A most interesting and productive day yesterday. I went up to London, not to see my monarch, but to attend a meeting of my music college, and, as I'm considered worthy of a first-class seat on one of Network Rail's finest, I enjoyed a relatively noise and trouble-free journey.

I arrived with time to spare, as we say here, and made haste to my favourite Italian hang-out, name Bella Italia, just off Oxford Street. I don't know about you, but when I order something on the menu that looks like the French word 'pain' on the menu, I assume it's going to be bread-based. It was, of course, but I certainly wasn't expecting the veritable bucket-load of the stuff that arrived. So plentiful was the supply, that I turned to my dining neighbours, who seemed to be members of the Trappist movement (it's strange how so many couples seem not to want to speak to one another, I find - especially those who've obviously been together for some time) and invited them to partake. They declined my invitation and continued chomping silently (well, almost) on their paganinis, or whatever they were.

As one does when one's awaiting one's lasagne and quaffing a glass of chilled Italian plonco, I cast my gaze around the dining area. My eyes alighted on one who was, well, not entirely uneasy on the eye, and before you start getting anxious that your sons' grandparental lodgemaster's eyes should still be wandering to the drop-dead gorgeous, I must tell you immediately that my thoughts were transported back to a similar place, 30 years ago, when, after a performance of 'Starlight Express', I took my beautiful fiancee for a meal. It was a lovely evening, marred only by a rather serious fight that broke out halfway through the occasion. Once the police had been summoned and everything had calmed down again, Mrs C (or Miss C, as she was then) and I concluded our repast, I paid up with my flexible friend and we took our leave. Pretending that I had left my wallet in the place, I returned inside and, being the incurable romantic that I am (yes, really), I asked the manager if I could have the rose from the centre of our table as compensation for the unwanted sideshow. He said yes, I thanked him, I gave it to my lovely bride-to-be - and the rest is history. So: now you know. I proposed soon after that, in the sunset, in Windsor Great Park, on the most wondrous May evening.

OK. Now that the violins have faded out, I can tell you about this morning. I was asked, after two and a half terms, by three Newtonians, where the guernseys were. I burst into irony.

"Oh, I' SO sorry: those wretched slaves haven't washed, ironed and folded them and put them out on the chairs. I'll have them flogged immediately. Miss Chloe: could you see to it that the slaves are whipped to within an inch of their lives, please?"

Only at Summer Fields would such a riposte as follows be thrown over a resident's shoulder as he left the lodge:

"Oh thank you, sir. That'll be good. Have a good day."

The guernseys were in the laundry, incidentally. Now: where are those slaves ...... ?

Mr Bryan night tonight, and all seems to be well. To be honest, Mrs C and I took Isla for a stroll around the grounds for the most part of the Newtonian activity, so I'm rather assuming that all was as it should be - and indeed, I have no reason to believe that it would not have been. I understand from my learned colleague that he's been explaining the technicalities of the table tennis serve - which is another essential part of a boy's education. (That's another word I always type incorrectly - look: eductaion. eductaion. ecuation. eccuation. ecuation. Honestly: I typed each one of those at my normal typing speed (which is reasonably fast) and that's what happened. Anyway. To return to my assistant lodgemeister. I'm having an interesting oenological discussion with the same about Australian vino. I opine that there isn't a palatable Australian economy red that isn't basically gloop. He thinks I'm a poor, misguided soul that needs - oh no, here we go again - edcuation in matters pertaining to antipodean viniculture. Australian white, I should add very quickly, for reasons of diplomacy, is mainly excellent and extremely drinkable. Fortunately for the both of us, Mr B (as his initials will have it) has risen to the challenge. He's probably right - although the now-departed Mr Pugsley and I had the same 'discussion' - and he never managed to win me round. (OK, once - but he did spend an inordinate amount of money on a single bottle!)

Aha! Mrs C has just intercepted some Curlewites running around! I have to admit that it is very, very hot - not least because our dear heating engineers came to mend a radiator and have had to leave the heating on for a week to 'test it out'. My dear spouse was not happy (nor was your correspdent) and if you've seen the Fawlty Towers episode in which Mrs F has a go at the hapless Mr O'Reilly, you'll be able to 'picture the scene'.

I may not be able to write tomorrow night, as I'm off to the Big City for a meeting of the music college on whose board I sit. (The HM of Winchester is also involved with the college, btw, so I may be able to get some results out of him ..... !)

Until next time, then.

Wow! What an amazing day! As I walked around the school campus during various parts of the day, it was tremendous to behold so many happy boys pursuing their various interests and hobbies: so many different activities, so much enthusiasm. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be their age again? I must say that I loved my prep school days, especially in the summer. That, of course, was long before H and S stepped in to ensure that ........... - no, I mustn't. (Until I retire, that is, when I shall be able to speak - and write - freely about education, and my various takes on educational practice. Many of you have kindly let me know that you enjoy following my nightly meanderings, but I really am looking forward to writing entirely without let or hindrance!) Back to my prep school days. We were allowed to drive old cars around the grounds, we were allowed to buy 'fizzy pop' from the HM on Saturday nights before diving into the swimming pool, we were allowed to roam freely around the open countryside where the A34 is now, and we played in the school woods (and - shock, horror! we actually climbed trees!) for hours on end. And do you know what? Every day was sunny, just like today!

The Chaplain led the service this morning, dressed in jeans, trainers, a denim jacket and a dog collar. It's not the appearance of someone that matters, he told us, it's the person him/herself. Interesting.

Yes, it's been a very good day. And all Newtonians seemed content, relaxed and happy tonight - which is just as it should be. These are the days of their lives - as Phil Collins rightly opined. I wish I could remember the name of that album: it was very cleverly produced, as he played every instrument and sang every part himself, and then multi-tracked it. It began with E, I seem to remember ........ it'll come to me tonight: I'm sure it's in the CD rack.

Nearly Long Leave.

My people, if you think, even for one single second, that 'Fawlty Towers' is amusing in any way, believe me, had you experienced what the boys have just witnessed in the common room, you would be begging Ebay to let you discover a recording of it. I bring you, then, 'The Something Video Won't Something Work Properly A Something Gain'.

Mrs C: Paul, are you going to start 'Chicken Run' now?

Lodgemaster takes a quick swig of Macon Villages that he's just been enjoying the garden with his eldest daughter and begs of the Deity that the aforementioned video is still on the kitchen table, where he left it. It isn't. Invocations to above follow, among other exhortations.

Me: Hannah, have you seen 'Chicken Run'?

Hannah: 'Chicken Run?' Yes, it's very funny.

Me: No, I mean the video.

Hannah: Yes, the video. Oh! The video! Yes, it's out here on the bench.

(PC offers up gratitude in spades. He then strolls nonchanlantly to the common room and shoves the wretched video into the machine and invites one of the residents to press 'Play'. Does it work? Does it .............y. He knows that Sybil - sorry, Diana - is going to enter at any moment. He presses every conceivable button on every remote in the house. Nothing. Zilch. Rien. Blood pressure rises to dangerous levels.

Mrs C: Have you started it yet?

Me: (with uncharacteristic petulance): Have I started it? No, I have not! Why in Heaven's name does every single person who comes into Newton have to faff about with this set?! It doesn't matter who it is, they just have to fiddle around with it, take every lead out, put it back in the wrong place - and generally muck it up! Honestly!

I should point out that several boys, at this stage, are weeping - with mirth.

Mrs C: Just calm down and lift the set onto the floor. You and I can do that together.

Me: I don't know why we don't just invite the whole science department over here, along with anyone else who's remotely interested in gadgets, so that they can see just how badly they can (I wanted to use a very rude verb at this stage, but being a son of the clergy, decency restrained me from doing so) it up!!

Mrs C. Just be quiet and lift.

(With what can only be called 'bad grace', PC attempted to lft the whole TV system from out of the fireplace onto the floor. Mrs C very narrowly avoided having the whole thing dumped on her foot due to the rather careless manner in which her partner assisted in the execution of this exercise, and TV, video and other bits and pieces landed on the floor with a rather large crash.)

There followed a scene in which spaghetti-like wires were plugged into various places, various boys known to be possessed of tenchnical prowess were summoned and your correspondent continued to practise his Basil Fawlty impressions, much to the huge and uncontrollable amusement of the audience.

Eventually, thanks to the logic of Mrs C and the limited assistance she received from her husband, the Saturday night video began.

Don't you wish you were here?!

Good evening, one and all - and welcome to the 164th bloglog. No, I couldn't believe it, either, but that's what the log of the blog says, so it must be true! I wonder how many words that is. I suppose I could copy all the entries onto a massive Word document and then do a word count, but frankly I think life's too short for that kind of saddo activity.

Good news, my friends: all the Winchester entrants have been successful, and we're told that some of the results are very good indeed. However, because that fine establishment seems to like to do things slightly differently from the norm, the list of successes arrives one day and the results arrive the next. J'attends les resultats avec impatience, as our French friends more appropriately put it. (With an accute accent on the e of resultats, of course, but it would take too long for your correspondent to discover how to do that, and this computer would probably explode in the process anyway.)

Dr Dean has been on duty this evening, enabling Mrs C and me (yes, you know it is) to go for a brief stroll around the perimeter of Cutteslowe Park. Nicer than it sounds, as it adjoins - well, I was going to say rolling, but it's more sort of rather uninspiring, though pleasant - countryside. I use the word countryside with some hesitation, as you don't find a huge amount of it in North Oxford. Not many beaches, either. The residents seem to have conned the good Doctor into believing that the large and hugely effective water pistols that have lain in the boys' garden since Mr Pugsley's departure, were in service, and - erm, well, let's just say that there are some things it's better for you not to know.

While awaiting inspiration for this paragraph, I absent-mindedly moved my mouse over the various icons at the top of this text box. (Honestly, whoever would have thought that I'd ever be writing about mice moving over icons! Actually, come to think of it, perhaps in some Orthodox churches that is, in fact, what happens. Now I really am getting into the realms of the bizarre. Sorry.) Anyway, to return to the thread, apparently I can 'remove formatting from the selection'. What jolly fun that must be! I must try it sometime.

Until tomorrow, then.

You know I said that I was definitely going to sleep well last night? I didn't. Dreadful, it was: hot, close, hopeless. Thus I awoke in a bit of a grump - and it would have required a pretty good set of sequences for my humour to improve! As always, SF provided exactly that. All Newtonians ignored my apparent petulance totally first thing this morning, and I ended up discussing whether or not one should surround one's library with boats if there were ever to be a Cockermouthian flood in one's area, following an item on the Breakfast news about flood recovery. Surreal? Yes. In fact I had to pinch myself to make myself realise that I had, in fact, woken up and wasn't in the middle of some Dali-esque dream.

The rest of the day went from OK to better, and it culminated this evening with a wonderful Evensong service in the chapel of Keble College. How privileged we are to be able to sing in these amazing places. I was able to enjoy a 'service off' from the organ stool, as my dear friend and former colleague Mr David Langdon, ex-Director of Music, played this year. And very well he played, too. A very happy journey back from Keble provided a lovely and fitting end to what had been, surprisingly, in view of my bad mood when I woke, another great day.

Sleep well. You never know: I might, too.

My friends, when it's time for Mrs C and me to depart the dreaming spires, in the not hugely distant future, it's evenings - indeed days - like tonight that I shall remember. It's been the most glorious time, with the sun setting, happy and contented boys in the garden playing table tennis and running around playing catch games, and everyone enjoying themselves.

But the whole day has been great, too - despite the fact that my Colts C team lost their match (against Chandlings' B team!) rather seriously. Lessons went well this morning; all my tutees told me in their tutorials that they reckoned they were achieving between 8 and 10 on the 'happiness scale' and were doing well, and I was, as the yoof of today will have it, well pleased. So much so, in fact, that earlier tonight I decided to treat myself to the luxury of half an hour in Joe's wine bar, having a squint at the DT and seeing how the real world is getting on.

Having bought my favourite tipple, which I discovered while doing a bit of moonlighting - sorry, I mean private tutoring - in Rio de Janeiro in 1980, namely a caihprina (I never could spell it, and if I google it now I'll lose this bloglog), my ears picked up, by chance, music which sounded very similar to the Brazilian rhythms of my former days. It was all very nostalgic, although I have to tell you, people, that what was in my glass couldn't really hold a candle to the ones (note the plural form) that I enjoyed in Rio, or the ones to which I gave second place, which was in the (sadly now defunct) Rainbow Room at the top of the Rockefeller Building. I paid up and went back to SF, remembering just in time that the guitar concert had just started. I made a quiet entry and seemed to appreciate all of the performances very much indeed.

And so to Newton and all its jollity. You know, I think I'm getting slightly reflective in my old age.

Sleep well. I shall.

Greetings. It was our half day yesterday, and there seemed to be much to do and plenty to enjoy: so much so, that all of that, in addition to what I call 'YDS' on the computer, rendered access to this hopeless machine impossible.

Still, the grass was mown, back and front, and we enjoyed a very pleasant family lunch before Mrs C and went for a lengthy stroll along and around the meadows behind Wolfson College. I don't doubt that many if not most of you have read 'A High Wind in Jamaica', by Richard Hughes, and if you have, you'll know that his desciptions of the various pathways are beautifully written - and that's how our walk seemed to me. Beautiful paths, sunlight and overall effectiveness in simplicity.

The late afternoon was spent in the company of some of elder daughter's friends from South Africa, followed by the joy of listening to Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto, (on a CD!), and no prizes for guessing what we were watching at 8pm!

A great day - and I feel ready for anything now! No, really, I do!

And here I am again. I'm sorry I was absent last night, but we did indeed have a wonderful evening chez BT, and much was discussed, from politics to educational methodology to things oenological to, well, you name it, we talked about it.

The new table tennis table is now in full swing and is already very, very popular! Most people enjoyed it tonight, and I have already been asked whether I would be happy to wager 50 sweet rations on whether I can beat one of the boys! H'm, yes,I think I'd better re-phrase that - in case anyone from social services is tuning in! I mean, of course, whether I can gain supremacy in a table tennis challenge. (Having said that I could, I was then informed that the same challenger had already bet another Newtonian 50 sweet rations, but, due to something that happened over at school, this had been reduced to 20. Confused? Yes, so was I.) Anyway, Mr Bryan, who is the t.t. supremo of SF, is on duty over here tomorrow night, and he is drooling at the prospect of being able to avail himself of the wonderful new facility.

Latest shower-avoidance technique is to claim that one has had a 'vol swim' before coming over to lodge. Nice try, and almost successful - until Mrs C, the voice of sense and reason, pointed out that chlorine needed to be washed out of hair.

That's it for tonight, then. The good ship Newton is in fine shape.

Birthday celebrations tonight, with the most delicious chocolate brownie cake! Thank you so much to the cake-maker for that: it was absolutely scrummy! It was one of those very special evenings tonight, as after we had consumed and sung Happy Birthday, we all sat around on the benches and seats in the 'private side' garden, (how quaint that sounds now!), chatting about anything and everything, with the sun setting behind those beautiful trees and the birds singing their evening melodies. It was magical - and one of those lodge times that stay in the mind for ever.

Other than that, it's been a pretty quiet night - thanks largely to the antics of Mr J Bond, whose antics are entertaining the troops in the common room as I type! (No, he's not really there.) But I think I'm going to have to play the part of Blofeld now, and extinguish Mr Bond, as the LMs (or, as the pedants will have it, the LM) must go to bed. I expect I shall be greeted with "Ah, Mr Cheater: we've been expecting you."

I may not be able to write tomorrow night, as Mrs C and I will be dining with the HM and friends. But I'll be back soon. Until then - bonne nuit.

Hurrah! The table tennis table has arrived! A burly Scot and his mate arrived during supper and, after enquiring of just about everyone on the campus where (and say it in a scottish accent that is completely incomprehensible) 'Mr and Mrs Chee-ah leev', the table, shrouded in heavy duty cardboard, was wheeled into the Newton garden. Now all we have to do is put it together and the residents' evenings will be enhanced considerably. (I have a confession to make. Mrs C has asked one of the maintenance team to assemble it, so no need to worry now that the air over Oxfordshire, Northamptonshire, Hampshire and most of London might turn blue.) Mrs C and I will christen the table - and I can assure you that that won't take very long ......

If you happened to pass by the pond area just beyond Mrs Bishop's form room, you would see that our artist-in-residence and our wonderful head of art, Mrs Williamson, along with Mrs Sparrow, have been adorning the said pond with what look to me suspiciously like totem poles made by the artists of tomorrow. And as christening seems to the theme, Mrs W kindly arranged a grand opening of the aforementioned exhibition, complete with drinks and nibbles. 'twas a grand affair, with speeches of appreciation from our artistic director, in which she thanked and appreciated all that Edwina Bridgeman and Sarah Sparrow have done and do for SF art - and I couldn't help but think, rather naughtily, I suppose, that the event reminded me of the Cameron/Clegg 'love-in' of last night. But don't tell RW I said that - especially as she and I had a great discussion about the works of Matisse, Turner, Kandinsky, van Gogh and many others. It was a lovely occasion, and all the staff, including Mr and Mrs BT, were there. Even Father Michael, the Catholic priest who comes and officiates on Friday evenings, came along. (I discovered that he taught my brother-in-law physics at Ampleforth in the 70s: more secrets!)

What a load of pedants the Newtonians are. You know I said that I'd initiated 'PSFAs', which stands for 'proper showers for all'? Well, you wouldn't believe the discussions I had tonight about that.

"Oh but sir! It should be P Ss FA, because showers is plural."

"Showers ARE plural."

"No, but it should be."

"Well, I think it should be P S F As"

"Oh no, sir, because that would be 'proper showers for alls'.

"Well, what about RSPCA, then? The A stands for animals, not animal." (Ha! Got 'im there!)

"Ah! So it should be P Ss F As, then, sir."

Oh for goodness' sake! It was only meant to be a flipping acronym, not a blinking lexicographer's utopian dream!

What an evening. I knew it was ominous from the start, when three Newtonians, on hearing my piano improvisations wafting their way down the corridor, ballet-danced their way into our drawing room when they arrived over here tonight.

Er - yes. That's enough for tonight, I think.

I promised that I wouldn't bang on any more about Mr Cameron's teacher, but when I turned the pages of the DT this morning and my eyes alighted on page 10, whose words should I see being quoted but my educational friend. Fascinating. He once told me that before one leaves the planet, one should turn left instead of right when boarding an aeroplane! Upon reading what he had to tell about travelling on Concorde, I sent him a text saying that now I knew that he had turned right when getting on a 'plane at least once ..... ! (He replied immediately, opining that 'there are many things one does when one is young that one regrets!)

That's it now. No more swanking about my contacts. Especially as I know that any one of you, my dear Followers, could outdo me contact-wise in one fell swoop. (But perhaps not in the world of independent education .... )

I'm off-duty tonight and I can hear the happy sound of contented jollity emanating from the dorms. I'm sure Mr Bryan has it all under control. No, really: I know he has.

I wonder how our scholars have done? We should hear very shortly - in fact, Mr BT probably knows already. I'll keep you posted. For now, though, I'm completely mother-of-pearled (translate it into French and you'll see what I mean) and so I'll call it a day.

Until tomorrow.

I wonder if any of you, dear Followers, were listening to Radio 5 Live this morning, just before 8am. If you were, you would have heard the friend I mentioned last night, giving his thoughts about Mr Cameron as a prep school pupil! I had received a text message from him, (my ex-headmaster friend, not Mr Cameron - that would have been a coup!) about half an hour beforehand, telling me that he was to be interviewed, and so I duly tuned our rather ancient wireless into the appropriate frequency and duly listened, as instructed! Facinating it was, and, as I might have expected, my associate was the epitome of diplomacy as he reminisced about Heatherdown days! He's a great mate to have, because although (even at the age of 53) he's no longer a headmaster, he has more contacts in the prep and public school world than I've had hot dinners, as they say, and there's not much that he doesn't know about who's who and what's what in the independent sector! I always look forward to my meetings with him, as you can imagine!

It was 'fragrance night' again tonight, and once again the place assumed the aromae of classy houses of ill-repute. (I imagine.) I was invited to sniff the various lotions and to give my considered pronouncements about them. I did so, and started a trail of offerings, ranging from - oh, you know, you've heard it all before. Coconut oil and balsam: very like Linseed oil, as far as I could tell. (There must be cricketing quips to offer to you there, but I can't for the life of me think of one. In other words, I'm completely stumped. Ha! I bet that creased you up!)

We had a lofge meeting earlier, and I was able publicly to thank the Simpson family, for it is they who are the table tennis benefactors, and there was, as you would rightly expect, a spontaneous round of applause. I was able to inform the residents that it was arriving on Friday, and, with any luck, if I was going to be anything to do with its assemblage, they would be able to use it on the last day of term. (I shall, I think, seek the counsel and practical advice of Mr Nicholl.)

That's enough for tonight - and, hooray! The Beeb has re-scheduled Holby for tonight! Thank heavens for Sky plus! Night night.

I have often wondered how I would feel if a former pupil of mine were to become prime minister of this country. I have never experienced that feeling, but that is what has happened to a very good friend of mine tonight. He it was who taught Mr Cameron Latin when he was a pupil at Heatherdown in Ascot and, after a lengthy spell at 'another well known prep school in Oxford', he subsequently became the headmaster of a very successful prep school in the 1990s. More than that I will not divulge, because, despite the political antics of the past few days, it would not be, well, politic, for all kinds of reasons, for me to do so. I wish our new PM every success as he faces the many difficult challenges that lie ahead of him - and who knows, perhaps before I shuffle off this mortal coil I shall know just how proud and how rewarded my educational friend feels at this time. I enquired, rhetorically, of Mrs C, how we would feel if this were 20 years hence and - I won't actually mention the name I volunteered: I will simply tell you that it was the name of a current Fifth Year boy - had just emerged from his meeting with the Monarch. Who knows.

Back to Newton. I am absolutely delighted to tell you that, thanks to the extraordinary generosity of a Newtonian family - and great supporters of this blog, btw - an outside table tennis table will be arriving in the Newton garden on Friday. I will not, at this stage, mention the name of the family, but I may, subject to their agreement, in due course. I know that I speak for us all (sorry, I'm coming over all prime-ministerial now!) when I say a huge thank you to such kindness - and we're thrilled. Mrs C will be delighted, as she is a very strong player herself - as well as a terrific tennis player, a qualified badminton coach and a former cross-country runner for Somerset! (Those details emerged in an e-mail to our benefactors this morning, and it was suggested that such information might cause an interesting track all of their own, during these nightly trundlings along the main line.) I should add that Mr Bryan went into a semi-swoon and needed the smelling salts when he learnt that his own passion for the game would be realised on a regular basis. (He's on duty tonight, so presumably he no longer needs the salts.)

As for Mr Cameron, I have only one criticism: his appointment/investiture cut right across Holby. (More Bateman cartoons, no doubt.)

You know, your LMs are not quite such little men as they were! It's been what you might call a 'spirited' evening tonight, and your correspondent indulged in a fair amount of spleen-venting. I couldn't quite work it out: were they just in high spirits, or had there been something in supper that caused such excitement? I wonder. Anyway, to cut a rather uninteresting story short, silent reading began rather earlier than it usually does tonight, which becalmed the troops considerably. Interesting to note, though, that one or two just pushed the envelope a bit this evening - but not as much as they thought they might .......

That said, there isn't a huge amount to report, therefore. All a bit noisy and slightly irritating, not least because I'd had cause to utter one of my dire threats, namely that I would switch the dorm computer off if a gaggle of Newtonians didn't stop talking while I was talking, and, as they didn't, I did.

Which reminded me of a former HM for whom I worked, who recounted the story of how he'd walked into a public school dayroom when he was a housemaster there (no names, but it's near Northampton) grabbed a record player that was emitting many decibels and carried it out of the room in a fury. The ambience of his rage was greatly enhanced by the fact that he'd forgotten that it had a plug at the end, which caused a whole load of sparks to fly all over the place.

Very metaphorical.

Well, that was nice. Although it seems to have been the case that if you blinked, you missed it. It's been great to learn of all the exciting things that the residents have been up to, and I hope you all enjoyed yourselves tremendously. Mrs C and I took a detour via Poole General Hospital, where my 91-year-old mama is laid up with a broken hip and a fractured arm (she's making 'terrific progress', apparently, which is good news) and thence across the Sandbanks ferry to Studland, for a sunny and thoroughly agreeable stroll across the golden sand, admiring the sunlight, reflected in the mirror-like sea. Isla went mental, of course, and ended up having the kind of time with 'the biggest spotty dog you ever did see' that my head of English could have enjoyed had he decided that he would, after all, have preferred to enjoy the company of a primate on the outskirts of Bath. And I don't mean an archbishop.

The weather thereafter was too cold for anything akin to that which is enjoyed by Hells' Angels (biking, I mean), so we decided to walk as much as possible, and had a thoroughly delightful time journeying through bluebell woods to a ruined chapel in the middle of them. It was magical, although I think both of us imagined that we were seeing a vision when we came across a new-age traveller sitting 'inside' the chapel. (There are no walls, you see, nor a roof.) We greeted her in what I thought was a rather orthodox fashion, which she reciprocated with the kind of benign smile that n.a.t.s give one, and moved on. I suppose, in a funny kind of way, she rather enhanced our visit, although I must say that we very rarely come across anyone else there. Perhaps she was a vision after all. Or perhaps I'd just consumed too much claret.

It's good to have them all back, and now we head for Long Leave. I dunno: it's all holidays with us, isn't it. (As all of my non-teacher friends never tire of telling me.)

You know how you look down the list of correspondents in your in-box and see how you react to it? And you know how sometimes it contains the name of someone you'd find it difficult to speak to if a huge asteroid hit our planet and destroyed all but the two of you? Well, more than a frisson of electrified horror shot through my torso as if I'd just come into contact with the wire surrounding Guantanemo Bay when I saw a name from the past among those wishing to make contact today. My response to the aforementioned consisted of two words - although neither the first nor the second were what you might have thought. (I do have a modicum of decency, you know.)

The event did, however, remind me of a most wondrous moment when I was at school in Bath, which, for reasons that will become clear, is near a place called Kelston Roundhill.

A few of us were trying to arrange a 'Brains' Trust', involving three boys on one side and three members of staff on the other. We had persuaded the school chaplain to join the staff team, and we invited the head of English to do so.

"Who else is appearing?" asked the latter, a man for whom I had great respect and affection.

"The Chaplain," we replied.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I would rather 'do naughty things' (verb omitted as this is a family blog) with a monkey on Kelston Roundhill than sit on a Brains' Trust with the Chaplain."

Wonderful. And that's more or less how I felt about my correspondent today. Although it certainly wasn't, I promise, our own excellent chaplain.

I learnt today - indeed, I think I did already know it - that George Dubbya, when president, liked to be in his pyjamas by 9pm. What a thought. Still, I suppose looking after Newton is a little different from dealing with the world generally and the US particularly. I mean, how would I cope with international incidents, illegal activities and ........ no, I must stop this habit of incorporating sub-texts into my nightly meanderings: I shall get myself into trouble one day.

Presumably by now all of us have cast our vote to usher in the next prime ministerial incumbent. Mrs C and I went up the road and both put our crosses next to ......... oh, wouldn't you just lerv to know?! Actually, I think using the Eurotunnel as an enormous wine cellar has some merit as a policy - as long as our French cousins are in charge of it, that is.

The garden provided pleasure for many tonight, and no doubt Mr and Mrs Bryan, who live just over the fence, were able to enjoy the happy sound of the young at play for half an hour. Mr Bryan informed me this morning that his Mrs B, on hearing an unexpected racket from the other side of the fence last night, sent a text to her husband (he was elsewhere; they don't send texts to each other when they're watching the telly - as far as I know) enquiring whether anyone knew that the boys had escaped. I assured him - and indirectly, of course, her, that all was in order and I was completely in control of the situation.

Have a lovely short leave - and, as always, thanks for reading.

Yay! We used the lawn tonight, for the first time this year! People, we've had a lovely evening, not least because it was a Newtonian's birthday today, and we were all able to enjoy the appropriately named 'rocky road' cake ..... Oh boy, could I employ an extended metaphor there!
Thank you so much for the absolutely delicious and epicurean offertoire: it was fantastic! (To use a word that I constantly discourage my English students from using!)

I re-read this morning's bloglog. Pathetic. Not even remotely worth reading - but then, you try writing up a diary when you've only just got up: not easy, you know. Still, it was pretty feeble, so apologies for that - especially when you've probably logged on expecting a witty account of what's been going on here in the past 24 hours. At least you learnt that the lawn was mown. And now you know that the Newtonians have used it, too!

I must tell you of this morning's English lesson with one of my fifth year sets. I was going through a CE trial paper with one of my students and was having a bit of a go at him, as I thought that he should not still be using capital letters in the middle of sentences. (My nephew did that; I never quite knew why.) The dualogue went as follows:

Me: ..... but why do you need to use a capital C to start a word in the middle of a sentence?

Him: But sir, that's not a capital C.

Me: But it is! Even I, with all my ophthalmological problems, can see that that's a capital C! You'd be no good as a sailor you know, if you have problems with Cs! (Seas. Ed.)

Him: I don't have problems with Cs!

Another: I shouldn't worry: Sir has problems with his Is! (Eyes. Ed.)

As quick-wittedness goes, I thought that was brilliant. (To use another word I discourage my lot from using.)

And I'm not going to try to outdo that tonight. So, goodnight all. I must get back to the rocky road. Newton lodgemastering, I mean.

Oh, and btw, I did p-p-p-p-pick up a Penguin - and I did get away with it.

Don't you dare sneak on me.

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. This computer of mine really is destined for the dump. I will say no more.

No much news to report, as Mr Bryan was on duty last night and I learn with pleasure thatall went well - and, as I type this morning, I can spy Dr H, eagerly awaiting this post as he stands by his front door, wondering whether he should wait another minute or two (it's 7.03am) or stride purposefully towards his responsibilities of the day.

What I can tell you, though, is that I mowed the Newton lawns yesterday, back and front. So now, all we need is a little more evening sunshine and the rear lawn can come into its own in the summer evenings. I must say that it does look very pleasant, complete with lawn stripes - which will last a very short time indeed, no doubt!

Fascinating, you know, writing at this time of the morning: I can see everything happening and a new day beginning. And talking of such new days, I must go and join it.

Nearly Short Leave. Have a good day.

I'm so sorry! I forgot to include a heartfelt and collective WLYG in that last post! But thank you, belatedly: it was delicious!

It's all a pretence, you know. Muesli, I mean. There I was, first thing this morning, having ushered the LMs out of the door, pouring out the nutty mix of whatever's in our favourite brand - or rather I would have been, if there'd been more than a single cashew nut on the floor of the box. (I have to be careful, (a) not to mention a brand name, and (b) because the originator of the aformentioned cereal was, until recently, one of our neighbours in our other life.) I reached for our emergency pack, which claims to be a luxury item from a store not so far away from where I type. I'm blowed if I could spot the difference. Still, not to worry: they're both very agreeable mueslis.

I held a lodge meeting tonight, in which I spoke about growing up and personal hygiene. All the usual stuff: how the male body changes, how we all want to live in a fragrant lodge, how we should use soap as well as water in the shower - and, like the best cabin crew members, I informed the residents about the location of the Newtonian shower units. They were very receptive, you'll be glad to hear - and the only thing I need to add here is that spray deodorants are not permitted here. I've initiated the term 'PSFAs', or 'proper showers for all'.

As for tonight's chocolate intake, that took the form of Penguins. You can imagine, can you not, the stream of biscuit-wrapper jokes that are imprinted on every one! I endeavoured to give appropriately glacial looks to each, but failed, miserably. Mrs C was standing, in a manner akin to the fruit-parfait girls of the Empire cinemas of yesteryear, doling out the biscuits, which seemed to be as crumby as the jokes thereon, and, when her gaze was averted, I attempted to reach into the box. No chance. I was told, pretty directly, that 'they are all counted out by Mrs Hannah, you know', so that, dear Followers, was (almost) that. But I know that there are three left downstairs in our kitchen ..........

Incidentally, the mention of breakfast earlier reminded me that I learnt tonight that one of you de-shells boiled eggs for your ever-loving at the table. I bet you don't really. (50% of what I hear ..... !)

James May and I have much in common. We're both trained and qualified musicians, we're both passionate about cars and motorbikes, we've both had - or in his case, has - ridiculously long hair, and we're both published writers. Admittedly, he probably receives considerably more dosh than I do when he writes for the motoring section of the DT, as opposed to the meagre 1000 word efforts that I humbly submit to the education editor of the aforementioned journal from time to time, but I was thinking this morning, as my eyes scanned his excellent account of how he lusts after a VW camper van, that his writing style and mine are not wholly dissimilar. Except that he's wittier. And uses better similes. And he gets to travel to the town of Wareham, the place of my formative years, in a Ferrari.

And, having told you all of that, I cannot now for the life of me remember why I did. I'm sure there was a link: perhaps it will come to me later in this bloggerlog.

And so term has now started. All our LMs seem to have had a great time across The Channel - or La Manche, as I'm sure it should properly be called - and all were in excellent form tonight. I enjoyed a most stimulating discussion about how one commences one's learning of the bagpipes on a ruler (which, I suggested, probably resulted in a rather more tuneful accord than that which might emanate from a more advanced learner - a thought which resulted in a 'playful' punch on my distal radius), and I was invited to partake of delicious cake - on the condition that another section of my anatomy did more than plonk itself in front of a television screen. I endeavoured to explain that, anotomically, that was impossible, but 17-year-old daughters tend to be particularly unimpressed by their fathers' sloth, imho.

An OS Bishop of Warrington praught tonight: I wonder how many of our current Newtonians might end up in an episcopal state? (Ordained as a bishop, I mean.)

Yes, they're all fine. Happy after a good day, still a bit tired - and fast asleep. (Ho ho.)

What a great day. It's Mrs C's birthday today, and what better present could she wish for than 27 gift-wrapped 10-year-olds, complete with a full complement of laundry? She was, of course, thrilled - as were we both, in the knowledge that our Little Men were back with us again. They've obviously had a great time in France, but such were their displays of affection when they returned that we were deeply moved by the fact that they cared about their lodge as much as they do.

I held a small, impromptu party for some of our friends and colleagues, and it was lovely to be able to entertain a very buoyant and relaxed HM, as well as several others. How fortunate we are to work for someone whom we regard as our 'boss' and our friend. He's a good man, you know - and I'm sure things will work out well for him in the future. Mrs C and I have worked for him for 13 years, and it's going to be difficult to say farewell.

I don't know whether you've bloggerlogged while the troops have been away, but there are a couple of entries I've compose during the intervening days. Do have a read of them, and comment if you'd like to. Googlemail should act as the mediator, it seems.

More tomorrow, as always.