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.