So there we are, then. The end of one of the most difficult terms I can recall since I started in this game in 1973. We've come through snow, and a really nasty, virulent 'bug', and the Newtonians have been great throughout all of it. And tonight they have packed without a problem.

I know you won't mind my offering a special word of thanks and appreciation to Diana, because I know full well that if it weren't for her this place would fall apart. And despite wading through unmentionable piles of, well, unmentionable things, in the small hours of the morning for days on end, clearing it up and sending the projectors back to bed with a reassuring 'goodnight', she seems impervious to anything that might cause her to take to her own bed. As I said in my wedding speech in 1981, never question your wife's judgement: just remember who she married.

Lots of thanks, too, are due to Miss Chloe, who arrived at this strange and idiosyncratic place from the other side of the world, to be greeted by white fields, white houses, white cars and white everything else. She is a great asset - even if, by her own confession, she's 'not a morning person'!

And while I'm expressing thanks, I mustn't forget my colleagues, Mr Bryan, Dr Dean and Mr Porter, who have always been willing to help out, not just on their regular nights, but on other occasions, too.

Have a lovely time with your boys, wherever in the world you may be. I'm off to New York for a week on Saturday, and I can't wait. Thank you all for your support - and for taking the time to log on to the nightly reports. I couldn't write them without you.

Goodnight, one and all.

It's hard to believe that this is the penultimate post of term. It's been a pretty difficult ten or so weeks, though, and there will be quite a number who will be looking forward to the summer term with some alacrity, methinks!

I'm pleased to report that our injured Newtonian is making good progress, and hoping to be back with us for the final assembly of term, and knowing his tenacity, I bet he will be, too.

Tonight, at supper, I was surrounded by a number of Newton residents who were intent on telling me all about their own joke repertoire, and listening, very patiently, to mine. So now, if you want to know what you call a nun with a washing machine on her head, or the story of how the man who was driving along the motorway was apprehended by a mobile forest with a blue lamp on top, you'll only have to ask your offspring. And having heard all about the young girl from Tottenham who had removed parts of her apparel due to the heat (I bet one of you is at this moment smiling knowingly!), I was asked whether I knew any 'grown up' jokes or limericks! I replied that yes, I did - do - but that my audience was not old enough to hear any of them just yet. So if you should wish to know what catastrophe befell the young lady from Brazil (Jill, I think her name was), you'll just have to wait. (You may be amused to learn that I heard that particular little piece of verse from my first headmaster, during my first supper with him and his wife. So shocked was I to hear such lines falling from the lips of such an aristocratic and upright gentleman that I spilt a full glass of expensive claret onto a priceless white tablecloth. "Do you like courgettes?" was the HM's wife's diplomatic enquiry as the wine spread ever further across the table.)

Time to sign off, as the Congrevians are returning from the league feast.

As for the unfortunate nun's nomenclature: Sister Mattick.

Goodnight.

An oxymoronic day today. I was saddened to learn that one of our Newtonians had sustained a nasty injury over at school earlier, and Mrs C and I send our love to him, in the hope that he will not be in too much discomfort.

Tonight, though, as always, we have been off duty, and we have had the pleasure of entertaining our children's director of music, who, purely coincidentally, is examining at St Edward's and a few other schools in the vicinity, and staying on the Banbury Road. It'e been a truly lovely evening, during which we have done no more than reminisce about former times, consume a lovely spag bol and imbibe some very enjoyable liquid accompaniment, I put a notice on the board earlier, which informed the residents that we were entertaining tonight and requested of them that they might not be too noisy.They weren't. Under the excellent direction of Mr Bryan, we wouldn't have known they were anywhere near! So, many thanks are due to all - and I will tell them tomorrow morning how brilliant they were.

Cross country this afternoon, and everyone was terrific. Many Newtonians did extremely well, and I was delighted when so many of them came up to me once they had completed the course, proudly displaying their position number! I worked for a HM some years ago, who always said that he wanted to do away with entry tests, and simply get all prospective pupils (not their parents!) to participate in a cross-country run. In this way, he reckoned, he could tell far more about a boy's character than any academic test ever could. Controversial? Well, maybe - but he had a point. And all of your young were shining examples of what Baden-Powell called 'stickability'.

Until tomorrow.

Good evening all - wherever in the world you may be, and a special greeting to anyone in New Zealand who may be having a squint at this nocturnal blogobabble.

I sent an e-mail to Our Leader this morning about something which I suppose must have had a touch of end-of-termishness about it, as it brought the briefest of responses:

! Only four days to go!

And I tell you that because it has served to remind me that the term will shortly be over and I must thank all of you loyal Followers for your wonderful support, whether tangible, as in those amazing cookies from the best Granny in the world, or other hugely appreciated and gratefully guzzled treats, or simply by logging on to these quinquagenarian ramblings every night.

We all went to the junior play tonight. It was very well performed indeed by the Second Year boys, but it was a little sad at the end, when the principal character actually died. This gave rise t the following dualogue:

"Sir, what did you think of the play?"

"Terrific," I said, "most enjoyable. You?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so - if you like thowing yourself off a warehouse."

Anyway, moving on. I forgot to tell you on Saturday night that we enjoyed listening to the senior boys in aballoon debate. The characters involved were Mohammed al Fayeed, Tim Berners-Lee, Albert Einstein, our own Henry Harman, and some Korean footballer called Kim Jung Il, or something similar. Most enjoyable it was, too, and we were invited to vote for our character of preference at the end.

When I returned to Newton, I was asked who I had voted for. Sorry, for whom I had voted. I replied that as a member of staff I hadn't been able to vote, but had I done so, I would have voted for Henry Davies' impersonation of Henry Harman, as I thought he was amazing, and very funny. I asked my questioner whom he had voted for.

"Oh, easy. I voted for Mohammed al Qaeda.'

So there you are. If the Taliban are surfing the 'net tonight I'll probably have a a fatwah on me by tomorrow morning.

Sleep well.

Those noisy gappers woke me twice last night, as they returned from their nocturnal revelry! And if they're reading this then I hope they will take note! Those of us who are so antiquated that we can't remember a time when we enjoyed such riotous behaviour need our sleep! (Actually, some of you may recall my reference to 'Operation Floribunda', so I'd better not be too vitriolic.)

It's been a good day today: Mr Nicholl organised a mile run for the masses who wished to dress up in fancy dress and run for Sport Relief. I have to admit that I was more than a little concerned by the chosen apparel of one particular Newtonian, and advised him not to come anywhere near me while he was adorned with jogging suit, pink bra and similarly coloured underwear. (Which he chose to wear as overwear.) As the duty master for the afternoon I kept a weather eye open for any boarding inspectors who might have been lurking in the undergrowth, (or overgrowth): they would have had a very poor view of what this place was all about. (Actually, they would probably have had quite a good view, but they would still have been troubled, I think!)

In Chapel, Mr BT spoke about 'Delights' and listed some of his own. Clearly, this message had been taken on board, because one resident opined to me, as I entered the lodge on return from duty that 'you can find good in anything if you look for it.' True enough - and as Newton's lodgemeister, I should know.

One more week to go. (And I bet a pound to a penny that if you were a boarder at your prep school, you'll have the words and the tune of 'that song' in your head now!)

Good night. (And don't let that song irritate you too much tonight.)

I sometimes think that I am too much like an ageing Andrex dog rather than the Rotweiler into which I metamorphosed last night. I tell you that because tonight I was hoist by my own petard (again), as the following dualogue (sic) displays.

Me (to one of last night's culprits): What do you think you're doing? You know that you were told specifically to come over here, get washed and go straight to bed.

C: Yes, sir. I, I .......

Me: No, I'm sorry, I don't want to know. (Slightly lengthy and very boring diatribe about how one should behave, etc., etc, containing all the inevitable lines that many of you will recall from your own schooldays.)

Witness: Sir, I think you ought to .......

Me: Thank you, X, I've heard quite enough from you tonight.

Witness (persisting in the face of adversity): But SIR! He was trying to cheer up Y, who was really upset because of what happened earlier.

Me: Ah. Oh. I see. Thank you, Ge .......

What had happened earlier was that there had been a mega-fall-out between certain parties, as the result of some game of 'It' that had taken place outside, (as it does (did) every night, apparently, and had ended with two residents in tears that their hitherto cordial relations had terminated. I needed to change gear, very swiftly.

Eventually, following much placatory chat and reassuring words about how we were all very tired at the end of a particularly difficult term, all was well again and Newton was a happy place once more.

It wasn't all bad, though. Once we'd all got back on track (pun intended), I found myself going up the stairs in the form of a train, pursued by half a dozen 'carriages'. The whole scene bore more of a resemblance to the conga, although the sound effects were different. I stopped off at 'Heronian station' as it was christened, whereupon the carriages metamorphosed into passengers, who made for the bathroom and thence their beds.

Th culmination of the evening, of course, was being invited to bid goodnight to Roger the Otter, who has become an extension to a light switch. Shocking. I should switch to another topic. Ohm my goodness, how many more puns can I use? Watt? I re-fuse to give up. There must be more in the current series. Dear me, what a bright spark.

That's enough. (No, there wasn't one there.) Wire we still talking about it, then?

'night all.

I think I'm getting old. Tonight, Mrs C and I, enjoying a night off, were practising for our retirement evenings in two years' time by watching 'A Place in the Sun', beset by thumping and banging from above and around. Well, you see, there's only so much of that that one's patience can endure, so, in the end I stormed up the stairs and vented my spleen. It can't have been too bad a performance, as I was applauded by Dr Dean and Miss Chloe when I came downstairs, and I was asked whether I needed a glass of water. I declined such a kind offer, in view of the fact that I had seen enough water in the upstairs bathroom to sink a battleship. (Actually that little bit of fig. lang. almost works, surprisingly.)

Anyway, they're all very quiet now, I can assure you, and I'm sure they will all sleep well. Quite whether they will want to see me in the morning is anyone's guess.

No, they probably won't.

Oh don't worry: they'll get over it.

And a very good evening to you all.

If you are Daily Telegraph readers, you will have seen that, apparently, 'old age' begins at 58. Well, speaking as a 58-year-old, I can assure you that ........... that .................... er ...... oh yes, I feel nothing like 58 and I still have plenty of energy in me yet. So ignore that report, if you would, especially if you happen to 58 or more. Tosh. I haven't even bought my first proper motorbike yet.

Well! That was a great afternoon's rugby! A whitewashing of one of our closest rivals, and were it not for the fact that their staff are such decent types I'd be revelling in gloatery. Well played everyone, and congratulations.

Such was the satisfaction on the part of the director of sport that he threw an impromptu champagne party (b.a.b., quite rightly) and we all had a great time. During said time, I told a small group of anyone interested about the loudest bang in Mayfield while we were there: it was heard in Australia, What happened was, as I informed my audience, that one winter's evening, before we had any security gates at the Mayfield end, a group of Hell's Angels (no, I was not one of them) rode up to the Mayfield front door and shot it. Yes, that's right, shot it. At the time, Mrs C was on the phone to an ex-gapper matron in Melbourne, who heard the shot and enquired, in best Ozzy terms, as to what the something it was. So it was a very loud bang indeed, as you will gather.

Tonight the boys have been great. Tired but fun; witty without being too familiar. As for me, well, Mr Porter's party was great............ andokjiwhfgb;ojq;ouh34;ou34touhb;h qtrb.kn bg.

(Dont' worry: only joking.)

H'm. Mr Bryan, who had just made haste back from a classics conference in Ipswich to look after Newton, tells that it was not a great night, I'm afraid. Two or three of our residents, it seems, were making things 'difficult' for one another, and I am displeased. I shall be speaking firmly with the unaforementioned tomorrow morning and making the situation and the behaviour that is expected here crystal clear. In addition, it seems, one or two were fairly rude to Miss Chloe, and if there's one thing that makes me really mad it's Newtonians who upset the ladies of this lodge. There is never any excuse for it, especially as it is Diana and Chloe who do the bulk of the work here, and without whom the whole place would collapse. So I shall wade in 'good and proper' - and expect no more such behaviour once the position has been clarified.

There's not much more to add, really: it's just irritating when this sort of thing happens, because it's all so needless. Still, I don't doubt (no, I know) that not every night of my time as a boarder at prep school went without a hitch, so I must be pragmatic. Which I will be - but it won't stop me from making my views clear!

Let's hope for a more even-tempered night tomorrow.

Greetings, Followers. I write to you tonight from what is, I hope, a squeaky clean Newton - to coin a phrase from a parental e-mail received today. Certainly the boys seem in excellent humour and we've had a lovely evening tonight. Or at least, the part of the evening that I've been able to enjoyfollowing a very pleasant parents' evening over at main school.

Humiliation, they say, breeds contempt. I now know that to be true, and I'll tell you why. On Saturday, I decided to take my motorbike for a spin around the coast roads of West Dorset. I was having such a great time, travelling at speeds between 50 and 60mph, with the most stunning views across Portland, Abbotsbury and the like, and other Moonfleetish and Hardyesque regions, when I realised that I seemed to be wobbling a little excessively. I don't usually do that, which is the only attribute I possess that outdoes those of James May. (He's got a music degree, you see, and he, like me, is enthralled by modes of transportation, but he admits that he's 'a bit of a wobbler' on two wheels.) Guessing what had happened, I leant over the handlebars to see a very flat front tyre. Not good in itself, but at that moment, two ruddy great Harleys overtook me, with their leather-clad riders giving me rather patronising looks. Yeah, thanks for stopping. Anyway, I limped back to our house (insofar as motorbikes can limp) to inform the members of my family that yes, I had had a great ride, other than suffering a flat tyre. Typical. Oh well, it should be sorted out in my absence on Thursday, apparently.

So yes. we had a great weekend, as I soon recovered from my fury (having two daughters soon puts paid to any kind of irritation, as some of you will know) and the sun shone on us all. I hope you all had a great time, too.

Until tomorrow, then.

I'm so sorry. I haven't, despite what the boys think, been ill again: I was away yesterday, as Mrs C and I always are on Tuesdays, and today I've been fraternising with the former Poet Laureate, Sir Andrew Motion. I say fraternising, but actually I was one of many at the Loughborough Grammar School who had the pleasure of listening to him speak and read some of his writings. Very interesting - and an excellent lunch, too!

Well, so much for the bug 'abating' then. I can't say we're complaining about an extra day off, even if it simply offers a chance to write all those tutor comments. I hope you will all enjoy the extended weekend, too. Let's hope that the wretchedness goes away very soon and that all will be as right as rain very soon.

Mr Randolph looked after Newton last night, and obviously made a very good job of it as far as the boys were concerned: they asked him to 'come again soon'! His help, of course, enabled Mrs C and me to get our weekly fix of Holby City dramas and I was delighted to discover that Mrs Beauchamp (Connie) has seen sense and returned to the fold. And just in case you're thinking that people like us shouldn't watch trash like that, remember that I'm aware of some of your own televisual preferences, dear Followers - and I even know that one of you records every episode of one particular programme. My lips are sealed, of course.

I can't believe that any of the readers of this blog would ever listen to any other radio station but Radios 3 or 4, of course, but just in case you should ever tune into what people call 'Radio 2' (yes, it really exists), you might be aware of Sir Terry Wogan's group of fans called 'togs'. I'm told that this stands for 'Terry's Old Geezers'. I wonder what soubriquet I should find for NFN readers?! Any ideas ..... ?!

Looking through previous posts, and in the knowledge that there are at least two high-profile editors who tune in to this blog regularly, I am horrified by the number of typographical inexactitudes there are, as well as omitted words. Terrible. And if such shoddy work were to be handed in to me for marking, I'd be less than impressed. My apologies. The trouble is (he says, quickly groping for any old excuse) is that these entries have to be done in something of a hurry: usually no more than a fifteen or twenty minute 'window', once the lights are out, as there are numerous other things that need to be done, and then there's the tyranny of e-mail to attend to.

Enough of such whingeing. I never like reports that begin with 'Picture the scene', mainly because it seems to me to be in the same category as lazy journalistic television reports that begin with 'They came in their thousands', which always strikes me as rather feeble. However, that said, picture the scene:

I was playing through one of Bach's three-part inventions (I'm trying to re-learn all of them, which is a good discipline and something of a challenge after several years) and two residents came into our drawing room.

"Sir, what on earth is that? It's so boring! Play the song you played last term: the one you said was worth publishing."

I did so, and the room began to fill up.

"Sir, whose music do you think sounds like yours?" I interpreted the questions as an enquiry as to whose music acts as a style similar to the one that I employ and replied that it's a mixture between Genesis and Elton John. As luck would have it, I espied a Genesis CD next to the music centre and put it on. Before very long. the nostalgic voice of Phil Collins was singing 'Turn it on again' at a respectable volume. It's a great song.

'Oh what the heck?' I thought. I pushed the volumne fader up to just below deafening and everyone was on their feet and dancing. It was one of those occasions that you could never repeat: you just had to be there. Sometimes they just happen.

You would not believe the 'issues' I've had, trying to log on to this blog tonight! I will bore you with all the grisly details, save to say that a complete re-start of this wretched machine was required, concurrent with a 'discussion' with younger daughter about who the previous user was ... ! I blame Facebook. And iTunes. And anything else I don't understand.

Sunday evenings are always interesting, and tonight was no exception. Pursuant to the Chaplain's sermon about teddies, I was introduced to a selection of said genus, and given each one's life history. I heard all about how one particular teddy was provided by the ambulance service in 2000, following the consumption of rat poison by its owner at the age of one, and this set the tone for the rest of the night. Others seemed to be possessed of equally colourful histories.

There was plenty of laundry that needed to be handed in, and I was entertained by one resident, who enquired of me, in front of his mother, where his cords might be. The mother in question was overtaken by hysterical mirth that such a question might receive anything vaguely resembling a sensible answer from me, of all people, and practically fell into the fruit basket. I told him that they were 'somewhere down there', which was as near as I could get to anything helpul, as I could see a laundry basket full of what looked like cords halfway down the corridor.

And just to round off this evening's report, I will remain with the clothing theme. One of the residents noticed that my pullover was not in the best state of repair.

"Sir, did you know that there's a hole in your sleeve?"

"Yes, thank you, I did. It's very old, but I love it."

Need I say more ..... ?!

You know, if the HM were to come to me later today and ask me to go back to Mayfield, where my family and I spent 13 very happy, if challenging, years, I would politely decline. Not just because at 58 I can't run around that vast edifice as I once could, but because both Mrs C and I absolutely lerv the Newtonian age.

There is, however, as I explained 'very clearly' to the residents last night, just one area where Mayfield scores over Newton, and that is the fact that 12 and 13 year old boys can sit for up to two hours in front of a film and remain practically comatose for the duration. 10 and 11 year olds, it seems, here at least, can't. They spend their time running from one TV set to the other, chatting throughout, making it well-nigh impossible for those who want to watch the film to hear a thing, and then a handful will make for their dorms and engage in all manner of recidivism, from pillow-fighting to scattering the belongings of other around the room, etc., etc. I think (no, I know, before any of you write in to remind me) I must be getting old. But really! Perhaps last night's unruliness was a result of their contentedness in being well again. Yes, perhaps that's it. I must be charitable. And they are only young. And we do want them to have a nice time here. Would my own children (and if any of you uttered the word 'grandchildren' at that point, watch it) be just the same? Yes, of course they would. So it's me, then. Of course it is. I should have realised.

More good scholarship news arrived yesterday: it's proving to be a(nother) good year, and I'm so pleased for Mr BT that that is the case. Let's hope the good tidings continue to roll in.

I've often wondered if anyone from without reads this blog. If you do, and you're out there somewhere, I'd be delighted to hear from you. It must be fascinating, discovering the sort of thing that goes on here! I know it's read around the world, in all sorts of locations, but that's by members of the extended SF family, and I suspect that there are some corners of the globe where one wouldn't expect it to be read. So do let me know!

Well, my friends, notwithstanding the continuation of the plague on all our houses - and I hope everyone who is currently suffering will get well soon - today has been a very good day. Two excellent academic scholarships have been won, and richly deserved they are, too. I won't the HM's thunder by giving you the details, but if you should be reading this and directly connected to either of the victors, then Mrs C and I offer our heartfelt congratulations.

It was Fragrance Friday tonight, and you would have been amused, as I was, by the dialogue in the clubhouse.

"So, what did you use, then?"

"Me? Oh, have a whiff of that: it's pure hazlenut. No, sorry, I mean coconut."

"Huh! Smell this: herbal essence with a touch of oil (of something obscure)"

"Well, I use Australian gold blended. It's very rare."

I should add that the invitations to indulge in the aromas of exotic fragrances were extended to the residents' peers, and not to me. The place smelt like a house of questionable repute, but it was good to know that the residents were fresh and clean. (Well, clean, anyway.)

I spent a happy ten minutes flexing my fingers over the keys of my baby grand tonight, with the result acting like a siren call to the inmates, as I indulged in a slection of tunes based on flashy scales and arpeggios in various keys. (Or, as one HM i worked for called them, 'archipelagos'.) A Curlewite entered in and enquired as to whether I was 'making it up'. I replied immodestly (but truthfully) that I was.

"Sir, you really are talented, aren't you?"

I wish.

Bonne nuit.

As I type, I can hear the sound of Dr Dean's dulcet tones as he summons the troops to his fortnightly reading session. How acquiescent are the young ...... !

Newton is almost back to full strength once again, after the recent outbreak of the Plague, and we are now sailing towards Short Leave, lurching up and down and from side to side, no doubt, in a manner that would win plaudits from 'Deadliest Catch'. I do enjoy that programme, but, just like 'Ice Road Truckers', I suppose once you've seen one episode, you've seen them all. Mrs C doesn't understand what I see in them, though, and wouldn't want to watch even one episode, let alone several.

It was our daughter Alice's birthday on Tuesday, and I completely forgot to mention that, but really only because she had her 'treat' tonight, which involved a group of her school friends and her having a slap-up feast at that ever-popular watering-hole, Pizzeria Mama Mia. I don't know what the Newtonians thought of such attractions walking past, but I shouldn't think they minded much.

Until tomorrow, then.

"Sir, why do you always wear the same cuff links?"

An interesting question, I suppose, and one that proves beyond doubt that everything we do and are is subject to scrutiny by our charges! As it happens, I favour a particular gold pair that my dear wife gave me many years ago, and it's really that simple! Anyway, I shall wear a different pair tomorrow - and see if anyone notices!

Tonight, I showed a few residents 'The Book', to which I alluded last night, much to their amusement. I was fascinated by one entry which read:

"Mr Cheater and Miss Watson are having a romantic love affair in the classics room."

I can assure you, dear Followers, that I was most certainly not, (a) because I didn't fancy Miss Watson one jot, and (b) if I had done, which I didn't, then I think I might have been a little more discreet than to display my affections in the classics room! I suspect it was my MG that did it for her. Or me , of course. (Anyway, Mr Bullivant, the Latin master, was besotted by her.)

As for Miss Eva, the Danish matron, well, that was another matter. And at that time I only had a mini, too. (Small, but efficient.)

Tonight was a lovely evening, with all Newtonians in fine and affectionate form. Football as well, which enhanced the proceeedings considerably - especially with Miss Chloe playing cards with a whole troupe of willing volunteers. I learn from her tonight that she's hoping to go into the world of broadcasting drama: she'll certainly have had the right kind of experience in Newton, then!

People, I have had the most amazing day. The years rolled back when I met up with my former pupil of the 70s, and it was if it were yesterday, rather than over 30 years, that we last met up. He arrived in the most beautiful Aston Martin I have ever seen, offering me the keys and inviting me to drive it. I drove it only from where the minibi are parked back to where we keep our family Volvo, but that in itself was an experience beyond words. I shall continue to ask Santa for one of those.

We celebrated our reunion in our kitchen, before making our way to one of Summertown's top restaurants, where, over two excellent steaks, accompanied by what was undoubtedly the finest '82 claret (which had been brought especially for the occasion) I have ever drunk, we talked and talked. And talked and talked - and then talked some more.

"What's the best thing about teaching, then?" he asked, as we later strolled around the SF grounds.

"I think today speaks for itself", I replied. And I meant it. Education, in its widest sense, is all about helping to 'make a difference'; a fundamental to which I know Mr BT holds fast, as I do. As teachers we never really know what sort of an impression we may be making on our pupils, but sometimes, if we're as lucky as I've been today, something happens to make us realise just why we do this strange, idiosyncratic and sometimes frustrating job - and love it. Yes, indeed: it's been a great day.

It seems to be writing philosophically on this blog: it doesn't often happen. But just in case you may be thinking that philosophy might have taken over, let me tell you that I was presented with a wonderful collection of memorabilia from my first teaching decade - including a particularly facetious and scurrilous diary that a group of boys in a particular dorm wrote nightly! All sorts of comments were there, about most of my erstwhile colleagues of yore - and the less said about some of them the better! I was amused by one comment, which read:

'Cheater is on duty tonight and of course he'll come and read this. He always does'.

Yes, I always did. And I must admit that I never thought I'd see that book again, 36 years later!

As said at the beginning of this entry: it's been an amazing day.

I don't know whether you'll remember that I mentioned an e-mail I received out of the blue from an ex-pupil of many years past, but if you do, you might be interested to learn that he and I are meeting for lunch tomorrow - after a gap of more than 30 years! We have quite a bit of catching up to do, and I must say that I am greatly looking forward to such an auspicious reunion.

Allow me to share with you a hosuemasterly moment that enabled me to realise that my grip on this place has not entirely deserted me. A resident came to me this evening, at the start of silent reading (about which you may have heard - or rather, you may have actually heard the 'call to read' from where you are now) and informed me that 'the showers won't turn off'. I'm always amused by the things I'm asked and told, and of course, I'm flattered by the assumption that I am omniscient. All teachers are perceived as being, of course. As a dad, though, I tend to favour the words of Mark Twain, who said, I think, "When I was nine, I thought my father knew everything. When I was sixteen, I thought my father knew nothing at all. Now that I'm in my thirties, I realise that my father does in fact know everything, after all." (It was something like that, but my ageing memory can't recall the exact wording, or the exact ages quoted, and if I log on to Google while N f N is open, the computer will probably blow up, collapse, or just turn itself off.)

"Ah., that," I replied, sagaciously. "Yes, well, all you have to do there, you see, is to turn the shower on just a bit, leave it running for five seconds and then turn it off again."

Did it work? Course it did. My informant was well impressed. (Like.)

Teachers like me, though, do say some extraordinary things. I heard myself saying, not so long ago, as I picked up an exercise book dramatically from the floor, "I fail to understand the meaning of this," - with just a hint of interrogative at the end. The other thing we have to be careful of is the use of the pronoun 'we'. Teachers are prone to employ that particular personal pronoun in a vague attempt at dramatic emphasis, viz: "And what do we think we are doing, Thomson? Do we think that is clever? Oh, we do, do we? Well, we'll see about that. And what's more, I do not think that we speak to me like that."

See what one means?

Oh dear: it's been a long day. Thanks for reading, and until the morrow.