So much, then, for my rather feeble attempts at erudition. 'Bring back the cookies and the custard creams', seemed to be the general consensus from followers when I saw them on Friday, so, other than to tell you that I read, with pleasure, J,M. Coetzee's 'Waiting for the Barbarians' and Ian McEwan's 'On Chesil Bank' over the weekend, and then to pass on P.D. James' wonderful comment about Jane Austen, viz: 'Mills and Boon, written by a genius', I will, I promise, return to more simple pleasures, and will let you know as it happens, what is being guzzled when - and how, and where.

Whilst greeting my global followers the other day, I completely forgot, of course, to offer any salautation to those in Tokyo, and I am delighted to welcome new followers who have connections out there. This is the blog that you've heard about, and I hope you'll enjoy it.

Tonight, so far, I've heard all about a lost tooth, a 'really cool' pair of new shoes, trips to the theatre, and many other obviously much-appreciated vacational activities, but tonight's highlight, which occurred during 'silent reading', following the appreciation of 'Top Gear' by fellow petrolheads in our sitting room, involved my hearing an ominous 'clonk' as I entered a certain dorm, which I won't name, other than to say that it's occupied by Heronians.

The offending item, I discovered, was a projectile, launched from one side of the room to the other.

'And what is the cause of this clonking noise?' I enquired.

'Oh drat. On the first day, too.' the launcher's owner replied.

I removed the offending weapon, which is, I have to say, hardly on a scale equivalent to anything used by the Romans, or even Robin Hood, and walked triumphantly with it into our quarters. Thanks, Beano.

To return to Newton on a winter's night, and to 'bed-making' must be the very icing on the proverbial cake.

See? It didn't take me long to return to food ..... !

So there I was, you see, sipping my glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc, gazing absentmindedly at some tosh on the telly, when the phone rang. A chum, much involved in the world of independent schools, keen to ensure that I was aware of all the goss. It's amazing how quickly time passes when one's interest is properly fired up .......

Anyway, Mr Porter's been on duty tonight, and all sounds as if it's gone well. As it did this morning, when last I saw the residents. Meanwhile, Mrs C has been busy dealing with Orders for her charges, talking both telephonically and otherwise on matters of school business, and then, to bring the day to its close, clearing up the contents of the cat's stomach which have manifested themselves in rather close proximity to this computer.

Isla's fine, however.

See you tomorrow.

Get thee behind me! No, not you, dear followers, but the very Devil himself, who is, as I type, doing his level best to get me to partake of the open box of exceedingly good chocs that my daughter has left right next to this machine! I shall not - indeed, I must not - succumb.

First, though, an apology to Miss Chloe. It seems that it was she who organised the Chinese whispers, but I learn from my sources (Heron) that this was a result of her own initiative, whereby she decided that so incensed was she by one or two things that certain Newtonians had, allegedly, been saying, that she would, and indeed did, call a lodge meeting. Following her words of rebuke to the troops, she then instructed those present to start a round or two of Chinese whispers, with the intention of proving how easy it was for malicious rumours to spread so easily. So, full marks to Miss Chloe, I say.

Well, what started out as a rather disappointing evening became a truly special one. Sometimes it just happens. Mrs C has cleverly persuaded Bradders to afix Freeview to the clubhouse telly, and we imagined that this would be 'a good thing'. It, so far, isn't. The reason? You can guess. A billion channels (well, around 20, anyway) and 27 boys is not a good mix. So, following heated negotiations that even my Kissinger-like diplomatic skills were unable to quell, TV was off tonight's menu.

Instead, I was invited to make up a Uno team - and I found myself engulfed by the most competitive couple of rounds I've ever known! They'll be great men, you know, with that kind of drive and determination.

I then moved to the piano and started meandering to little effect, and I soon found that our drawing room was rapidly filling.

"Sir, did you make that up?" Yes, I did, in fact, and, never one to be described as a shrinking violet, I played to my adoring public the only Phil Collins/Elton John balladish hybrid I've written that I thought might stand a chance of publication. It's called 'Moments of Love', and no, I didn't sing the melody, I just played the piano part. It seemed to go down rather well, so if there any music publishers out there, and you'd like a copy, do let me know. I've always wanted an Aston Martin - and I ask for one every year, but, to date, Sarnta seems to consider such extravagance chimney-unfriendly.

Oh well, there's always next year. Unless anyone should have one rotting away in the garage ......

Night night.

Thank you, Dr Harskin, for your comment about placing commas before the word 'and'. I endorse what you say entirely, because I've always thought that the notion that 'and' should be preceded commalessly is nonsensical - especially in the light of Mr Mayall's anecdote that a certain author had dedicated a book 'to my parents, Hilda Smith and God'. (Or something like that. You get my drift, I'm sure.)

It seems to have been a spirited evening in Newton tonight, or so Mr Bryan informs me. Apparently, a game of Chinese whispers, which one might have considered to be fairly innocuous, turned into a game of Summerfieldian rumour-mongering, which sounds rather suspect. After lights-out I couldn't help but hear a miscellany of thumping from above, but either Newtonians are wily enough to cease all nocturnal activity before their Leader manages to get through the drawing room door (you'll be my age one day - you wait), or I'm beginning to hear things that aren't happening. If you see what I mean.

I think that'll do for tonight.

Reading through last night's entry, I couldn't help but notice the rather second-rate punc tuation of the opening salvo. It seemed to contain a misplaced comma - and it is the humble comma that I wish to consider this evening.

I say that on;ly because I've now read two books in which the comma appears, to me, anyway, to be somewhat under-used. Apposing nouns, for example, would, in my opinion, always be surrounded by a couple of the aforementioned marks, and adjectives which form a list, in order to describe an otherwise naked noun, would also be separated by one such, with the exception of the ultimate one in the said (or rather, the written), list. And then there's the business of the prescribed absence of a comma before the word 'and' at all times, howsoever it might be used.

Hence my fascination for the works of Professor John Baily, for one, and, at the other end of the spectrum, an author with whose works I was unfamiliar, due to the fact that I do not spend very much time at airports, by the name of James Steele. Both, in writing in their respective genres, seem to think that they may presume to ignore all such regulations as I have described above. Oh well, or, rather, oh, well, I suppose one can't break rules until one knowswhat they really are, and, in the case of the learned professor, I can give him the benefit of wisdom. As for Mr Steele, well, exciting though his tale of the overthrow of a Russian dictator may be, I'm not so sure. Although perhaps my example of 'oh, well' suggests that he wrote as he intended.

Amazing what simple pleasures can be derived from a punctuation mark, don't you think?

To Newton. Mr BT popped in to see us all tonight and of course, we were all delighted to see him. We entertained him with a quick game of Uno and then showed him Black Magic, to which he offered what can only be a bribe to those who know how it works. I'm not sure that that's permitted, under the regulations of the Magic Circle. (Who have nothing to do with it; nor do the Druids.)

Happy days.

Greetings, global followers, and I hope you have had, or are in the process of having, a good day, depending on your time zone.

Pride, as whoever 'they' are, say, comes before a fall, and I knew that, this being the establishment that it is, that my own vain attempts at media manipulation would soon be surpassed by another. Sure enough, I had to wait only until yesterday morning for that to happen, and it was with great pleasure that I found myself scanning the pages of the Telegraph magazine when the family of Her Majesty's Consul-General in Iraq struck my retinae. I know I have a rule of not mentioning any names on this blog, but exception proves the rule from time to time, and as I know that you are a dedicated follower of my humble ramblings, ma'am, I hope you will not be offended by such an exception. I hope, too, that all is well out there.

The highlights of tonight's festivities here were a very interesting sermon about Fairtrade, followed by samples of what looked like vodka shots, as Mr BT said, but were in fact wine samples, accompanied by a number of rather curious canapes. Quite pleasant, nevertheless, and I was humbled by so many who treated me as if I had achieved celebrity status. I was, in fact, asked for my autograph in Summertown yesterday. - but it was Mrs Sheldon who asked, so that particular moment of self-indulgence falls at the final hoop. And the first one, really.

Hide and Seek seemed to be the order of the evening, with a number of the residents deciding that such a pastime would pass muster. It didn't, and that was that.

And so is this. So until tomorrow ....

I have just walked in on the most politically incorrect television programme in the world. It's called, apparently, 'Take me out', and, from what I can glean, involves single people who've been unable to pinpoint their chosen partner and have therefore resorted to displaying this particular aspect of their lives to a few million members of this sceptred isle - as well as a few other international locations around the planet, thanks to BBC iPlayer. I will not get involved with describing the reasons as to why various possible partners are rejected, for to do so would be very rude indeed. I think it was Bernard Shaw who said that one knows whether one is going to get along with someone from the second they open their mouth. (He it was, incidentally, who enquired of some particularly boring guests at a dinner party, "Oh, must you stay, can't you go?" A line which most of us, if we're honest, from time to time, have wished we could use.)

Anyway, back to this awful programme; one which seems to me to be the very nadir of broadcasting, imho. At the opening of the 'festivities', a plethora of young ladies, ranging from the beautiful to the, er, well, the, um, not so beautiful, walked down the stairs of the studio. I couldn't help but notice that one of our residents' faces was particularly close to the screeen.

"Er, X, this is you." I then moved towards the screen myself (and immediately realsied that this was a big mistake) and exaggerated the extent to which X's face was pressed against the screen, for which I was rewarded by a (tall) wit from within Upper Third with

"Don't worry, sir, we won't tell Mrs Cheater."

Still, as I said to one of the Curlew viewers, at least the bloke selecting his choice managed to get the right answer. (Imo.)

Thank you for watching me on the telly, btw, and also for your generous comments. If you haven't watched it and would like to, simply log on to BBC Oxford TV and you'll be able to watch it on iPlayer - at least until midnight. I can give you the radio link if you'd like it; just e-mail me at the usual generic staff address (prc@, etc.) and I'll let you know.

Until tomorrow.

Ho hum. So much for my misguided understanding that everything went without a single hiccough last night. Next time you see your offspring, ask him/them about the hot chocolate queue - and see what he/they say/says.

To today's hot-chocolateless happenings. I don't know whether any of you saw the piece on the local Oxford news about my involvement with the Afghanistan National Institute of Music, but if you did, you won't need me to give any detail about the butter-melting, cherubic angels from my 5L English set who graced the frames of your televisual receivers. They were, I have to say, the perfect example of any teacher's dreamiest, most amazingly articulate 12 and 13 year olds you could wish to see/hear. If their collective performance doesn't bring sheaves of curricula vitarum flooding onto Mr BT's desk, I don't know what will! (Normal service was resumed as soon as the camera disappeared back to BBC Oxford's pad across the road.) Still, those who've seen the item have been very generous with their comments, so that's good, and if you thought you were dreaming if you heard my voice waking you from slumber this morning on BBC Radio Oxford, you weren't.

We had three showings of the recorded version tonight, with manifold questions about every aspect of broadcasting technique, but none to beat yesterday's classic, asked of me within seconds of the camera's exit from the classroom:

"Sir, were they recording that for radio or television?"

I happened upon the first evidence of a Newtonian attempting to engage in an inter-floor pillow fight tonight. Fat chance.

"Erm, what is that in your hand?" (Typical teacher's daft question, to which we both know what the addressee wants desperately to say)

"What, this, sir?

"Yes, indeed. That."

"A pillow, sir." (Hurrah! He said it!)

You can imagine the ensuing dualogue, of course, and suffice it to say that I think any spark of intent has been properly extinguished.

Good night.

A surfeit of etymological issues is burgeoning. I now learn that Mr Bryan is very concerned about my use of the word 'geriatric', because, in his expert opinion (and who am I to argue?), if one refers to a pediatric ward, the children within it are not 'pediatrics', thus, in the same way, persons from within a geriatric ward should not be styled as 'geriatrics'. See what I mean by being surrounded by a firewall of erudition? And to think that it wasn't so long ago that a former colleague of mine thought that 'erudite' meant super-glue. How we've moved on.

And as for Dr Harskin's comments about omniba (see 'Comments' from yesterday; the only one I've ever received - actually, no, that's not correct: I received one about a grandmother who all but disgraced herself while reading the content of this website), that, sir, comes from 'omnibus', which, unless I'm much mistaken, is already plural. It's getting silly now, as I couldn't help but think about what the singular of Ba Ba black sheep might be. (Yes, prep school humour; I know.)

Dr Dean's the duty supremo tonight, and I haven't heard a squeak. He's been reading to them, in the clubhouse, and, to judge from the silence, they were all either asleep or entranced. Or both, of course.

I did an interview for the telly today, and I'm due to be on the wireless tomorrow morning, talking about the Afghan music college. So if you happen to live in the Oxford area, you can hear me wittering on at around 7.30am-ish tomorrow, and you can see me filling the frame adequately on BBC local TV sometime between 6.30 and 7pm.

Comments welcome - as long as they're decent.

First, I'm delighted to know that this blog is read by one person, at least. So my sincerest apologies to to my friend and erudite colleague, Dr Harskin, whose name I spelt incorrectly last night. That said, I've always imagined that there are those around the globe, in Basra, Helmand Province, a couple of the -istans, New York and Durban, to name just a few of the international locations, who read it, too, so my global greetings to you, if you are out there.

I had a positive update from Mr Bryan, who was, I'm pleased to tell you, impressed by my use of 'conundra' a couple of nights ago, which lead to a rather entertaining discussion about whether there could be a single 'tundrum', or whether a plethora of 'ho-hum(s)' would be a ho-ha. Which just caused further conundra, of course.

In Newton tonight all went well, and I found myself being the centre of an animated discussion about the remuneration of footballers. So earnest and intense was the dialogue (!) that it was suggested by one contributor that this should become the theme of a forthcoming PSHE session - to which I agreed. So I will let you know the outcome in due course.

There was a lecture tonight, from one of our Head Boys' fathers, who generously informed us about his successful (and mightily impressive) swim across the Channel. (Or La Manche, of course.) It scored a very positive and enthusiastic 9 out of 10 on average, so it was obviously deemed excellent by the audience.

So another day passes. Once the term is 'up and running' (yuk), it does go awfully quickly.

It all gets a bit philosophical around the Cheaters' dinner table at times. I've just been discussing , with our youngest, whether orginality and creativity are inter-related. I suggested that any so-called originality has to be based on someone else's creativity - and you can imagine the response to that. Well fair dos, I reckon.

Mr Bryan's on duty tonight, and I hope he enjoyed 'conundra'. Meanwhile, your correspondent has had a most entertaining evening, starting with a private pupils' piano lesson, followed by a sortie to 'Joe's', that well-known watering-hole of the SF staff, where I was able tangibly to appreciate Mr Randolph's technical assistance during my presentation of 'Just a Minute'. We vwere comparing blog notes, as we both write one, and I informed him of the opening gambit of my last post, to which he opined that such an introduction suggests that one's own erudition is somewhat boundless in itself. Yes, well. Maybe. Possibly. I couldn't possibly comment. Anyway, after a couple of glasses of a very drinkable Pinot Gricio (caipharinas being unavailable due to the lack of cachacas - and I'll tell you the story of my predilection for that well-known South American cocktail some other time; Brazil and Copacabana come into it), I left, in order to catch up with the latest episode of 'Holby'. Fat chance. Football was on, instead. Still, all was not lost.

I suggested to my wife and my youngest that Xi'an might come to the rescue; a suggestion that was met with unanimous agreement. Thus, I strode back down Summertown High Street, passing Mr Randolph and Dr Harksin who were imbibing outside Joe's, exploded about the absence of Holby and made my way to Xi'an.

As you may recall, Tom Cheater was last employed in the said establishment. Having submitted my order,, I was asked for my name. On telling the delightful girl behind the bar that it was Cheater, it became instantly clear that Tom had achieved god-like status in the said restaurant. I was offered a complimentary glass of house white, a sackful of prawn crackers, and told that Tom was missed hugely. I must remember to tell him of his deification.

As for Newton and the Newtonians, in the capable hands of Mr Bryan, I shall find out tomorrow morning - and report back.

Is there no end to the erudition of my colleagues? Tonight, over at school, while prowling the corridors during prep, Mr Music-Price strode towards me, with that 'I-bet-I-know-something-you-don't' glint in his eye.

"How many people does it take to make a dialogue?" he enquired.

"Two," I responded, without deviation, hesitation or repetition.

"No!" he exclaimed, wagging a finger of admonishment at me. "It's any number more than two, actually. Two people talking would be a 'dualogue'."

I was, for a moment, impressed. And indeed I would have continued to be, had my friend andcolleague not capped his comment with ".... or so Stephen Fry says." Enough said.

I have a confession to make to you, dear readers. I am, thanks to the counsel of my medical practicioner, attempting to shed the pounds. Or kilos. So if I appear as a mere shadow of my former self when we are next in dualogue, don't be surprised. I mention that only because when, as I strode through the clubhouse to get to the laundry (where the cookies and custard creams were, but under the intense vigilance of you-know-who), a resident, in comfortable repose on the floor, called over to me,

"Sir, could you throw me a banana?"

Indeed I could. And did. There was just the right amount of irony in his acknowledgement, I thought .....

Miss Chloe has now been initiated into the ways of Black Magic - and is totally perplexed. You can imagine the smug grins on the faces of those who know how it happens!

That's enough cyberspatial dialogue for one night.

I certainly can't ever complain that my life is dull. During the course of this weekend alone my conversations have ranged from a consideration of Calvinism versus Arminanism (with 5L in their English lesson) to a fascinating discussion tonight, with a group of Newtonians, as to whether X-Factor is one word or two. (And to think that I thought I'd heard the last of the wretched programme.) Lest you should find yourselves wondering about the outcome of such intellectual deliberations, I hasten to tell you that neither of the conundra was resolved. (I just stuck that plural in for Mr Bryan, as I know he'll be reading it before his Tuesday night duty slot. And to show off, of course.)

I had an organ-focused morning, by which I mean that I played for two services: one here, and then another at the church at the end of the road, the latter of which, being a non-conformist establishment, was rather different from the former, although both have hymns and readings, even if the SF singing outdoes that of the United Reformed Church, Summertown.

I took a party of Newtonians to Pendon Railway Museum this afternoon: they were delightful company and showed a lively interest in all that was on display. The set-up is excellent, and there seems to be some requirement that all the guides should be of indeterminate age and have beards. Particularly the men. On the way back, I was entertained by diaolgue behind my left ear that went along the following lines (Oh, ha ha. Trains; lines?)

"Don't you love it when you grow your own vegetables? It's fantastic when you pull a carrot out of the ground and think 'Ah! I really grew that on my own!"

I couldn't agree more. And I'd better stop there or I'll lose track of my train of thought.

Choo choo.

I've just been hosting an entertainment in Macmillan, namely the SF lookalike version of 'Just a Minute' - in which, incidentally, two of your older offspring were taking part, and acquitting themselves splendidly. One of my colleagues did suggest that, with one of them participating, the whole thing should have been re-named 'Just an Hour', but he's just an old cynic. (Accurate, though.) A real Newtonian was in charge of sound, and again , he performed his duties very well, although the exit music he had planned had to be aborted at the last minute, due to the duty master's desire to stroll centre stage and declaim to the masses.

It's very quiet here tonight: a film is showing in the clubhouse and 'Parent Trap' is keeping others entertained most efficiently.

But I'm going to abort this post now, collect my dear wife, who's marking the entry test papers, and go and watch Casulaty. See? I still can't type it! (And I'm not just making it up, either!)

H'm. I don't know how many of you are Casulaty aficionados ( a word I always think should contain two fs, btw) but we thought tonight's episode was a bit weird. Good that Jessica has risen from her coma, though. That's something.

I must just share with you a snippet about leagues and cords. There was a certain frisson of uxorial discontent earlier (Miss Chloe has Saturday nights off, I should explain), as it seemed that one resident had overlooked the requirement to submit his garments, so it fell to me to stride around the lodge imperiously, informing all who could hear such declamations (i.e. most of Summertown - allegedly) that the consequences of such behaviour would be dire. Taking a deep breath, I made as if to start my perambulations. I didn't get far. Another resident, whose memory had not failed him, looked up at me and appealed, calmly, "Sir, don't get cross."

Meltdown. (As usual.)

Bonne nuit. (Well, until the gappers get back, anyway. Rowdy lot.)

Al is well in Newton tonight. The residents have been on fine form and the gaggle that were in the Newton clubhouse, chomping on a Braeburn or savouring a squidgy cookie, while engaged in animated discussion, seemed content indeed.

Miss Chloe, I'm glad to report, has made a fine start, and seems to be a popuar addition to the lodge. She seems to be getting the hang of our idosyncrasies with consummate ease - and, as I said to her, her curtain-pulling and light-turning-on skills are almost perfect already. (My days of chat-up lines are long gone - you may be surprised to learn.)

My exhortation to the troops seems to be causing no uncertain mirth at the moment. Apparently, it can be heard throughout Summertown, and such stentorian tones, designed to send a shiver down the most resistant of Newtonian spines, seem to cause exactly the opposite reaction.

"Go on, sir! Do your 'silent reading' call!" Oh well, anything to oblige. This is followed, about five minutes later, by a sad attempt at stony-ground destined irony, viz: "Silent reading, for those struggling with such an advanced concept, means that there shoujld no noise."

Simple pleasures seem to be the order of the day here: another little moment of excitement is caused by my attempts to turn off the lights in the dorm before they turn off their individual ones. Actually, if I trry to explain what happens, I shall just confuse you, so I'll forego that delight.

What I will tell you, though, is that whenever I do call for silent reading, the noise-sensitive fire doors shut of their own volition.

Until tomorrow.

Strange though it may seem to the unititiated, Mr Porter's on duty tonight. I do stress that his presence has nothing to do with our advanced years and the fact that we two geriatrics have had it already, but rather, that as SF tends to go in for hitting the ground running, (e.g. yesterday) it seemed best to do the same in Newton.

It was all rather strange last night, not just because of the limbo dancing, but because everyone was in someone else's bed. I must hasten to reassure all of you, of course, that this was because lots of Newtonians had elected to move dorms, rather than indulge in any undesirable activities, and as a result, I found myself delivering many half-finished exhortations to those whom I imagined my comments were being addressed.

You probably don't need me to mention that your little men are growing up fast. I say that, because I was reminded of that fact by one Newtonian of considerable stature, who hailed me as if I were a passing cab as I strode past a dorm. (I'm often taken for a ride in this lodge.)

"Sir!" he exclaimed, "Look!"

You have to be quite careful in this job when your charges call out like that. I needn't have worried; he was holding up his newly-acquired deodorant stick as if he were holding a much-coveted trophy - and, come to think of it, I suppose that's exactly what it was.

How quickly they grow up. Make the most of these years: they will go all too quickly.

Yo. (I live with teenagers in the hols.) In the general melee (sorry, this blog doesn't do accents) of last night, I completely forgot two things. First, to congratulate all of you for getting through the snow and ice (You see? I told you that it would be worth watching Ice Road Truckers) and secondly to say big thank yous to those who provided super-nourishment last night.

Have a good day - and now, as they say, I'm ghost.

Greetings, Followers. Newton is up, running and back to the surreal. How so? Well, limbo dancing and sea-monkeys, for a start, accompanied by birthday cake a-plenty, cookies and fruit. Yes, that's right, you did read 'limbo dancing'. It all happened by accident, really: I was standing by a door, leaning with my arm across the opening. One Newtonian thought that it would be good to start limbo-ing, so of course loads of others did, too. And no, I didn't. Japanese ballet is quite enough for me, thank you.

All the unpacking was done, and I'm pleased to report that British Airways will need to look no further than your offspring when they need luggage packers, as two Newtonians did the most marvellous job of stacking all the cases in the cupboard.

Now, of course, they're all asleep. Apart from the two in the dorm next to where I'm typing, who are gurgling away, quietly, contentedly - and I'm just about to go and pull the plug out.

It's good to have them back,

Welcome back, everyone - and in case this is the first time you've logged on to the Newton blog, I hope you will enjoy it. As I write, it's snowing, and a - h'm, I wonder what the collective noun for 4 x 4s is: a quadruped, perhaps? - well, anyway, a whatever it is of 4 x 4s is ploughing, skating and weaving - oops, and skidding - down Summerfield Road!

And now I have to get to Form Masters' session. (Note the gender insensitivity!)

More tonight, probably, when we're all back (or some of us, at least) and if you're feeling really bored, there were a couple of posts during the hols.