there. Ah well, one day.

Jusqu'a demain.

(Oh, by the way, the 'rose bush incident' was christened 'Operation Floribunda'. I still laugh when I think about, even now!)

Greetings.

The Curlewites and I have 'had words'. And I told them that they would feature, for all the wrong reasons, in today's blog entry. Throwing plastic soldiers around the dorm? Er, I think not. Not on my watch. And then compounding the crime by blaming the dog? I don't think so. However talented Isla may be, she is not into plastic soldiers and she certainly hasn't been trained to hurl them around a room. And if anyone is thinking up witty comments about gun-dogs, forget it. I'm not in the mood. The relevant Curlewites looked appropriately chastened, I'm glad to say and I suspect that the thought of any parental input will act as a very apposite deterrent!

Mr Bryan was on duty last night, and all went well. And I'm sure the residents were delighted by his self-admitted flexi-silent reading time! Getting heavily involved in a game of Stratego is a most honourable excuse.

Of course, one of the joys of having assistants working with me and for me (or, in the case of the Head of Classics, per and pro) is that I can, occasionally, read a book. And that's what I did last night. I opened 'The Old Boy Network', by the late, great Headmaster of Westminster School, Dr John Rae, and realised what a brilliant blogger he would have been if he were still alive today! The book is a diary of his time as a HM, and, delightfully for me, the daily record starts at the same time as I started teaching: September, 1973.

There are all kind of parallels, of course. Except that while he was dining in Downing Street, or consuming grouse and claret in a Fellows' Common Room at Oxford or transforming the world of private education (as well as turning Westminster into a hugely successful school), I was swigging back a bottle of cheap plonk with other young beaks, putting the headmaster's wife's prize rose bush back together early one morning after a colleague had leapt from a first floor window in anguish at his failure to attract the attentions of an under-matron, or racing around the lanes of Berkshire at a ridiculous velocity in my open-topped Fiat Spider.

Then, just like those Curlewites, I had to grow up.

Many years ago, I was the keyboard player for a band that was organised by someone called George Stiles. George has gone on to make many squillions of pounds as a writer of successful musicals, and I'm writing this daily blog. Not that I'm jealous, of course.

The reason I tell you that is that the Newton entertainment last night was supplied by courtesy of Tom, our 18 year old, drummer and bass guitarist. (And Grade 8 bassoonist.) I asked him whether he would care to demonstrate his musical prowess to the residents, and, before he went out to play drums for a jazz band in a hostelry somewhere (more about that in a moment), he put on the song 'Hysteria' by Muse. Now I don't whether you are familiar with the works of Muse, but if you are, you will know that the bass guitar part is pretty demanding. Notwithstanding that, Tom put the track through his speakers, and, as they say, 'took it away'. The Newtonians were spellbound. I don't think they could quite believe what they were seeing! I have to admit, it was pretty good. No, it was amazing. And for those who didn't get tickets for last night's perfomance. he's agreed to a second gig tomorrow night.

I had a great day yesterday, and thank you for your good wishes. It culminated in an evening round the kitchen table with our friends from Sussex who used to be Newton lodgeparents pre-Smiths, tucking in to an extensive Chinese takeaway from the finest Chinese place in Oxford (imho), which happens, fortuitously, to be in Summertown. Nearing the end of our festivities, Tom returned. I asked him how it had been and, in his own inimitable way, causing us all to collapse with laughter, he regaled us with stories of the gay Chinese keyboard player and instruments that looked as if they had all been homemade. The drumkit, apparently, was put together using parts from a scrapyard.

That's my boy. A chip off the old block. (Or, for our French followers, un frite du vieux bloc.)

OK, I admit it. It's my birthday and I'm 58. So now you know. In fact, I tried to keep it quiet this morning, while doing my rounds, and was relieved that all I received in response to my cheery 'Good mornings' were the usual grunts of acknowledgement. However, I began to think that things were afoot when, unusually, all of the residents arrived in the Common Room by 7.25am and sat, silently, pretending to be interested in the news, which, at the time, happened to be an item about relics from the Mary Rose. While I'm sure that an enormous shovel-like object that was used for serving out porridge in the 14th century may provide endless fascination for historians, the extent of such interest is rather more limited for nine and ten year olds, I would think. I waited for the inevitable question about whether I could remember life in the 14th century and whether I had ever had cause to use any of the relics that met our collective gaze, but there was none, and suddenly the only relic in the room that was being stared at was me.

"Happy birthday, sir," volunteered a Heronian. (Yes, a Heronian!)

Well, that was that, of course. Within seconds the whole lodge were singing at the top of their voices as they left, offering a melodious wake-up call to the rest of the SF northern campus!

I can't report anything about last night, as Mrs C and I had the privilege of dining with the Headmaster of Winchester at Beech House and Mr Porter was left in charge. I must say that the evening was very agreeable, although it felt like an episode of Casulaty (see, I've mis-typed it again) surrounded as I was by three doctors, Dr Townsend, Dr Harskin and Dr Dean! We mere Research Fellows can't really compete with that. Still, my attempts at conversation did not, as I feared, prove to be the Titanics of the dinner table, crashing into the icebergs of academe after the first salvo, and we had a very meaningful discussion about what 'the real world' is, down at our end of the table.

Don't worry, I'll soon be talking to woolly Highland cattle again.

H'm, X-Factor. Now, I can't really pretend that I've ever really been much of a fan of the series, despite having teenage offspring who seem to think that it's the only programme worth watching on terrestrial, satellite and probably extra-terrestrial television, but I am now led to believe that there may be hope for me yet.

Sitting as I was on a bed in Curlew dorm, flanked on either side by two Ospreyites, I made so bold as to suggest that I thought that I should apply to the X-Factota (people who work for X Factor, as I'm sure you will have worked out) to see whether I might one day rise to celebrity status. (As if writing this blog wasn't enough already.) Back came the immediate rejoinder, without a hint of irony, and with eyes remaining fixed to the screen,

"Yes, sir. If they ever have a grandfather special.'

Indeed. Well, when and if they do, you can bet I'll be there. So keep watching.

Having been firmly put in my place, and after getting a few more tips as to what I would have to remember when the day comes for me to reveal my vocal prowess to the masses, I found myself sitting on the steps in the downstairs corridor, flanked once again by two more Newtonians, who were absolutely determined to discover the Black Magic secret! A Kingfisherian, not unrelated to my former advisor, walked past.

'Hi, Big Man', said I.

'Hi Biggest Man', came the reply.

So there we are. As lodgemaster of Newton I'm seen as a big, fat, grandfather.

Incidentally, to my amazement, the two Newtonians who were so keen to discover the Black Magic secrets, having spent the better part of two hours engaged in research of the project, managed, eventually, to solve the mystery!

And, no, they're not telling!

Greetings, one and all, and a special welcome to new readers in Yorkshire and West Dorset, who have just joined us.

If I tell you that last night we had an evening of black magic, you will probably imagine that Newtonians have now been initiated into the ways of the occult, or that we spent the night guzzling chocolate, or that you should have sent him to 'another place'. Let me assure you that all is well and you really don't need to send off for a pack of prospecti from our various rival establishments.

It was no more than my younger daughter, Alice, and I, transmitting names of objects that had been whispered into my ear by individuals, telepathically to each other. Well, it looked like telepathy to the various dorm audiences, and all were open-mouthed that we could do this successfully! I'm sure there may be some among the Newtonian parental body (what a surreal image that is! Dali would love it!) who know how it's done, but trust me, none of your offspring knows the secret! Yet.

Talking of strange happenings, it was bed-making night last night, pre-black magic. And you know from a previous post what that's like .... ! (See 26th September!)

Oh very funny, Miss Ruthie. There I was this morning, happily watching the Breakfast news, surrounded by receptacular laundry baskets, mug of coffee in hand.

"So where would you put pillowcases, then?"

"Sorry? Oh, in with the sheets, of course."

"Er, think again ... ? Pillowcases go with .... ?"

"Ah! Duvets!"

I don't know how you mummies do it, I really don't. Anyway, I found it hard to resist a wry smile when one of our residents looked at the Miss Ruthie's dorm tidiness results sheet and opined that it was easy to gauge her mood by the number of marks that were awarded to each dorm each day!

I do hope you were able to see the inspirational film about Alex Stobbs last night. (At the expense of Ice Road Truckers ... !) Diana and I left Newton in the capable hands of Dr Dean, as we do every Thursday, and sat, spellbound for an hour. I am privileged to know Alex's parents well, and one of my most treasured possessions is a letter from Alex himself, written at the age of 12, when he kindly replied to a letter I wrote, congratulating him on playing a spectacular organ piece in King's College Chapel after I'd preached a sermon there. The whole programme made me think about our own good fortune as parents, how strong his parents have to be, and how incredible Alex is, living life to the full, in the face of such adversity. What a metaphor for his own existence is the exquisite St Matthew Passion.

I had to ban Isla from her early morning visit to Curlew dorm this morning. Too much canine adulation and not enough sheet/duvet/pillowcase/pyjama changing.

I rather like the word receptacular, by the way.

It's not every night that one has the opportunity to speak meaningfully with a woolly Highland cow called Hamish or a beatnik-like lop-eared cuddly white rabbit, but that's how my evening in Newton started. It was indeed an evening of intersting dialogue, and as I made my way around the dorms (my rounds) I was able to enjoy a spirited discussion about sustainable energy, the relative benefits of radio and television, and what makes people fat, to name but three of the topics covered.

The Rich Tea mountain, I discovered, had finally succumbed to total erosion, causing some disappointment to those of a geological inclination and those who just like eating biscuits. Our anxiety was short-lived, however, as we learnt that a Digestive delivery had appeared, manna-like, for all to enjoy! Isla was among those who were delighted by this natural event. I hovered around the area, ensuring that no canine theft or misdemeanours would occur. Stretching my hand surreptitiously towards the overflowing bowl, I was suddenly aware of uxorial eyes piercing my very being. Quickly, (enacting another Basil Fawlty impression) I remonstrated with the dog, informing her that she should not even think of misappropriating any of the bowl's contents. (Well, she is a labrador, and they are supposed to be very, very bright.) I think I got away with it.

I went into Curlew dorm and chatted awhile with anyone who wanted to engage. As I sat on one of the beds and conversed about anything and everything, I suddenly realised that it was time for silent reading. I moved from the bed on which I was sitting, looked back at its occupant - and saw that he was already fast asleep.

Until tomorrow .....

Another pleasant night for Mr Bryan, I hear. That is, if we overlook an(other) attempt at nocturnal antics on the part of the Heronians! Mr B's handling of all of this was extremely worthy of a Newtonian lodgemaster, as I learn that he informed those for whom sleep had not yet become an option that their behaviour had earned them a yellow card - and if there was any more of it the lights would go back on and he would enquire who was responsible! Silence thereafter, I am pleased to report!

It occurs to me that, while I often speak about Newtonian evenings, I have not given my readers and followers much information about what goes on in the mornings. Well, I suppose it goes without saying that boys being boys their out-of-bed times are variable ...! However, once they have all dressed, and, er, 'made their beds' (we never had duvets in my day: we had proper sheets, blankets and counterpanes - and we needed a 'bed pass' from the dorm captain before we were released from the room. No hospital corners, no escape. I must be very old), they and I assemble in the Common Room and watch the Breakfast news. Fascinating it is to hear the comments!

"Oh! The FTSE's gone down again! My dad won't like that!"

"Be quiet you lot! I want to see the weather! I only stay for the weather!"

"Cor! That's amazing! That boy should be on X Factor!"

is a small selection for you to savour.

Hair combed/brushed, shoes on, collars out, guernseys on: then they leave and another day begins.

H'm. Bed passes. What a good idea.

If you've ever seen a programme called 'Ice Road Truckers' (History Channel, Thursdays, 9pm; I recommend it), you will have seen the veteran driver of 30 years called George Spears. He's one of the team of mega-truckers who regularly drive across the Dalton Highway of Alaska, encountering navigational issues the like of which you wouldn't believe. I can identify with George (in more ways than one if you've ever seen him ...) because there are few things he hasn't come across before. Last night in Newton was one such occasion for me and, to use that old cliche, some of the residents must think I was born yesterday.

I refer, of course, to the old 'head-in-the-basin-and-pretend-I've-had-a-shower' trick. Well, that's fine, and just occasionally, with one who hasn't seen it all before, some - some - might just get away with it. However, if you pass your lodgemaster, enter the bathroom dressing-gown-clad and then, within no more than five seconds, emerge with only wettened hair, the result is inevitable. You can imagine the sergeant-major-like comments that ensued ... ! (All taken in good humour, I should add, and there was no hesitation on the part of the culprit to admit defeat!) Nice try.

Despite Isla's best efforts, there remains a Rich Tea mountain in Newton. Or rather, there did. As it provided much-appreciated sustenance to your correspondent whenever he passed it (having checked that certain people weren't looking ...), its summit lowered. I had some explaining to do when this natural erosion was discovered! Wickedly, I considered the option of pinpointing the nearest resident and enquiring of him how this could have happened, hoping that he might just play along, but even I am not that mean.

Ice Road Truckers. History Channel, Thursday night. Look out for George Spears - and you'll see what I mean.

I have a lot of time for T.E. Lawrence, not least because of his predilection for Dorset and for motorcycling. (Mind you, it didn't do him a lot of good in the end, of course.) As I whizzed around the lanes of west Dorset on my own machine, I heard his words in my ears:

“When my mood gets too hot and I find myself wandering beyond control, I pull out my motorbike and hurl it top speed through these unfit roads for hour after hour.”

In fact, my mood wasn't too hot at all, because I was free and able to think about all kinds of thngs, including Newton. What other job, I thought, would allow me to engage in such amazing repartee, chat informally about anything and everything, support, cajole, help, get people out of large cardboard boxes, talk to woolly animals, or pretend that I was a flight attendant? It's a great privilege, for both Diana and for me, and we know it.

There was considerable excitement in the lodge upon return last night, however! As impersonators of a litter of lively labrador puppies (or any puppies, for that matter) they put on a very good show! And of course, when what inmate referred to as 'a motherload of food' arrived, in the form of fruit, Kit-Kat bars and Rich Tea biscuits, it was I who started barking. (But not seriously.)

After the usual Sunday night activities, though, all went to sleep happily and all was well. I did, too, and and I dreamt of Dorset lanes, Lawrence of Arabia's words featuring once again:

'The burble of my exhaust unwound like a long cord behind me; soon my speed snapped it, and I heard only the cry of the wind my battering head split and fended aside. The cry rose with my speed to a shriek while the air's coldness streamed like two jets of iced water into my dissolving eyes.'

Mrs C, to her eternal credit, does not prevent my motorcycling enthusiasm, so we can walk happily along the beaches and the cliffs near our home - and enjoy lovely Short Leaves: just like our Newtonians and their families, I hope.