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.)