Catch up with the latest Newton holiday news (if you really do have nothing else to do ...) on Twitter.

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Oh go on: you know you want to. Twitter's not just for celebs, you know ....

So here we are, then, on the eve of the end of a long, active and thoroughly enjoyable Michaelmas term, limping, as the HM put it in assembly this morning, across the finish line. We're squeezing the very last drops of adrenalin from our bodies, and, with luck, we'll make it to tomorrow.

Tonight in Newton we started packing this morning, over at school, with locker and form room tidying. Lunch was an interesting affair, more a sort of picnic in New Room, as the juniors were having their Christmas lunch in the dining room; then on to choir practice for some of us, followed by games, followed by 'serious' preparations for packing. Tonight we all left Newton at 6.53pm, as instructed on Mr Bishop's end of term timetable and made our way to the dining room for a first class Christmas dinner. Your boys did you proud, as they always do, and a jolly time was had by all.

Back here for the business of packing everything else into cases, and then a sad and emotional farewell to Miss Chloe, who's going back to Australia very soon, took place in the common room, and we told her - and showed her - just how much we had appreciated her being with us. Not every gapper matron always gets the right mix between being the matron of the lodge and the 'elder sister' figure, but Chloe certainly has done, and through the Newton blog, on your behalf if I may, I'd like to thank her for all she has done for the lodge.

Our final stop was someone's birthday, when we sang Happy Birthday and consumed a delicious cake between us - for which further thanks are due.

I hear that some of you are so worn out by reading these end of term posts that you are convinced that I'm 'on somethng'! Well, it's no more than Ventolin, Seretide (strong and not so strong, depending on the situation), Nurofen, Ibuprofen and Paracetamol - and whatever that particular cocktail of potions may do, it's worked, and I'm still going. Limping, but still going.

And so to the Carol Service. If I catch your eye from the organ loft, give me a discrete wave - or something. Thank you all so much for reading these jottings every night, and if I don't see you tomorrow, have a wonderful Christmas break - wherever you may be going.

Goonight, my friends.

Am I, I have to ask, standing on the very edge of superstardom? Such has been the enthusiasm with which my song of yesterday has been greeted that I am almost tenmpted to try and find a nice music agent who may, just possibly, think similarly. I know, I know; that sounds very egocentric, but if you'd played - and sung - something that received comments like,

'Sir, did you really write that?'

'Sir, please can I have a CD of that song?'

'Sir, I can't believe you wrote that: I'd put that on my Ipod straight away'

'Paul, I just love that melody: please can you do it again?'

wouldn't you?

I've honestly been amazed, because, when all's said and done, it's really just a song. Still, people seem to like it, so who knows?

And talking of songs, we had one of those 'let's get round the piano' evenings tonight, while the others have been at the league feast, and we've simply been enjoying a bit of music together. It culminated with the 'Silent Reading Song', about which, no doubt, your offspring will tell you all. There's talk of it going on to YouTube, as I do have a YT account, but we shall see about that .... !

Honestly, I can't believe that we've made up a silent reading song .... ! It must be very, very near the end of term.

Oh boy.

Goodnight.

My friends, we are still going. Adrenalin has kicked in big time, and after a day like today, it needed to.

The day started early enough, with choir practice after a very rushed breakfast, and then into a heavily-musically-laced School Eucharist in which the Rev Dr Canon Bunch (former parent) preached a most excellent (theological, thank the Lord - we get all too few of those) sermon on Mary.

Out of the Eucharist and on to secret preparations for the staff entertainment after the annual 'Bombers and Fighters': something that even those of us who've been here for ages don't understand, with its tails, bottle tops and corks; but suffice for me to say here that it's really a massive - and I mean massive - wide game. The boys are given all instructions in Macmillan before setting out, and by the time they're let loose, well, little angels they aren't!

An hour of that sufficed, with all boys and every member of staff involved in various ways, then back to showers and on to what was, ostensibly, a lecture on Nuneham House, given by our own Mr Hannah. Of course, it was nothing of the kind, but the boys were completely taken in, and Mr Hannah played along beautifully for ten minutes - after which he pretended to ring Mr Bishop on his mobile and ask permission to abandon the lecture.

The staff revue kicked in, and acts of all kinds took to the stage. For my part, I accompanied Dr Dean in a Schubert song, re-enacted a spoof tutorial session with Mr Edwards when he was a tutee of mine at Papplewick, which most seemed to find amusing (i.e.: it got a big cheer), I sang one of my own Elton John soundalikes called 'Moment of Love', which seemed to go down well (indeed, I've been asked for a recording of it several times), and then accompanied Mr Lagden, who was pretending to be Matt Candle or someone from X-Factor in a rendition of 'Your Song' by Elton John.

Thence to supper, and then on to Newton for the lodge party, which consisted of party games like charades (which they loved), Pictionary (which they also loved) and the Chocolate Game (which they adored.) Food a-plenty, like sausage rolls, crisps of all kinds, sausages, drink of various flavours, and, thanks to the fact that one of our number has been celebrating his birthday today, a delicious birthday cake shared by all.

X Factor was going on at the same time, which some opted to see, and then back into our drawing room for half an hour of singing carols and Christmas songs.

As I type, Mrs C is busily clearing the kitchen, so I mustn't be too much longer as my servcies will be required, but it's been a great day in every way.

For now, though, I am completely 'mother-of-pearled' (translate into French and you'll get my drift) and ready to get a few hours' kip before starting bright and early tomorrow.

Goodnight, one and all.

Oh dear. It seems that this blog is losing its attraction, as my stats tell me that no more than 18 people had a squint at yesterday's offering: a serious decline on the previous average of over 25. Perhaps I'm getting a little over-pompous in my jottings; after all, yesterday's was, it seems to me on re-reading it, a little indulgent.

Anyway, for the faithful among you, I can tell you that vengeance has been wreaked upon me as I'm feeling rather 'sous le temps', and having to squirt myself with my inhalers of various hues and live on a diet of Paracetomol and Nurofen. (Although the bread and butter pudding at lunchtime was irresisitible. It needed custard, of course, but, as Mr Bryan put it, as a solo effort it didn't do at all badly.)

One thing I must tell you, though, is that I've been bullied into resurrecting the Train Club. Five of us (appropriately - oh, come on: 'Five Go to Train Club' ..... ?) spent a very happy hour in the model railway hut (I bet you didn't even know there was one, did you?!) this afternoon, checking out the engines that worked (7) against those that didn't. (12.) It was lovely, though, to see the rolling stock rolling once again, and within twenty minutes we had three trains going at once. So I think this signals the shape of things to come, as it really is a very pleasant sideline. I hope I'm not crossing anyone with these silly puns. At least I'm stationed here, after an afternoon spent checking reports, rather than, er, coaching. Ha! Nearly caught off my guard there. Fortunately, therefore, if the HM wants to know what areas of extracurricular activities I'm involved in, I can say 'Model Railway Club' and he can tick it, and tell me I'm doing a first class job. That and the Junior Choir should earn me a couple of points. Dear me, I seem to going on and on: anyone would think I've been training for this.

Er, yes. I think that's quite enough from this silly old buffer. Back to Newton, and to Mrs C's amazement and mine, X Factor is a definite no-no tonight, and they voted unanimously for a film. That and sweet rations, and they're all as happy as larks. Or, as my readers across La Manche have it, 'aussi contents que les alouettes'.

18 readers. Ah well. (Sigh.)

Goodnight.

After a pretty normal morning, Mrs C and I left the campus. Not in any fit of pique, I hasten to add, and not without headmagisterial per, either; we did so because we made our way to that most beautiful of Dorset educational establishments, wherein our younger daughter, Alice, resides during term time, Milton Abbey. We went there for their Carol Service, and, held in the Abbey itself, with a wonderful choir, excellent readings and a magnificent organ, it was a truly joyous event. And whom should I bump into as I went into the boarding house, but Mr and Mrs Jack Dee, who were, as ever, charming. He really isn't the curmudgeonly chap we see on our TV screens. (Re: 'whom'. I forget the originator's name, but his full quote was 'Whom is a word designed to make anyone who uses it sound like a butler. Anyone who is not a butler cannot use it without afterwards feeling a bit weird.')

I don't doubt that there were umpteen things and duties that I should have been doing, but I like to think that I covered all eventualities, but I'm still wary of opening up my inbox after this bloglogging session .... The number of internal memos that are flying around at the moment is very, very alarming.

But to return to Milton Abbey. There were some wondrous gowns and hoods strolling around: one, clearly a Ph D from somewhere or other, surpassed anything that any of my doctored colleagues are entitled to wear - although I've just remembered Dr Dean's psychedelic number from the University of Manchester, being that of Doctor of Renaissance Lit, and I think that with its bright red and yellow gown and dazzlingly yellow hood, really does prend le biscuit. Personally, I'm happy with my old and trusty black number, although I suppose I do have a choice of hoods to go with it. Oh dear, here we go again: yours truly sounding like an academic fashion mag. (Or a (fill in your own sobriquet)).

As for things back here at the ranch, I have no reason to doubt that Mr Porter has done another superb job on my behalf, enabling me to type this out, sipping a nicley (oops, too much so, it seems) chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

Jusqu'a demain, alors - et bienvenue a nos amis qui habitent en France, qui lisent ce blogue pour le premier fois.

This evening, as I strolled through our house, I noticed a rezzie on the stairs, and on the 'phone. I couldn't help but overhear (I don't usually eavesdrop), in response, no doubt, to the question 'What have you been doing today?' the response 'Not much'. There follows now a Victor Meldrew moment.

NOT MUCH????!!!!! I DON'T BE-LIEVE IT!!!!!

The day has been nothing short of mental, and I'll tell you why.

Normality until Break. Boys hyper because things are going to get very active.

After Break: French Presentations for the whole school. Normal lessons are abandoned. (I had a winner in 2P, so I was pretty pleased.)

Lunch of chickenburgers, chips and salad, and Sarnta hats everywhere.

Boys to changing rooms to change into games clothes, and thence to form rooms, wherein the whole school donned Santa outfits.

Off to playing fields, en masse, with everyone (many staff included) sporting Santa outfits, including beards and hats.

Other schools there, too.

Local radio station present, with live commentary throughout. HM interviewed life, plus various boys, plus senior and junior winner of the Santa run, plus senior winner's mother, who had flown over from the Cayman Islands. (Oh what a giveaway.)

Surreal sight, in superb sunshine (alliterative showing off, last written in an email to Our Leader, where I used the words vile, vitriolic and vituperative. Not about him. Or any member of this school.) of 300 hundred-ish Santas running, in junior and then senior groups, around the top field Twice. Mrs C got a mention, but your correspondent didn't, as senior management have to maintain standards and a sense of gravitas. No I wasn't skiving.

Boys by now running on the highest possible octane adrenalin and have to change out of Santa kits for the handwriting comp. All made an effort, but only member of each form can win. Winning entry from my form was worthy of a place in the National Gallery.

Supper, about which the less said, the better. You can imagine.

Prep abandoned for the worthy cause of the newly-instigated League Music Competition. One ensemble, one solo and one league shout (as they say at Harrow; song, as we plebs would say). Oh my goodness. (Or alternative Facebook text speak versions of same.) It was a fabulous occasion, with Mr Price and the Band of pros, and a very, very merry time, with graphics on the screen at the front, and boys in Santa hats, tinsel, and Lord knows what else, dark glasses featured in one act, and everyone had the most marvellous time. The HM, who gave the valedictory appreciation to all involved, and to Mr Edwards in particular, who adjudicated, pronounced it as the best hour he's had in his three months at Summer Fields.

To lodge, where Mrs C and I have been on lion-taming duty, showing off our various magic tricks and comparing notes, and decorating the dorms.

They're now silent. And exhausted. And what a wonderful day.

So there you are. Not much? I don't think so.

Until tomorrow, then,

Goodnight.

Good evening from a very merry and festive Newton - which looks like a cross between Santa's grotto and a turkey farm, Mrs Sparrow having sourced a turkey hat supplier for Buzzer. Silent reading became silent decorating (with a slight difference of opinion about what constituted silence) and the dorms now look very, well, Christmassy. I was asked which dorm I considered to be the best, to which I replied that the 'best' could easily be the most under-stated, and I particularly enjoyed one particular resident's minimalist take on it all, with little more than an angel on a horse. To be fair, there was a scrap of tinsel surrounding the locker-top decoration. So all of that, along with Santa hats (incidentally, are my wife and her mother the only people on the planet to pronounce Santa as if the first a has a macron on it, thus rendering it 'Sarnta'?) and spinning tops that played Christmas melodies, the whole place has a quasi-anarchic feel to it tonight.

It's been a busy old afternoon, as my first duty was to play the piano for the choirs as they entertained about 100 elderly local residents who came to our dining room for a Christmas tea, which of course led to the inevitable comments from my colleagues and so-called friends about where I wanted to sit, and did I need to go anywhere, etc., etc., and then this evening I officiated at the senior public speaking comp, standing in for Dr Dean, who's been called away.

Not all of the rezzies were that taken by decorating, of course, and a group of football enthusiasts watched Arsenal versus somewhere else in the Clubhouse, while two or three foodies curled up on our sofa and watched 'Jimmy's Food Factory'. I love it when they get to the stage when they realise that our home is also theirs during term time.

My evening's highlight, though, was being invited to put on a pair of seventies-looking spectacles and frighten the living daylights out of Miss Chloe. And to think that in that particular decade I really did have a pair of glasses like that ... ! (Next time you go to Papplewick to watch SF beat the hell out of one of their teams, take a look at the school photos from between 1973 to 1980. Oh yes, I bet you already have - and there wasn't a grey hair in sight, was there ... ?!)

Finally, I can tell you with much pleasure that the lovely Miss Chloe is to be replaced by the lovely Miss Alexandra. Who presumably will become Miss Alex very quickly - and not by her Facebook moniker of Miss 'Minx'! Those of you who subscribe to that Colossus of the social networking (or newtworking, as I just typed it) sites can see a photo of her - and I've already informed the HM that no, he can't switch roles with me next term. She's the sister of the excellent Mr L'Estrange, whom (I do like 'whom') many of your sons, and probably you, too, will recall.

So, from a very happy Newton lodge, I wish you a fond goodnight. And this, by the way, is the 276th bloglog since it started. I just thought you'd like to know.

Yoghurt. Yes, that's right, yoghurt. You wouldn't think, would you, that there would be much to say about the stuff, especially on a blog that reports on the modus vivendi of 24 boys (actually, that should probably be in the plural, but let's leave that to Mr Bryan, who's just the other side of the wall as I write), so let me explain.

Tuesdays are our half days. Today's day of leisure has involved writing and checking reports, taking the Junior Choir to Age Concern, dealing with this and that, and so forth and so forth. Such is the nature of half days at the end of term. Mrs C and I did, however, manage a quick snacky lunch together, prior to our Junior Choir gig, and is was then that yoghurt featured.

My dear wife, imagining (correctly) that lunch would be no more than a few minutes long, or rather, short, dived inte Tesco's across the road and did a supermarket dash, placing various items of magisterial fodder into the trolley, including the yoghurt, on about which I am banging. (Winston would be proud of me.)

Having chomped my way through une poitrine de poulet and a baked potato, with various tescoin accoutrements, we made our way to the second course, which consisted of the aforementioned yoghurt, which confused us completely.

'Fine West Country Yoghurt', it said on the lid. Great, we thought. Just right for the Thomas Hardy peasants we are. I looked again. 'Scottish Raspberry Yoghurt', was what was inscribed on the side of the tub. H'm. You see the problem. Best Scottish West Country Yoghurt. Now how do you deal with that? Och arr, that be real noice yogurrt, bain't it, the noo' ?

But to the nub. You now want to know how it tasted, I'm sure. Well, Mrs C described it as 'thick but lovely'.

And so saying, I went and wrote a couple more reports.

As for Holby, well, another fine episode, we thought. At long last Fay's had that baby, but how I wish Joseph wasn't so feckless. He really should make up his mind. And how I enjoy Mr Hansen's satirical comments. Did you not enjoy 'Now, I know little about how an xxx machine works, but I would imagine that it works best when attached to a patient'? As my boss would put it, I LOL'd.

That's it for tonight. Thanks for reading - as ever.

Goodnight.

So here we go, then: the final stretch. The Newtonians have been lovely tonight; kind, thoughtful, personable, and fun to be with. I know that you will have had a wonderful time with them, too, and it's because of all of you that I've been offered Christmas greetings of all kinds, asked whether the chosen bedsocks are of the colour and variety of which I might approve (!?), or whether mini -Christmas trees meet with my approval. Oh, and sir, I had a lion on Sunday morning. Er, right, X; how nice. No, sir, a lie-in. Can't you spell, boy? It's li-on, not lie-in ..... did it scratch you? Etc, etc.

Oh, come on, laugh; I know you've heard it all before.

Mrs C and I have had a great time. We decided against West Dorset in the end, in view of the snow and ice, but we were able to welcome our daughter, Hannah (who always loves a mention on this blog) and to, well, just 'chill' - both literally and metaphorically. Sadly I couldn't get on my Hardley-Davison, because that, along with my scooter, is probably frozen solid in our Dorset domain, so that will just have to wait. Instead, we had a lovely icy stroll around Cutteslowe Park with Isla. (The dog.)

I actually did some organ practice tonight! No, honestly, I really, really did! I rattled my way through a couple of Bach preludes - including the 'Great' - and wondered whether I dared play it before the Carol Service this year. I will think further.

I hear that the snow and ice will be back tomorrow: oh well, at least it's festive. Inaccurate, seeing as Bethlehem is currently sweltering in 24 degrees, but festive.

It's great to have them back. No, honestly; it is.

Goodnight, all.

You may find it strange to learn that I work for a HM who writes emails in text message, - and I bet you're getting excited now to discover the internal goings on of this establishment - but I do, and on two separate occasions now I've received replies to my deliberations which have read

LOL. D

And just in case you should be concerned, LOL in text stands for 'Laughing out loud'. I know that because my three teenage offspring use it. Honest. I await the smiley face. (Can you do that?)

Anyway, the point of that little anecdotal offering was because I've just been LOL-ing at HIGNFY, which I find to be the most amusing programme on telly. I loved the bit about goats in Oman bowing to the Queen.

And, surreally, that leads me neatly on to my next point, which is that tonight I was informed that such was the nature of my etymological badinage that one of our Followers had considered writing in each night in order to learn the definition of some of the pompous verbosity with which I compose these pseudo-erudite offerings.

I was once hauled into a HM's study (actually, I wasn't hauled, that would be just bizarre; I was asked to go and see the HM) to explain exactly what I meant by writing a report that read,

'He seems to think that my lessons are an opportunity for him to ameliorate his loquaciousness.'

If that HM had known anything about Latin, he would have known full well that ameliorate comes from the melior,meaning, as you will know, better, and loquacious comes from the deponent verb, loquor, to speak. I was told to re-write it.

And talking of Latin, did you see my letter in the DT today? Always happy to give SF a plug.

A friend of mine accused me of pomposity. Vituperative pillock. (And it wasn't my dear wife - who did, in fact, think I was being slightly au dessus de ma gare .... !) (But she certainly isn't vituperative.)

Evening all, and special greetings to our new Follower in Croatia! Welcome aboard.

My word, that was a pathetic post last night, was it not? I re-read it and thought about how disappointed you must have been. My apologies, but I suspect that fatigue was kicking in for the first time this term. Either that, or the pratfall I sustained on Monday evening had had a delayed effect! (And if you re-read Monday's post, you'll see that I was behaving in a manner akin to one B Fawlty, after he, too, had sustained a knock to the head. YouTube will show you what I mean. Put something like Fawlty Towers, Germans, knock on head, or some such into the search engine.)

Anyway, I'm back on a roll now, first because I can smile smugly to myself about the fact that I've written all my subject reports, and met every deadline there is, and secondly because I heard today that I've been accepted as a trainee Associated Board examiner. I'm delighted, of course, and now all I have to do is get through the training ... !

Tonight was a lovely time here in Newton: the rezzies had the option of watching football in the Clubhouse, or, as six of your LMs chose, watching Jimmy's Food Factory in our snug. It was a wonderful sight, with Isla in the thick of things, as usual, lying enjoying her own personal utopia on the floor.

Lots of fruit, quantities of jammy dodgers and hot chocolate all contributed to what has been a perfect Newtonian evening.

Now: let's see who gets thrown out of Lord Sugar's empire.

Goodnight, wherever you may be.

This isn't really the time to be having heating and plumbing problems, and I'm glad to say that any difficulties are restricted to the private side. Our maintenance department are nursing our ageing boiler through this cold snap, and, so far, so good. Most of the time.

Isn't Holby getting complex? All those relationships: all very tricky. And who would have imagined that the spark that was once there between Chrissie and Sasha might be re-ignited? I think she was quite right not to get too mixed up with the young Irishman. Dear me, I'm sounding like a page from a woman's magazine ..... !

It's our half day on Tuesdays, as I think most of you know, but other than a good walk through the snow, down by the Trout Inn, the day's consisted of report-writing and little else. Oh, apart from Holby, of course. And, more importantly, Mr Bailey's excellent play. It's a first for him, and it was a fine production.

It's getting very end-of-termish here, and by that I mean that it's oxymoronically festive and frightening. Festive because of the end of term celebrations, which are drawing ever closer, and frightening because of all those deadlines, which are doing exactly the same. Oh well, we've all been through it before, so I'm sure we'll survive.

Until tomorrow, then,

Goodnight.

I suppose you just had to be there. Picture the scene, as every second-rate journalist starts a story (either that, or 'They came in their thousands'): your correspondent has just gobbled a very quick supper in the dining room, after a lengthy management meeting and before the next duty. He strides purposefully, with full tray in hand, in order to dispose of plates and cutlery - and, just as he does so, slips on a slippery part of the floor, with tray disappearing into the heavens and himself disappearing down towards the fiery furnaces. You can imagine the ensuing scene, no doubt - although I have to say that the spectators, of whom there were many, including a goodly number of giggle-stifling colleagues, were much more respectful than I deserved, with more than one enquiring after my state of health. Anyway, I'm fine, and no damage was done, not even a broken plate.

Thus it was that the first salutation I received from a Newtonian tonight was,

"Sir, are you all right? Can you try on my hat?"

I was minded of the lion-tamer sketch in Monty Python, in which the ambitious accountant and wannabe lion-tamer says that in order to become one such, he has already equipped himself with 'a hat'. If you haven't seen it, simply put 'Monty Python lion tamer sketch' in the Youtube search engine, and enjoy.

My grand piano was the centre of some expert playing tonight, with all the various music exam candidates - and a few others who were just there for the ride - playing their pieces. I was then asked to play 'a really nerdy piece', and proceeded to show off to an adoring audience. It would have served me right if I had sustained further injury (actually, it couldn't be 'further', as there was none in the first place) if the piano lid had fallen on my ostentatious and flamboyant fingers.

Goodnight, all - especially those reading in Georgia and Malaysia.

My friends, I am so sorry to have let you down last night, but as I mentioned, Mrs C and I were dining elsewhere until quite late.

Well thank you, Chaplain, for initiating theological discussion and debate in Newton! Having heard about teddies being blessed, etc, I, as 'Chaplain's assistant' or whatever I am, was asked by a Newtonian whether I, too, would be so good as to bless a few teddies. Er, no. The reasons being that (a) only an ordained cleric can bless, and (b) I'm not in the habit of blessing or praying for inanimate objects. As I sad to my enquirer, I might as well bless a light bulb or a bed. Anyway, that, as you can imagine, was a long way from being an adequate response in the minds of my charges, so we then involved ourselves in a lengthy and involved theological discourse about the differences in belief shared by the two main parts (I don't mean denomination, that's something else) of Christianity: Calvinism and Arminianism. I'm sure you don't need me to explain the differences, but at the risk of teaching grandmothers the skill of sucking eggs (not that I'm implying .... ), basically the former believe that everything's pre-planned by the Almighty and the latter taking a more moderate standpoint, that we've been given the gift of life andf it's up to us to determine how it goes. I'm of the latter view, but I didn't confess that to my conversational partners. The discussion was, I must say, quite remarkable - and great fun. As with any theological exchanges, no conclusions were reached!

Down in the Clubhouse, of course, X-Factor was proving to be an alternative to hermeneutical exegeses, with Miss Chloe going into complete rapture about someone called Justin Beaver, or some such. She could hardly contain herself!

It's the report-writing season, of course, at the moment, and every time I go into the staff room I scare myself witless by seeing how advanced so many of my colleagues are with their deliberations: I really must knuckle down tomorrow, and Tuesday, and get back up to date. I will try not to write things akin to what one of my esrtwhile colleagues wrote once, namely

'This boy has all the characteristics of a tree stump, but he lacks the personality.'

How could he?

Oh don't worry, it never reached the parents .... !

Goodnight all.

Useless. I know, I know. We've been dining chez le Tete-Maitre et sa femme - and a great time we had, too. But it's late now, and I doubt whether anyone reads this blog at the weekends anyway, so I'm simply going to wish those of you who do have a squint at it as you clamber into bed a very fond goodnight. And yes, we did record Csuilaty )oh goodness, it must have been a good evening) I mean Causlaty - so I'll be able to give you all the details tomorrow night.

We are very fortunate indeed. Again, just trust me.

Goodnight.

An interesting day today, culminating in a choir trip to the Ashmolean, where we had been invited to sing for the museum's first anniversary of its refurbishment. There were, we were told, about 3000 people there, and all went very well. The birthday cake was, apparently, delicious: I say apparently, as your correspondent decided that discretion was the better part of valour and made his way back to lodge, thus missing out on the hand-out. Oh well, lodge was just as enjoyable, even if you can't eat it. (A surreal moment there.)

During my journey home I noticed, not for the first time, the name 'The Eagle and Child' atop the front of a public house. (Mrs C and I have actually eaten and imbibed therein, and it's not at all bad.) The ostensible randomness of the two juxtaposed beings reminded me of those wretched English exercises, so beloved of Ronald Ridout, in which one had to put things in their pairs. You know the sort of thing: knife is to fork as cup is to ......... (options: plate, mug, saucer.) The last ones in those exercises were often, to my mind, beyond the wit of man, let alone the schoolboy - unless you were into surrealism or the plain weird. It would say something like 'Lion is to pencil as desk is to (options: birthday, curtain, jelly.) And before you all start writing in, yes, I know.

I sometimes think that our charges must wonder about the mental health of their preceptors. We have a strange habit of employing the pronoun 'we' rather than 'I', and say idiotic and pompous things like 'And what do we think we are doing?' or, as I really did say once, 'I don't think we speak to me like that'. When begowned, we seem to be overtaken by pomposity as we place our thumbs behind the pleats at the front and intone stuff like 'I am somewhat mystified by the behaviour of this form', or, as I have been known to start a lesson by becalming an unruly Fifthy Year form, 'I am deeply disturbed ..... '

Still, not as bad as my maths master, who once enquired why it was that every time he opened his mouth, some idiot spoke. We said nothing. (For once.)

There was some mileage in asking some of the choristers, as they returned (post-cake-guzzling) how the event had gone. I had a most engaging conversation with one such, who narrated chapter and verse for about ten minutes, before stopping in mid-sentence and asking, 'Sir, you were there, weren't you?!'

That'll do for tonight. One of the governors is spending the night here, in readiness for the govs' meeting tomorrow morning, so I'll wish you a fond goodnight.

My apologies. This post is a little on the late side, I'm afraid, but only because I've been down at the Oxford University Club, fraternising with one of our OSs. Great fun, and all very nostalgic, and a great way to celebrate the departure of our Ofsted friends. I love it down there: there's something very entertaining about the ways of the academic elite that makes me smile inwardly, andf I love seeing the profs and all the rest trying to make sense of the bar menu, etc. I became a member as a result of my 1970s student days, and in addition they seemed to approve of my research fellowship, so I feel rather privileged to be there, really. (It's taken long enough.)

Mr Porter was at the helm tonight, lest any of you should be concerned that I had abnegated my responsibilities and had disappeared among the dreaming spires, leaving your young to look after themselves. Mrs C gave me a cordial greeting upon my return, telling me that all was well.

So not much to tell, really. The Ofsted result was excellent, you'll be pleased to learn, and you may rest assured that your LMs are considered to be in good hands. (To be fair, though, you are the best judges of that.)

Exams are over, and there has been another collective sigh of relief today. Most things seem to have gone well, with just the occasional blip, but don't worry: all will be well. As those of you with younger children will discover, the prep school anxieties (and there are always many) will seem very trivial in a few years' time. You just have to trust me on that one.

Until tomorrow, then,

Goodnight.

Oh the blessed relief. Delightful as they were - and ours actually was, double ear-rings notwithstanding - we all breathed a sigh when the final inspectoral vehicle disappeared into the distance late this afternoon. From all accounts we seem to have come out of the experience very well, so a bucket-load of thanks are due to Mr Sparrow, our very own director of boarding (I bet you didn't know that!), for guiding us through the political maze! If I hear any more, I'll let you know. Well, the good bits, anyway.

It was hot choc night tonight, as it's Wednesday, and our hot chocolate policy was operational. Ho ho. No, we don't really have one, although I bet it's only a matter of time before we're required to do so .... !

There was a bit of an issue about whether the majority wanted to watch 'Jimmy's Food Factory' or The Match, so in the end the football fanatics found themselves sitting in our private sitting room (just off the big room that you pass when you return your offspring), watching Rangers do very little and Manchester United do little more. They were very appreciative.

I told them the (true) story of my having applied for the post of manager of Southampton some years ago. Despite the fact that I know as much about football as Elton John, I really have always thought that managing a football club must be rather fun. I received a very pleasant reply, in which the Chairman (Chair?) opined that a rookie manager was perhaps not what the club was looking for at that time. Oh well, at least I tried.

No matter, all of that went out of the window tonight when one of your lovely sons, on hearing that little anecdote, got out of his comfy chair, walked over to me and said,

'Sir, you should be the England manager: you couldn't be worse than ............ ............... ."

All these retirement possibilties ... !

Goodnight, all - and especially to our Follower in Georgia.

As I write tonight, the police helicopter is doing one of its nocturnal hovers, endeavouring to swamp a criminal or two in glorious and brilliant light. Oh yes, very festive. Except that it keeps the boys awake and annoys the rest of us with its persistent whirring. Oh well, c'est la vie.

The inspectors are still here, and there have been more meetings of all kinds, with all and sundry. And indeed with us. We attended a lodgeparents' interrogation - sorry, I mean, meeting - and I hope that by employing a mixture of suitable soundbites, buzz words and contemporary terminology, Mrs C and I might remain in employment for a little while longer. I was quite proud of 'Of course, the HCF of lodgeparenting has to be communication', which caused pen to meet with paper, and also 'the six pillars of lodgeparenting have to be safety, structure, routine, happiness, health and achievement'. It is, of course, a good job he didn't ask me to explain HCF, in view of my self-confessed mathematical ineptitude.

Tonight, Mrs C and I have been off duty, with Mr Bryan on the bridge, but we've been in close contact, with both of our mobiles about our person at all times as we chomped away at our Chinese take-away, lest the Chief Inspector should decide to do his own follow-up to his colleague's visit last night. Mrs C forbade me from partaking of any alcoholic liquor - at least, until 9.00pm, after which, and I quote, 'You can consume six bottles of wine one after the other'. I did not exactly endear myself as I went through the list of my selection for such a terrific opportunity. I do want to assure you, dear readers, that I am not that irresponsible, and that not a drop has passed my lips all night.

So that's the state of play. I think all has gone well, and the inspection concludes tomorrow afternoon. Normal service will be resumed very soon - and I think the exams have all gone satisfactorily.

The helicopter is still buzzing, and I can't see any masked persons with striped shirts and a stick with a bag marked 'swag' anywhere nearby. I think it's going to be a noisy night.

Goodnight, all.

Yes, yes, I know, I know. Maths as well as geography. Of course the answer should have been one in the front and one in the back - as Hannah's text to me this morning pointed out .....

Well, day one of the inspection seems to have come and gone without incident. The interestingly-named Mr Kevin Whatley came to have a look at Newton tonight (I forbore from enquiring whether he found it easy to combine his acting life with his inspectoral duties) and seemed to give us the thumbs up. He liked the 'relaxed atmosphere', he told us, and he seemed happy with the structure of the nightly programme. We were able to incorporate shoe-cleaning night, of course, it being a Monday night, and clever Mrs C had a brainwave. So she sacked her husband from his role as shoe-cleaning judge and invited Mr Whatley to, er, 'inspect' the row of shoes and to select four worthy winners.

There was much light-hearted banter between him and me (yes, those are the correct pronouns, in case anyone's wondering) about the training that he and I (!) had gone through to achieve such distinction. He played along tremendously, and managed, I thought, to combine gravitas with levity to just the right extent.

It's really been a day of meetings with the inspectorate, of which I've been required to attend three. I know many of you have many more than that each day, so I'm not going to complain - especially when my journey to work involves a walk of about two minutes, door to door!

All is well here tonight.

Until tomorrow, then,

Bonne nuit.

And here we are again. The rezzies all seem to have had great weekends, with Harry Potter featuring fairly prominently in the entertainment programme, along with visits to places of interest and musea, as well as the joy of just 'being at home'.

We've had a fairly quiet leave out, with visits to Bath and thence to Bristol, where I enjoyed a lovely lunch with our daughter, Hannah, and then, at her suggestion, to go across Clifton Suspension Bridge. Despite the fact that I spent five years at school in Bath, I never went anywhere near the aformentioned bridge, which, along with the fact that geography was never one of my stronger subjects, may have been the rationale behind my expressing some enthusiasm to Hannah that I hadn't been to Wales for some time. She was at pains (literally) to explain that Wales was reached by crossing the Severn Bridge, Daddy. I knew that. Anyway, when we arrived at the checkpoint for crossing we realised that between us we had 50p to go one way, but not a spare 50p piece to return. Fortunately, Hannah found that she had a pounnd coin and so went to a charming gentleman who changed it for her, thus enabling us to go and come back. It was a most enjoyable four minutes. And if the other side was, in fact Wales, I thought it was pretty disappointing.

So, how do you get to Wales in a Mini, then? Yes, that's right: two in the front and two in the back. And how you get to Wales in a Mini? Cross the Severn Bridge. (Actually, I realised half way through typing that that didn't really work when it's written down. Better when you say it. The one about what comes out of the ground at 70mph is much better. Trouble is, of course, that all of you, dear Followers are far too young to remember the similarly-named sports car. The answer, by the way, is an Austin Healey Sprout.)

And before the jokes get any worse, I think I'll cease. Anyone would think we had an inspection tomorrow.

It's good to have them back.

Goodnight.

Good evening, for the final time before short leave. I really can't believe that it's come around so quickly, but there we are - and I'm certainly not complaining.

Now. Bearing in mind that you first heard that Mr Rooney was going to remain with Manchester United, following his decision to leave the club, on the Newton blog, I should tell you that one of our French residents decided to wager with me that his country would be victorious in the international contest of tonight! Once again, one sweet ration rests on the outcome - and I have assured my contestant that it will be he, not I, who will be handing over the Starburst tomorrow morning, or whenever. He thinks I'm talking tosh, and is, of course, utterly convinced that I am a poor misguided Brit who deserves every Gallically withering look that he can cast upon me. (To be fair, when it comes to le foot, he's probably right.) Anyway, we shall see.

You did realise, I hope, that the rambling paragraph about inspections that I wrote last week was about the one that Holby General had to endure, and not us! That said, as you probably know, our own boarding inspection will be taking place on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of next week. I think I've already told you that, come to think of it. Sorry. It's advancing years syndrome, you know. Oh don't worry, you'll be 59 one day in the far off future. Unless, of course, you've already reached that milestone ...... )

So, there we are, then. Or rather, there you are, because you're there and I'm here. (Victor Borge, 1970.) Have a lovely weekend, and I'll be back on air next week.

Thanks for reading - and goodnight.

Good evening, my friends, and welcome to the 260th bloglog! I can't believe I've churned so many words out (although I haven't actually counted them), but I don't intend to cease from doing so any time soon. (d.v.) I have, in fact, enquired of a trusted literary agent as to whether my jottings might appeal to a wider audience in hard copy, but as I received a (very nice) reply suggesting that if I was preparing to visit my bank manager and inform him that I was going to suggest to Sir Richard that I'd be happy to take the responsibility of owning Necker Island from his shoulders I might like to re-think my options, you'll just have to slum it on the 'net. Sorry.

Mr Bryan's been on duty tonight, and there seemed to be a disco going on, which I'm sure appealed to one and all, and I was delighted to know that whatever was, in fact, happening, was removed from Mrs C and me by a thick wall, and that we were on the Holby side of same.

Holby, of course, was tremendous once again. The razor-sharp hatchet man, Mr Hansen, continues with his incisive and calculating moves around the department, Mr Spence seems to have got his life back together again, the female Dr Valentine has just managed to obtain a first-class rotation report from Mr Spence himself, and the male Dr Valentine has now capped all of his previous misdemeanours by being extremely unwise in his judgement in respect of a ten-year-old boy with heart issues. The ending was very sad indeed. I know it's not real, but the actual series is amazingly executed, in my opinion.

It's been our half day today, but you wouldn't know it, as there seem to have been a myriad of things to do. Not that I'm complaining, of course. We 'do get the holidays', of course ...... !

Goodnight, everyone.

My dear Followers, I'm pleased to say that I'm still here (atm) and have not been abducted by, well, whomsoever. Nor am I working for the other side now. Honest. I must confess that looking at the stats page of this blog has become something of an obsession now, as I can see instantly how many people have had a squint at my writings (!) and where in the world they come from. It's fascinating, and the realisation that one is broadcasting to a global audience is quite something! Incidentally, if you are the (which I just typed rather aptly as thj) followers in the Netherlands, I didn't mean it. It's just that I do find your country a little, erm, flat, and I've never been a huge fan of the holes in the cheese. I did love the herons on the banks of the waterways, though: that was very special. And it was your country, my dear friends, that facilitated the opportunity for me to play the organ for a concert in the cathedral with the longest nave in Europe: the Cathedral of St Jan, in Gouda. H'm. I think I might have been a little unjust with my remarks. My apologies.

Here in Newtonianland, all is well, and we've had another in our shoe-cleaning series. Six lucky winners tonight, but I fear that they didn't exactly feel euphoric at their achievement as the prizers were small packets of Haribo, which none of the victors (although none was named such tonight) particularly liked said confectionery! Not our greatest moment, sadly. Still, we did try to find appropriate substitutes.

We're all preparing for our Ofsted boarding inspection next week. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday might be a bit edgy for Mrs C and yours truly, so if you don't hear much, you'll know why. You can have very little idea of just how many policies have to written, implemented and submitted .... ! There has to be a policy for almost everything - and I do mean everything - which has meant copious (as in thesis copious) amounts of writing, updating, re-working, re-wording, re-this and re-that. Still, as long as the policies and procedures are all in order - and I think they are - we should be OK.

So, if after Wednesday you hear nothing more from me, you know that the policy on face flannels (FF58467/876DD/890/agsh/flan) wasn't up to the mark and either we'll have been guilty of a load of flannel ourselves, or I've been 'invited' to work elsewhere.

Bonne nuit.

Now that, my friends, was a good day. It started with a bit of a panioc on my part, though, as, having informed our Director of Music that I'd b playing Walford Davies's 'Solemn Melody' and Elgar's 'Nimrod' before the service today, I couldn't find the music anywhere. I walked, rather anxiously, over to the Chapel, wondering whether I could busk it, and there, sitting rather smugly, I felt, was the book containing the aforementioned pieces! Divine intervention - or simply irresponsibility on my part? The latter, I suspect.

Anyway, they seemed to satisfactorily, and I was not displeased to have timed 'Nimrod' exactly, so that when the choir and the Chaplain were installed, my final chord was completed. It's that sort of thing, you know, that can make or break an organist's day ...... !

Mr and Mrs Sparrow always host the most incredible gathering after the service, and this year was no exception. All of us were there, and everyone was able to lay aside whatever petty niggles might be festering within the staff room, and enjoy the company of colleagues at peace.

Tom C and I then went out for lunch, as Mrs C had drawn the shortest of duteous straws and found herself on afternoon patrol, which of course necessitated the two men in her life having to find alternative feasting. Cibo's seemed to do the trick, and I was able to employ that well known paternal ploy of giving with the one hand, and keeping one's offspring up to the mark with the other. (Although I do find myself experiencing a modicum of hypocrisy as I offer advice about getting one's essays handed in on time, etc ..!)

I was so pleased to be able to speak informally with some of you tonight: it was a great pleasure. I don't think we have enough time to do things like that, usually, so it was good to be able to listen and learn.

Time to sign off now, though, and thank you for reading all my nightly offerings once again this week. Did I mention that we've had a blog hit from China? I think my reference to 'Spooks' might have had something to do with that! Apparently that last episode rather upset the authorities in Beijing. (I told Mrs C it would. She replied that I'd told her that three times.)

Goodnight.

Just a short post tonight, because of time constraints. All has gone well, what with Octopussy as the film, and X factor for those less enamoured with Mr Bond. Sweet rations, of course, and good behaviour on the part of one and all.

The junior debate on whether the boys should be allowed to keep pets at school, and whether belief in the paranormal is irrational, had at least one young man confused completely, as he hadn't realised that there were, in fact, two separate debates, and ended up opining about alien gerbils, or something like that!

Casualty was pretty good, and one can't help but feel sorry for Ruth, even in spite of her manipulation. Whether Charlie will ever forgive her for such subversive behaviour remains to be seen ....

The Festival of Remembrance was tremendous, as always. Huw Edwards, with whom I have dealings in my capacity as a Board member of the National College of Music, London (he's our Patron), always leads it with such gravitas and distinction. As he said to me, 'You simply can't get it wrong'.

Anyway, that's enough for now, and I may see some of you tomorrow.

Goodnight.

Oh dear, oh dear! My stats tell me that I've betrayed 29 people yesterday and 25 today: not very impressive, is it? But, my dear global Followers, I wasn't able to write for you last night for a very good reason. We were dining with our former employers.

Ah yes. I thought that would do the trick. And I can tell you, because I know you're longing to know, that they are very well indeed, and very much enjoying their new life. I won't give away too much detail on this open blog, not because there's anything controversial or contentious that might land me in trouble, but simply because chat over the dinner table is not really for public consumption, as I'm sure you'll all agree. Suffice it to say that we enjoyed a really lovely evening, and that all is well.

As for things in Newtonian land, as one of you referred to our empire today, all's well here. too. Tonight was black shoe-cleaning night, and you'd be amazed just how seriously our rezzies take such things! Actually, you probably wouldn't, because you'll be fully aware of the competitive spirit of your offspring. The effort that went into it all, though, was tremendous, and there were no less than six lucky winners!

Such was the conscientiousness of the troops, that I was inveigled into turning on the hi-fi radio, which, as you know from previous posts, is possessed of two mighty speakers, and once again, being the recidivistic males that we are, we endeavoured to pump up the volume very, very gradually, to see how much we could get away with, while the inmates did their best to emulate the candidates on 'Strictly'. Oh yes, there are plenty of embryonic Widdies here. (Oh yes, very funny. I can do telepathy, you know.)

So there we are. I hope tonight's offering has managed to fill the giant chasm in your lives, that aching void, that gaping crevasse in the existence of humanity - no, I mustn't get carried away.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, we got away with just above 'very', but some way below 'deafening'. (And way below 'normal'.)

Bonne nuit.

Yo, bruvs in da hood, innit. Er, yes, well, just in case you should think that I've lost the plot, I should tell you immediately that such was the salutation of tonight. Quite.

Not really a great deal to report tonight; the telly was showing a programme about food factories, or something like that, and the other one was relaying the Chelsea v Fulham match. That, along with biscuits, squash and fruit seemed to keep everyone happy. oh, and the two computers, of course, which are always popular.

The boys from the Removes who've been in France for the past ten days returned this afternoon: totally fluent in French, of course, as you can imagine, and having had a very enjoyable and productive time. Dr Harskin, who was team leader, as Sir Alan would say, held a spontaneous drinks party at his place to celebrate his return, and much fun was had by all.

Silent reading was as silent as whatever it is that are silent - lambs, innit? Oh no, mice - and now that the lights have gone out across the lodge, all is calm. Which is more than Spooks was, on Monday night.

Random, I know.

Laters. (As one says.) (I'm told.)

I do enjoy reading weeks. Not that I have much to do with them myself at the moment, but because it affords me/us the chance to catch up with our young, who are at the uni(versity) stage. Tom C returned this afternoon, and it's good to know that all is going well, and in order to ensure that we had a really good catch-up, he and I went to that well-know annex of the SF staff room, 'Joe's', where we were able to relax a bit, and imbibe sensibly - along with the assistance of the excellent Mr Randolph, a great friend of both of us.

The only trouble with one's young growing up, other than the fact that as they do so one feels increasingly aware of one's advancing years, is that they do tend to become rather capable. I don't think I'm a simpleton, but when I hear two people possessed of rather fine intellects engaged in erudite discourse as I did tonight, I do tend to think that my own limitations suggest that I'd be better off chatting with the farming community in West Dorset. Still, that doesn't mean to suggest that I'm not a very proud dad, because I am - and in no small measure Mrs C and I have SF to thank for that.

Goodness! That's a bit wistful for this blog! Oh well, not to worry. We can still have great fun here in Newton - and that's something that many people don't have in their own workplaces, encompassed and beset as we are these days by the rigmarole of ever-burgeoning bureacuracy. The day we lose the element of fun will be the day that Mrs C and I really do fold our tent and drive into the sunset.

Holby was pretty good tonight. And I did enjoy the dramatic irony of the chess match. Jac needs to watch out: Mr Hansen is no fool. Symbolism, anyone?

Goodnight.

My people, I feel soooo much better. After all my whingeing about the way I hashed up one of the finest organ works ever composed, and then suggested that you might like to listen to the great Helmut Walcha playing it properly, I found it on YouTube (where you seem to be able to find anything and everything), and listened carefully. Right at the end of the prelude (before the fugue), Herr Walcha plays a wrong (well. actually, to be fair, it was more of an inexactitude - and he was blind) note! For some reason this blog doesn't let me copy and paste, and the link's too complicated to copy manually, but if you're interested, put Helmut Walcha Great G major Prelude and Fugue BWV 541 into the YouTube search and you'll find it.

Right. That's enough about organ music. To things more Newtonian.

Shoe-cleaning happened very successfully tonight, with four lucky winners who were rewarded edibly. (No, I didn't eat them. Yes, I know, prep school humour. Well they like it.) Such was the amount of conscientious polishing, however, that there wasn't time for the explanation of how the inter-dorm cricket competition is going to work, so we'll do that on Wednesday night.

Tonight's lodge feasting, then consisted of relented sweet rations (Starburst) from Saturday night, cut-up orange segments, apples, bananas and custard creams. I dunno: at my prep school if we had a small bottle of milk with a straw and a ginger nut we were lucky. (We used to try and get away with taking two, but a rebuking voice always seemed to boom out from nowhere when we did.)

Spooks tonight: another of my all-time faves. Did you know that I received a knock on the door from the security services one night in 1987? 11 o'clock, it was, and I was invited to consider the possibility of working for 'them'! Yes, honestly: I'm not making it up, you know: you can ask Mrs C to verify! Still, I didn't accept, so here I am, writing my nightly coded messa ...... I mean, writing this nightly blog.

Of course.

Goodnight ........

I know there are those of you who are eager to read tonight's blog entry, so here it is. And a happy new week to one and all.

So. I made a complete hash of Bach's 'Great' G major prelude at the beginning of the service, and, as our Director of Music said, ever the diplomat that he is, 'Do you ever find that you put down a piece that you're going to play and then discover that you can't. actually, play it?' He claimed he was referring to the brilliantly played E minor prelude that he offered as the exit voluntary, but, as he's been a friend of mine since long before SF days, I reckon I know what he meant. Anyway, if The Great happens to be one of your desert island discs, then please accept my apologies. And if you want to hear a really good performance of it, then that which is executed by the great, late, blind (!) Helmut Walcha is probably the best around. You can probably Youtube it, I expect. I have an old 45 rpm of it, which is truly excellent. I must get round to learning it properly. I did have a lesson on it from the current organist of York Minster, Philip Moore, once, but that was a long time ago. (The lesson I had from Dr Harry Gabb, who was the organist at the Coronation, was the most memorable, as I played the Bach Fantasia in G major as my 'model' piece, and I thought I played it rather well, but I was dismayed when, following my rather excessive finale, he quietly rose, and pointed to one single note that I'd held when I shouldn't have done! Honestly! One wrongly-timed note out of six billion ....! Still, it was a good lesson in how not to indulge in self-aggrandisement!)

Back at the ranch, I've found the two mini-mini cricket bats that Mrs C and I were given when we were guests at a friend's birthday party held at Lord's. I've charged one of our cricketing stars to come up with a plan for an inter-dorm cricket comp, and I've already been regaled with embryonic ideas. I'll keep you all enloooped about that.

It's amazing what pur boys notice, you know: having enjoyed a glass or two of decent vino in New Room, amidst excellent company, I went down to the drawing room to express my appreciation of such hospitality and my apologies that I couldn't stay for dinner, and wandered back to Newton Lodge.

"Sir, you're late," was the greeting I received.

I grovelled, of course, and I think I got away with it.

Goodnight.

Oh my goodness, that was a close-run thing, was it not? All a bit touch and go for bit, with the inspection causing such great consternation. I really did think that everything was going to go horribly pear-shaped, and I have to confess that I was very, very worried when the inspector was walking around with her clipboard, looking very, very official. I couldn't help but register my alarm to Mrs C when the inspectoress noticed so many things happening that shouldn't have been, but fortunately my dear spouse was, as ever, as calm as a cucumber in the midst of a crisis, and enabled me to hope that all would be well.

Every time someone moved, it seemed, the inspector would appear from nowhere, writing what I can only assume were less-than-favourable remarks for the report. I think that the alarm was infectious, and it was clear that the troops were as worried as anyone else, so all we could do was cross our fingers and hope.

Fortunately, no-one died, and all was well, with the right outcome. Everyone was happy at the result, which, under the circumstances, was the right one, in spite of what appeared to the unprofessional behaviour of some - but really, when you weigh up all the options, there was no choice.

Still, that's enough about tonight's episode of Casualty: you probably saw it for yourselves.

As for what's been going on here in Newton Lodge, well, it's been a pretty calm sort of evening, although unfortunately sweet rations have been put on hold, as the rezzies rather overdid the post-lights-out euphoria last night, and decided that a quasi-dorm raid would be rather fun. It wasn't. And just in case you're worried about such deprivation, I should add that they all enjoyed the most divine amuse-bouches, which were a wonderful offering from one of you, for which very many thanks indeed!

Well, there we are for another week, then: thanks for reading, and for all your lovely comments.

Goodnight, wherever you are.

OK, it's official. I am the self-styled meanest lodgmeistering ogre that SF has ever had the misfortune to employ. Let me tell you, cathartically, about it.



It was like this. This morning, after having suffered great consternation at hearing the 'wrong' voice on Radio 4 at 6.30am, having overlooked the fact that the NUJ are on strike and therefore causing the whole of the working nation to imagine that something had gone horribly and horologically wrong, I did what I always do: make myself a cup of coffee, wake up the boys with a cheery 'Good morning' (!) and then go down to the Clubhouse to await the members of the lodge as they prepare to depart, having watched the news.



I turned on the telly. No witty banter from Sian and Bill, no sporting mischief from my wife's hearthrob, Chris Hollins (whom, incidentally, I persuaded to send her a signed photo for her landmark birthday) and no lovely lilt from the lovely Carol Kirkwood. No money markets report from the bespectacled Simon Jack: just boring old News 24, which was about as dry as a Newtonian's towel.



I flicked over to a programme called 'Daybreak', hosted by poached presenters from the One Show. Tosh. No thanks. I turned back.



A rezzie appraoched me.



"Sir, as it's November 5th, could we have fireworks tonight?"



"No."



"Can't you give us just one rocket?"



"H'm. So you want me to give you a rocket tonight, is that right?"



"Yes, sir."



I agreed that I would. Well, you can imagine the rest. I knew what was going to happen: they didn't.



I sat down at supper, next to my requestee, who looked at me with the excitement of one who's about to open his Christmas presents, with big, wide eyes.



"So are you really going to give us a rocket tonight, sir?!"



"Oh yes."



So I (sort of) did. I gathered the members of the dorm together, and I rebuked them for talking after lights out. I then ensured that this could be considered as part of their education, and explained what 'giving someone a rocket' could mean. They looked dreadfully hurt, not least the aforementioned requestee.



I don't think they'll speak to me for a week. Actually, being the lovely people they are, they already are doing, so all seems to be well.



As for the fireworks, well, they've got their rockets: there's the most amazing display going on as I write, and they're all out of bed, watching, wide-eyed from behind the curtains.



As for Isla, she's petrified: and being comforted by Mrs C.



Goodnight from Mr Mean.



PS As for the illegal sweets bust, well, we'll say no more about that.

Well, there we are, then, another day done and dusted. I wonder what the Franglais version of that is? Tout fait et torchonne (with acute accent on the e, of course), I suppose. There's a version of French that reverses the words, and whose name I cannot recall at this moment, but Nigel Pearce and I have taken that one stage further, whereby we use direct translations of English words, translate them into French, and then re-translate them into English, which enables us to use that word as the base for the re-translation into our own version of Franglais. It's complicated, but it's fun. That's the sort of cerebral pastime that happens here, in this oasis of intellectualism. (Ho ho.) It just makes us sound clever, especially in the coffee queue, when we're guffawing with imbecilic laughter at a word we've used as a Franglais word that starts with the letter s. (Thus enabling us to dispose of the said letter, and replace it with an e acute, you see, due to the acute (and the circumflex, of course) indicating that once upon a time there was an s next to the e.)

I think I'll shut up now, as in re-reading the last paragraph back to myself, it does seem to be possessed of a touch of the Salvador Dali. (In written form, of course.)

As for things Newtonian, well, Mr Porter's been on duty, and as I've just seen him and thanked him for his expert help, it seems that all has gone well once again. I've now taken over the controls once again, and let's hope we don't have any Airbus incidents akin to those of this morning. All engines are fine at the moment.

Good night all - and big hugs to any Newtonians who may be sous le temps a la maison a ce moment.

Good evening all, and a special mention to our new fully paid-up Follower, who has managed to by-pass the extraordinary entanglement that this blog seems to require of one in order to become a full member.

Just the 10 goals today, then, as those of you who are following on Twitter will already know. Still, that's pretty good, so hearty congrats all round were offered. We had a very enjoyable get-together chez Bryan, in order to celebrate/drown sorrows, with excellent vino, fine sausage rolls and splendid cheeses. Almost everyone there, and a jolly time had by all. Even Our Leader, whom I noticed tucking heartily into a smoked Emmental - or some such.

Little things, eh? I went into Osprey to turn out the lights.

"Sir, where's the clock gone?"

"It's still there. Look." (I knew it wasn't there, as one of the hands had come adrift, but I didn't look in that direction.)

"No, but SIR! The clock isn't there!"

"I think you're a bit stressed," said I, and invited the two horological experts to accompany me to this computer. I told them that they might need to take a stress test, to which they readily agreed. And just in case any of you, dear Followers, may have had a bad day in the office/house/garden, you might like to test it out for yourselves. Here's the link - and promise me that you won't skip the instructions. They are very, very important and failure to adhere to them will result negate the process.

http://bblmedia.com/sports/stress.html

As for tonight's mystery of the missing league shirt, well, I think I'll pass on that. You just don't want to know. OK, you do, but when I tell you that after much ranting, counting, re-counting, checking, double-checking, a league shirt was found on the stairs, we could all breathe easily once again.

Goodnight all - and do take it easy if you get a positive result from the stress test.

So, then, another Newtonian milestone is notched up as NFN becomes Twitterable. Honestly: what a load of semantic tosh I churn out each night. Anyway, I'm delighted to see that I already have a goodly number of followers over on the Twitter channel, so thank you for tuning in. As Mrs B said, 'Enjoy'!

Now. To the small matter of football. May I humbly enquire which particular website it was that opined that Mr W Rooney would be remaining with Manchester United? Think: yes, that's right: this one. Which means, as you will recall, that I am owed half a sweet ration. Actually, just to prove that I'm not the ogre you might imagine, I've waived the debt.

I've been given - yes, given - a harpsichord. As you can imagine, I'm thrilled, but it's in a sorry state at the moment, and will need a good deal of TLC. Fortunately, I've found a gentleman who restores such lovely instruments, and, other than the fact that I'll have to take the deeds of my house along when I settle up with him, he assures me that it will look like a new one when I go to collect it. It will certainly be a wonderful Christmas present. To myself. (Not quite the Aston Martin I was hoping for, but probably similar in cost.)

Holby was 'quite' good tonight, we thought - and Mr Hansen is certainly ruffling a few feathers. New brooms often do, I find.

Night night.

Good evening, one and all - and I hope everyone has enjoyed a thoroughly enjoyable Long Leave. And if you want to see an example of what your sons' lodgemeister got up to, then do have a squint at my half-term jottings, written after a perfectly splendid visit to Bridchester. (Sorry about the Thomas Hardy nomenclature, but I don't want the natives getting upset and driving their Massey-Fergusons through my drawing room window.)

So, I hope you're excited about Newton becoming part of the Twitter network! Watch out for the updates, and I'm sure you'll have already set your devices to RSS feeders, or whatever ornithological allusions you can think of.

I've heard all about all sorts of exciting things tonight: trips to Holland. where I understand the theme parks are wonderful (glad something is) (apart from the Reiksmuseum, that is, of course)' Paris, New York, and many other wonderful locations. I received an invitation to go to West Virginia as a private tutor, but declined such a terrific offer, as I thought that time wasn't really on my side.

We discussed the plural of the word 'oaf' tonight. As one does. I argued that if the plural of loaf is loaves, then the plural of oaf must, logically, be oaves. I'm still not sure whether I'd get away with exclaiming 'You silly oaves!', but then I don't often engage in the perjorative. Well, sometimes.

'Sir, do you ever get called 'Dad', or 'Daddy'? I was asked tonight. I replied that I often did, and that I took it as a compliment and told him that 'Your majesty', of course, is the preferred form of address,

He spluttered, gave me a withering look and took a very noisy chunk out of a Cox's Orange Pippin.

Goodnight.

My Friends, NFN is now Twitterable! Just set whatever receiver you may have to the following link:

http://twitter.com/Newtoniannews

and you can receive pithy one-liners, requests for 'phone calls, new trousers, sudden re-arrangements of anything, etc., etc.

As always, no surnames will be mentioned, but if it's OK with you, Twitter messages might use the nomenclature 'Alex C', or 'Harry W'. (Neither of which we currently have, btw.)

Greetings from a blustery West Dorset. I hope all is going well in the various parts of the globe, and I note to my delight that this now includes China and North Korea, so greetings all.

Yesterday, I spent the morning in our local market town. I won't say which one, as we are equidistant between each. (I suppose one couldn't really be otherwise.) As I walked around the place, I had a terrifying out-of-body experience, as glimpses of the future projected themselves on to my increasingly anxious retinae. What, I wondered for a start, is this thing with trainers, as I gazed upon those of every vintage desirous of sporting unsuitable sportswear? At nearly 60, I cannot for the life of me imagine wearing trainers when I (rarely) shop. I would rather swim with alligators than walk into WH Smith with Adidas covering my metatarsals. And, considering it was market-day (i.e.: there was nowhere to park), why on earth did everyone look so flipping miserable? I found myself engulfed in a sea of misery, with everyone moaning about their various health 'issues', or the price of fish. Actually, talking of fish, that was one highlight: the local fishmonger does make a wonderful smoked mackerel pate.

They say that our local market town is earning itself a sobriquet of 'A certain part of London'-on-Sea. It's full of bistros and wine cafes, say the various journalists, a thriving hub of society, full of thrusting youngsters in their (t)rusty chick-magnets. Er, not from where I was sitting it wasn't. True, I'd just bought myself a cappucino, which had been proferred with very bad grace, once the little lady serving me had understood what I meant by the term, and when I told her that I intended to take it on to the square (which has yet to be re-named the plaza), I was given it in a not wholly spotless mug. I mean, honestly: cappucino - in a mug?? Where was the fun in that? How could I possibly burn my lip on something that wasn't made of cardboard and didn't have a tiny li-wrecking aperture at the top of it? And a handle? It was like drinking a pint of best from a handle-less glass in the saloon bar. I sat on one of the surprisingly empty benches, with my purchases, namely a digital radio (which was a bit extravagant, I know, but our bedroom radio has been with us since 1982, so I thought the outlay was justified), Elton John's new CD, 'The Union' (which needs to be listened to twice before it can be fully appreciated - i.e.: I thought it was rubbish when I put it on the first time and this morning it's actually pretty good) and Duncan Bannatyne's autobiography. (Because if this blog doesn't make me a few squid when it's published I shall need other ideas.)

I soon realised why the benches were empty There, sitting beside a young lady who was not wholly uneasy on the eye was a young gentleman, doing his best, not to entice her into his own babe-magnet, but into the ways of spirituality. The young lady was remarkably patient, I thought, but after about 15 minutes, she'd had enough - and so had I. Another trainer-bedecked gentleman of advancing years walked past.

I have a confession to make. I do not only have a motorcycle. I have a scooter, too. I suppose that must make me a Mocker - or something. I've had it since it was new in 2006, and it brings back memories of the Vespa and the Lambretta I owned (together) when I was a student. So that's where I'm going now. Once I've put on my parka jacket and leather gloves, loaded up the box with projectiles and a couple of corned beef sandwiches, I'll be on the road.

Oh, the memories.

Nearly there! Already! Wherever have those weeks gone - and have we all achieved as much as we should? Oh dear, such worries, such consternation! Still, no matter: we've now got ten days in which to do whatever we want, whether, like me, you'll be walking, reading, motorcycling (as long as isn't TOO cold), playing the piano, listening to music, clearing those leaves in the garden, skyping the offspring, sampling the fruits of the vine, along with the produce of the local artisans, or jetting off to warmer climes - oh, the joys are endless, and for us, West Dorset is beckoning with its much-loved clarion call.

My dear colleague Mr Porter has been on duty tonight, so there has been good order throughout the evening, with no problems and plenty of fun. Fun. Yes, that's what lodge life should consist of. Good order, of course, and all the usual requirements of family life, but fun, too, and plenty of it. I was talking with Mrs C on Tuesday, and we both agreed that your LMs are extensions of our own family, in a way that I'm sure you'll understand, and we love it when they feel that they can wander into our kitchen and worship the dog, or chat to the cat, or talk to us or our own young freely.

I'd better go. One of our residents has to catch a 'plane early tomorrow morning, so he's in the room next door to where I'm thumping this out, and he probably wants to go to sleep. So, my dear Followers, whether you're in Rio, Romania, Russia, Rekyavik or, of course, you-know-where, thanks for reading, and have a wonderful Long Leave.

Goodnight.

Oh - my - goodness. (Or the equivalent of the young on Facebook.) I knew it. I knew, as soon as I mentioned it to the Head of Classics, that I would be shown up as the complete ignoramus that I am. I quote - or rather, I would, if my stupid computer would allow me to do so - Mr Bryan's expert counsel on the use of the gerund versus the gerundive. I will endeavour to add it to this post if my irritating facilitator will allow me to do so.

Ce soir je suis tres fier de mes Newtoniens. And I wrote that because, notwithstanding the strikes going on in France a ce moment our top scorer today hails from that excellent country, and there was much celebration as a result. Une demie trimestre, comme j'ai dit. I made a very rash promise tonight, that, in view of the fact that the Newton record of goals in one day, when all teams were playing, is 16, if we ever manage 17 there will be a sweet ration all round. You can imagine, no doubt, the enthusiasm and alacrity with which that was received .... !

It's been a great day. Mr Fradgley, our splendid new-ish recruit, achieved fully qualified status today - and, as you can imagine, this caused considerable celebration. (At his place - and his expense.) We're thrilled, and we couldn't wish for a better colleague. The fact that he can now enter the staff room without being a guest of the Director of Studies is tremendous. (Joke.) (But not much of one.)

Oh, I'm SO frustrated at my inability to incorporate Mr Bryan's explanation of the gerund! I've tried everything, copying and pasting to all conceivable places, but without success.

So I must welcome our new Follower from Singapore, instead. Welcome, my friend, whoever you are, and I hope you will be happy here. (I promise not to mention Richmond in this post.) It was good to see that you had come to see what we get up to. Incidentally, I had a nice Facebook message from our Follower in Uganda - and learnt to my (our) delight that she is expecting a baby!

I have a wager with a Newtonian that Wayne Rooney won't leave Man U. I think I'm going to lose.

And on that note .......

I wish you an appropriate and topical 'Bonne nuit'.

Good whatever it is, wherever you are - and thank you for tuning in once again, especially our new Follower in Slovenia! (Madam/sir, should you ever be in the UK, may I suggest that you make for Richmond? A fine place on the outskirts of our capital city.)

My info feed is telling me that 'image uploads will be disabled for two hours', which is not a problem to me, as I never post any images. I have to say, though, that if I did, you'd raise a happy smile when you saw an image of your LMs all congregated in the laundry, on their knees, not because they'd joined some bizarre religious cult (actually, it wouldn't be all that bizarre, I suppose, if they were on their knees), but as a result of their cleaning their shoes. (I can never remember whether that's a gerund or a gerundive. I know it's a verbal substantive, but I've always had a problem with that. Oh well, I'm sure someone will tell me. Like Mr Bryan.) Another two images would be of 'boy adoring dog' and another would be of 'two boys in happy mood'. And if you want to see those images, I shall be happy to show you when you next visit Newton.

Mrs C and I have enjoyed a very happy half day today, with a delightful luncheon party chez la grand'mere d'un ex-Newtonien, qui cuit les cookies les mieux du monde and offers her guests a menu of distinction, along with delightful company. On return, we took Isla out for a walk - and got utterly soaked in the process. A fine trio we looked, Mrs C, Isla and I, sheltering under a fir tree. Still, it could have been worse, and we returned to settle down to a 'nice' cup of tea (have you ever had a 'horrid' one?) and a rather boring edition of that celebrated television programme for those of advanced years, 'Escape to the Country'. I then did more piano practice than I usually do, and, following convos on the phone with friends who follow these jocular jottings, we continued to idle our time away by getting engrossed in our weekly indulgence, namely 'Holby', which, with the arrival of the new Director of Surgery, Mr Hansen, looks as if it's going to change a little. Yes, I know, I know: I should be ploughing my way through educational tomes in the Bodleian rather than goggling at tripe on the telly - but I'm not as intellectual as Mr Hannah. (Bang goes another invitation to one of his college dinners. Not that I'm jealous or anything, Dr Dean.)

So, yes: the splendid Mr Bryan, who has no difficulty whatsoever in distinguishing his substantives from his particles, has been on duty - and, from what we couldn't hear, it sounds as if all has gone very well. As always.

Goodnight, one and all.

Shalom, bon soir, guten abend, good evening, skol (probably), salvete and dobry wotsit to one and all around the globe, whether you're in Romania, Richmond or Rajistan.

It'e been a fun evening here tonight, with shoe-cleaning and the ensuing competition for the shiniest of them all and three runners-up; fruit a-plenty; Digestives and jammy dodgers for the taking (which I did, and, by negotiating with Miss Chloe that she wouldn't sneak on me to You-Know-Who, got away with); helicopter-flying - yes, you did read that aright; and then, for the last ten minutes of downstairs time before silent reading, bopping in the clubhouse. And yes, you read that aright, too. Someone, you see, turned on the state-of-the-ark hi-fi centre, and the handful of rezzies that were there at the time (with your correspondent being one of them), decided that the volume was a tad minimal, so 'someone' (OK, me) pumped it up a bit (lot) and we enjoyed letting our hair down. As you can imagine, such enthusiasm was short-lived, and a diplomatic fade-out was necessary as we saw the Newton matriarch striding purposefully towards our place of reckless living. As those who had been party to the party, as it were, made for their dorms, following my gentle call to silent reading, a request was made to me that such anarchic enjoyment should become a nightly feature of Newtonian life for the last ten minutes of 'down' time, prior to 'up' time. I think not. One - that is I - can only get away with that sort of thing once - or possibly twice.

Did you not think Downton Abbey was good last night? Although there was one expression that Her Ladyship uttered that I thought was a bit anachronistic, and a trifle trendy, although now I try to remember it, I can't. And apparently, in one scene, although I didn't see it, double yellow lines on the road made a fleeting appearance. Still, such errata are but mere nothings in an otherwise exceptional drama.

That's it, then, for another night. Goodnight, one and all.

If Tom C were here, he would no doubt be able to tell me, four weeks into his Japanese course at London Uni (versity) (I only put that because Tom reads this blog from time to time and he hates the sobriquet 'uni'), what salutation I should use in that fine and ancient language for this time of day. Sadly, he isn't, so he can't - but I did have a very enjoyable Skype convo (ersation) (no, not convoersation, that would be silly) earlier. (What a lot of paretheses.) (I'm always amused by the page in Eton's calendar, which, of course, they wouldn't refer to as such a chavvy name as 'calendar', preferring, of course, the more idiosyncratic and refined 'Fixtures', that shows 'Masters' initials and of others in parentheses. I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be an Eton beak in paretheses, as I'm sure it would be most interesting.) Enough of all that, for I have a serious point to make in a moment. For now, though, my warm greetings to our readers in Richmond, who tell me that all this talk of welcoming people from Outer Mongolia, or anywhere ending in -istan, etc. makes them feel rather left out. There is an inclusivity policy on this blog, so everyone must feel as welcome as anyone else.

To serious matters, for a moment. Tonight I had occasion to upbraid a dorm as a result of an incident that could only be described as bullying. I have assured all of the Newton residents that they have nothing to fear if they feel they are being bullied, and that they should inform me, Mrs C, their tutor, or any member of staff with whom they feel comfortable, immediately. They should never keep it to themselves. On the other hand, I have advised anyone who is involved in bullying that such behaviour will be reported to the highest authorities, as well as their parents. The silence, after I had delivered this advice, was deafening. I wasn't angry; but I was firm - and I think they got the message.

I had a lovely chat with one of my ex-tutees earlier this evening: he's now at Radley, and was absolutely charming. And I'm not just writing that because his parents are NFN Followers, either. That was an added bonus, of course, to the fact that a former Mayfieldian, from preblogistoric times, came back to see Mrs C and me, complete with girl friend, for tea. We meandered down Memory Lane, inevitably, and I learnt all kinds of things ..... ! I do like it when my former pupils make a return visit, as I do when I receive e-mails from them - and I've had several already this term, all telling me of early achievements and successes.

Time for Downton Abbey, methinks. Truly uplifting drama, imho.

Goodnight

And here we are again. Time really does go very quickly, does it not? Only a few years ago - golly, it has been a long day! - I mean, of course, hours, I was promising to bid our new Follower from Poland a fond 'Good evening', and I bet there were some of you who thought I'd forget. Ha! Oh ye of little faith. A quick visit to Google Translate and I'm able, without let or hindrance, to do exactly that. So, my friend, 'Dobry wieczov' - with apologies for the missing accent over the o.

As for tonight, well, it's been a fairly quiet evening, following a very good debate entitled 'This house believes that a president would be more effective than a monarch', wherein many fine speeches were made, both by the official speakers and those who chose to speak from the floor. Not sure what, as Dr Dean described him, 'the one person who's had more experience of speaking from within a chamber than the rest of us' made of it, but to judge from the occasional cry of 'Excellent!' and the odd guffaw from behind me, it seemed to have gone down pretty well. (As he's a regular reader of these nightly offerings I have to be diplomatic, you see, otherwise my time might be up sooner rather than later.)

The good old shower deception tricks are in full swing again, though tonight I came across a development of the old ones, with the discovery of a flannel being wettened and pulled across the hair, face and upper torso. Nice try, but they do tend to forget that Mrs C and I have been at this game since 1994, so we've seen almost all of it before. One step ahead ...... !

Two of our residents appeared on our stairs, which happen, for reasons historical, to be in the kitchen, and stood on same, asking of me whether I might avail them of their rightful sweet rations. They looked for all the world like characters from 'The Sound of Music', but I elected to forego the utter delight that would no doubt have been provided if they chosen to sing for their sweets.

That'll do for tonight. I'll see some of you tomorrow. But probably not those of you from far-flung parts of the blogosphere.

Wherever you are, I hope all is well.

Goodnight.

Good evening, my friends - and the warmest of welcomes to the new Followers that my stats tell me we have, from Israel, no less, and from Poland! How very nice to welcome you, and thank you for reading. With all these pageviews from around the world, I'm beginning to think that our new HM was right when he informed some prospective parents recently that the Newton Blog had become a cult! I find it fascinating to see who's been reading my nocturnal ramblings - and even when! (If I'm feeling particularly sad I can always log on to NFN and then click on the stats tab and see it telling me that I'm reading it ..... Actually, of course, I'm not, at that stage, because obviously I'm reading the stats page.) Anyway, Shalom, sir or madam in Israel, but I'm afraid I don't know the Polish greeting - although if you're still with us tomorrow I promise I'll look it up on Google Translate and incorporate it in tomorrow's post. Although having experienced the, er, 'wisdom' of GT in the past, goodness alone knows what I shall actually be writing, so apologies in advance for that.)

It's been a very calm evening here tonight. Not much of any great import has happened, other than the normal Friday night jollities, such a Jammy Dodgers and Rich Teas, although there was a bot of incident concerning the number of each to which residents were entitled. Two of one and one of the other seemed to be the order of the night, so when one of our number arrived in the clubhouse with two of each, there was a 'discussion' about it. I suggested that we didn't really need to get too worked up about one biscuit, whereupon another resident opined that it wasn't 'one' biscuit that was causing the problem, it was 'three'. I countered this clever move by retorting that if the recipient of said biscuits was entitled to three in the first place, and was apprehended with one more, then it was, in fact, one biscuit and not three that was causing the consternation. Crumbs! You have to be so careful here, you know! Anyway, it was all resolved amicably.

As for entertainment, well, that's been limited to a woolly dog with a laughing box inside, that sounds as if it's having total hysterics. Even old Grumpychops himself had to laugh .... ! In fact, the sound was actually quite musical in its way. Bach, perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

Goodnight, all - wherever in the world you may be.

Dorm raids and young bloggers: that's what I'd put in the subject line tonight. Dorm raids, because the one that was planned was intercepted by Mrs C, who just happened to overhear the logistics being discussed, and soon launched her own ICBM, which, as well as extinguishing the fire of youthful enthusiasm, took out a number of the key figures as well. As you can imagine, there was considerable (un)diplomatic fall-out, but as the politburo that run this place have a zero-tolerance approach to dorm-raiding, if a member of the resistance is found lurking with that deadliest of weapons (a pillow) in his hands, he can expect the worst. Peace broke out soon after that, I'm pleased to report.

And young bloggers feature due to the fact that Channel 4 News is running a 'Young Blogger of the Year' competition. I thought, for a nano-second, of entering, but then dispelled any such fanciful ideas rather quickly. I wonder why.

Chapel was remarkable this morning. I always lead the service on Thursdays, and, after I'd had my usual rant at the non-appearing lesson reader and substituted the one advertised on Mr Lapwood's sheet with a volunteer, we settled down and enjoyed the tranquillity of our place of worship. The lesson was part of Psalm 40, which, as I'm sure you know, goes on about being rescued from the mirey pit. Of course, in my opening homily I spoke about the Chilean success story, so you'd imagine that the lesson I had chosen was particularly apposite, would you not?

Except that I didn't choose it. The lesson readings were planned by Mr Lapwood - two days before the beginning of term.

Goodnight.

Good evening, my Followers, and I hope you've all had a really good day. Especial greetings to anyone who isn't actually a Newton parent, and welcome aboard!

It's been a fairly high-spririted evening tonight: there's been a good deal of success on the games field, and so everyone's fairly jubilant .... ! I must admit that it's quite easy to be swept along on the tide of euphoria, and I'm just as much as culprit as your LMs are!

'Er, what are you doing in X's bed, then?' I asked, innocently.

'Um, getting my book back,' was the instant response.

'Ha! That's what you say!' said a voice from an upper bunk.

'And you are where, exactly?', enquired the lodgemeister.

Collapse of stout party, as voice came from an upper bunk, who also claimed to be 'looking for a book!

Honestly, sometimes I think our rezzies think I was born the day before yesterday. As you know from last night's post, I wasn't. It reminds me of being on duty, as I was today, and walking into a form room, asking the person at the computer whether he's, um, 'checking his emails ....' Oh how I love euphemisms.

I was invited to engage in a staring-one-another-out competition tonight. Now, I think I'm pretty good at that, and indeed all went well for the most part - until one of our more athletic residents asked to have 'anothe go'! Oh my, he's good! (Not quite good enough, though.)

Jusqu'a demain.

Goodnight.

So this is what it feels like to be 59, then. Actually, not bad at all. And a call from my 91-year-old mama made me feel a whole lot better.



It's been a quiet, but thoroughly enjoyable day: lunch a deux (sorry, still can't do accents on this blog), a very long walk through the Oxfordshire countryside with Diana and the dog, and then back to a spot of lawn-mowing, which I always find rather therapeutic. Being of advanced years now, we've taken to pouring ourselves a 'nice' cup of tea and settling down to watch 'Escape to the Country', when we can, so that was nice. No, we didn't, in fact, put a rug over our knees.



Thank you, though, for all your kind wishes: much appreciated. Can't wait for next year: that should be some bash. (d.v.)



Your LMs all looked the part this morning, as a number of them prepared to make their way to Eton. They were all extremely up-beat, and all, as far as I can gather, were looking forward to the experience. They were to be transported headmagisterially, and also ex-tutorially, with the overflow travelling in the brand new Audi belonging to my former tutee, Mr Edwards. We've seen them tonight, and they remain in good spirits, all having had a good time.



Mr Bryan and Miss Chloe were kindly duteous this evening, and all seems to have gone well. We were all sitting round the kitchen table, enjoying a celebratory glass of Lanson, and I have to admit that my deputy lodgemeister was taken aback to note that LMs suddenly appeared! As they do.



'Er, I seem to have fallen over', was the first plaintive cry from the kitchen door, which necessitated a bit of TLC and little more, followed by 'What's the password for the upstairs common room computer?', from a voice from the top of our stairs. We waited for the third to herald us, but nothing was forthcoming.



Holby was good tonight - or at least, it would have been, if Sky Super Extra Incredible Never Let You Down, or whatever its moniker is, hadn't crashed half way through! Oh well, at least there's i-Player.

'twas shoe-cleaning night in Newton tonight, and, consequentially, there was a rather fine line of 24 pairs of shoes lining the downstairs corridor! First prize went to one of our Russian residents (and as there's only one of those it's not difficult to work out who that was: I can't tell you, though, as I have a policy of not mentioning any names in this corner of cyberspace.) We then decided that we'd award lesser edible prizes to six runners-up, and all of the winners were worthy, we felt.

Greetings, by the way, to our new Follower, currently (but not permanently) in Hong Kong! That means, my people, that there are now blogloggers in the UK, Cyprus, the Cayman Islands, USA, France, Uganda, Hong Kong, Japan, the Netherlands, Brazil, Russia, Malta and Romania! Good whatever it is wherever you are, and thank you for tuning in ... ! Amazing things, these blog stats, do you know I even have a map of the world with the countries where NFN is read shaded in green? Remarkable.

You might be entertained (a little) by a comment that was made to Mrs C last night, after the service, in which, as you know, I praught.

'Oh, my, it must be so interesting, living with a husband like yours' !!!

Ever dutiful and loyal, my dearest - indeed my only - wife nodded in agreement. Yes, indeed it must, especially when it comes to logistics and organisation, those great skills that I possess in minus figures.

Well, that's it for another night: I'm 59 tomorrow, so I need to ensure that I'm prepared for another milestone in the inexorable journey towards eternity .....

Goodnight