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.)