It was Fragrance Night in Newton tonight. OK, yes, I know that sounds slightly ominous, but all it means is that once through the showers I expected all residents to give off aromae akin to that of the rose garden in Egeskov Castle - a place of great sanctuary that I had the pleasure of enjoying in 1979, when I spontaneously packed a tent into my MG and disappeared across the North Sea to the land of the Danes. And very enjoyable it was, too. The place was, in fact full of the scent of different kinds of shampoos and soaps - Newton, that is, not the castle - and, other than the fact that the shower areas were not entirely dissimilar to the North Sea on a stormy night, it was a very pleasant place to be.

Quite apart from your heavenly-scented offspring, there was also the double pleasure of cookie night, as well. I managed to squeze through the laundry door (yes, thank you very much, enough of the tyre jokes) and, having employed two Newtonians as decoys, one to distract Mrs C and the other to distract Miss Chloe from seeing my all-too-enthusiastic hand removing a forbidden fruit from the tin, I managed to enjoy one of those delicious cookies once again. As we say in Newton, 'Granny, we love you.'

We were pleased to welcome one of our Eton-visiting residents back into the fold tonight, and I was pleased to learn that all had gone well. Also interesting was the fact that he had visited Wycombe Abbey: a very exciting back up school, I feel sure.

Which leads me finally, and neatly, to the other resident who was busily pinning up his Valentine's cards, coyly declining my invitation to read out the messages at first, but then realising that this was an opportunity to display his peacock feathers to the full, read out every word - without a hint of colour.

Ah - that nostalgic aroma of Camay. (Not that I ever used it, you understand. Brut: now that's a soap for men. OK: was.) (I was never sure about the rope, though.)