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.