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.