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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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'.

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.

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.

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!

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 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.

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?

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.

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!

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.