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.