Heatwaves, my friends, are all well and good, and I am among the first to appreciate the smiling face of the sun - as long as all I have to do is sit by a pool, fall into it at my leisure, take the helm of a boat, read, swim in azure blue waters, consume summer-type nosh and imbibe a few gallons of half-decent planque. And that is indeed what I shall be doing before too long, when we make our annual family pilgrimage to Provence. Talking of such pleasures, did you know that I am a joint world champion? No, seriously, I am - although, to be fair, I don't think the sport is fully authorised as yet. It all came about like this, you see.

Three years ago, when we were holidaying in Gascony with our friends, the two fathers, one of whom was I, decided that we wanted to become world champions at something. We decided on the make-up of the contest, therefore. Any such sport would require (a) that we could sit down (b) that it should involve the consumption of wine and (c) that in order to be regarded as a proper sport, it would need to contain an element of competition. We scratched our heads for a moment. That achieved nothing. Then, by Jove, we had it. Our idea was simple. We needed two comfortable chairs, one (or more) bottles of vino, two waste paper baskets and two newspapers.

The rules were straightforward. What the players had to do was to arm themselves with a newspaper each, and a wine glass. The bottle (called 'the bottle') was to be opened and placed between the two chairs, not more than an arm's length from each player. Within the time-frame of an hour, when a player had read a page of the paper, it was to be screwed up and jettisoned into the player's bin. At the end of the set time (it doesn't have to be an hour, it could be three, if you wished), the players should attempt to get to their respective wpb and endeavour to count up the number of pages that had been propelled successfully from chair to bin. The one who withdrew the most pages from his (it could be her, of course, but if we're honest, it's probably more likely to be his) bin was appointed world champion. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am no more than a joint world champion, for our scores were identical. (Although I'm not enitrely convinced that the counting was as accurate as it might have been.)

So there you are. If you've ever wondered whether your sons' preceptors sit around discussing educational methodology, you're probably right - we don't. Well, I don't, anyway. And in case you're thinking that my friend is a bad influence and is a member of a less respectable profession, you're wrong. He's a prep school headmaster.

Not really news from Newton, is it. I just thought you'd be interested.

Two things occur tonight. First, this ancient machine seems to be whizzing through the programs as if there's no tomorrow - which probably just means that the old security system has expired and is no longer grudgingly letting me into cyberspace, but is now enticing me as quickly as possible into its evil clutches, and secondly, having been enclutched in such a way, I thought tonight, not for the first time, I must be living in some kind of parallel universe.

"Sir, come on then, show us yer dance moves."

"No."

"Yes. Oh come on. I bet you're a real rocker when you get going."

"No. You should be in the shower."

"Right. I'll go downstairs and get Mrs Cheater. I bet she'll show us her dance moves."

"I don't believe this is happening. Did I really wake up this morning?"

"Oh yes, sir. Look, see if you can feel this." So saying, my convo partner pinched my arm. Not hard, but with sufficient force to make his lodgemaster squeal a bit.

"Why don't you and Mrs Cheater both show us your dance moves out in the garden?"

By this time I'd heard enough. Quickly, I assumed complete control and made as if to exit, and as I did so, I heard an appealing duet, from two residents, who simply said '"Sir ..... " I turned round. There behind me were a woolly mammoth and a highland cow looking apologetic.

Now I know I'm in a different universe.

Guden nytern - as we say here on Zog.

You may not notice, dear Followers, but I'm actually writing this two octaves above my normal pitch. What happened was, you see, was that as I was feeling a tad hot, bothered and slightly edgy, I went out to visit the residents who were engaged in ping-pong and other activities on the Boys' Lawn. (Actually, in refined establishments like this one, one tends to drop the definite article for such places, so let's re-name it 'Boys' Lawn'.) I stood, looking, I suppose, not overly-conversational, watching the activity. A few were playing football with rather more success than our national team, using a tennis ball. (Perhaps that was what went wrong in Blomfontein.) As I surveyed my subjects, I saw the aforementioned spheroid travelling at considerable velocity towards me. Unfortunately for me, but to the uncontrollable mirth of those foregathered in front of me, the ball was prevented from travelling any further by its sudden collision with - well, let's just say that I can think of more appopriate parts of my anatomy into which it could have arrived. Being of stern stuff, of course, I stood rooted to the spot, but allowed myself the luxury of a faint smile; more akin to that of a terrified chimp than that of a gravitas-laden lodgemeister. Still, they didn't know which it was, so the merriment continued.

Top Gear was on tonight, and it was fascinating to observe Mr May attempting to drive a Toyota Hilux pick-up truck up the side of the Icelandic volcano. I'm not even going to attempt to type its name. They're mad, you know. And James May continues to annoy me whenever I read his stuff in the DT motoring section: he's too good for his own good when it comes to writing. He wouldn't have written a sentence like that, of course, but then, all he does for a living is drive Lambos and Fezzas (sic) around the place. I wonder how he'd get on with 27 Third years. I know whose job I'd prefer.

Nice work if you can get it.

And you get to live in a lovely house in North Oxford, too.

Goodnight.

So there I was, you see, flexing my fingers up and down the keyboard as I tried to get to grips with Tchaicovsky's 2nd Piano Concerto - no, really, I've always wanted to play it, and I'm getting there - when the neighbours from Curlew and beyond popped in. It's quite a tricky piano solo arragement (try as I might, Mrs C wouldn't be one hundred per cent happy if I invited the London Philarmonic down for the night) and I was beseeched for a performance of the work in progress. It didn't go too badly, in fact, but this being Newton, we careered off down another musically related path, and ended up jiving to Sir Elton's opera (as in opus, not as in Covent Garden) once again. Wonderful stuff it was that I dredged up from the record archives in my possession: a live recording of a concert in Madison Square Gardens, incorporating 'Funeral for a Friend', 'Love Lies Bleeding', 'Crocodile Rock' and many others. My old analogue hi-fi did the biz once again, and blasted sound down Mayfield Road suficiently loudly enough to encourage the dog to get her snout out of the phonograph. (Not that said snout was actually therein, you understand; I don't want the RSPCA on my back.)

It was The Concert tonight, and if you weren't there you missed the spectacle of the BTs banging their cymbals in front of a rapt audience. No, stop it: they really did cymbalise. You lot do have very suspect trains of thought, you know. (That's enough of the Frankie Howerd. Ed.)

I must go before euphemisms take over - and I've typed a load of those over the past few days:it's called report writing.

'This boy has all the characteristics of a tree stump, but he lacks the personality."

No, I wasn't the originator, and no, it never reached the unfortunate boy's parents. It was headmagisterially intercepted - and it was more than just cymbals that were clanging after that. It is good though, don't you think?

'night all.

Oh my goodness! What an evening! Two of the gappers of yesteryear turned up, wanting to be fed and watered, They were.

Dr Dean was on duty in my absence, and, as ever, he's done a great job: but I returned from the feeding and watering to discover that one or two residents had taken advantage of the good doctor's better nature (and he's one of the kindest people you'll ever meet) and were, shall we say, 'chatting after lights out'. I went into smooth MI5 mode. (Remember that?!) The dialogue was straight out of 'Spooks'. I spoke quietly:

"So. You wish to 'chat', do you? I think not."

"But sir .................. "

"Er, no, I think not." (Silence ensued.)

"Let us agree, gentlemen, that there will be silence until tomorrow morning." (Silence.)

"Good. Very good."

I stroked Jasmine.

"Not a sound, then," I said, quietly, but with a faint whiff of menace. Silence.

Oh what a career I missed. Friendly, personable, affable: cool, even.

But don't upset me.

Night night.

Greetings. All rather bohemian tonight, as Isla was thought to have escaped through a hole in the fence, causing much concern and panic. There I was, blowing the whistle with gusto, dog biscuit in hand, awaiting the return of the prodigal canine, dispatching Newton residents hither and thither, and then instructing Tom C, who until that moment had been enjoying Japanese dualogue in the kitchen with one whose roots are partly of the Orient, to take the aforementioned whistle and race off to the top field to see where she was.

As so often is the case in this lodge, your correspondent manages to give a perfect impersonation of one B Fawlty, (with certain other members of the lodge co-starring with a certain degree of efficiency), this time causing much concealed merriment on the part of the younger members, not least when I raced (oh come on, I'm not that unfit) back to the house to see Tom standing on the front door step, all 6'4" of him, calmly announcing "We've found her, by the way."

"What? Where?" I enquired of my son and heir. Nonchalantly, he stared into the distance. "She was here in the garden." Terrific. It's a good job Wimbledon's on at the moment: I went into the clubhouse to advise those who might be interested of the rover's return, imagining that at least a fatted calf might be about to meet its end, but no: what happens? My reassuring words are interrupted with "Shhhhh!!!! We're trying to watch this!!"

Oh well. At least my joke about the French snail and the Ferrari was appreciated by a small audience. I'll tell it to you one day. It's quite amusant.

Bonne nuit, tout le monde.

No, I really am still here - and my apologies to all FFs who've been so kind as to say they've missed my geriatric perorations.

What a weekend that was! The Ball on Friday, Sports Day on Saturday and then Old Boys' Farewell to the BTs Day on Sunday! I don't know about you, but I thought the whole whirl was whonderful,and it was great to catch up with so many familiar faces from yesteryear. A double delight since then has been to 're-connect' with some with whom I'd lost contact over the years.

Further apologies are due to those who had to forego the fandango at The Ball. Apparently, I was surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous under-matrons and was revelling in being photographed with the same. I vaguely recall straying from the extendable uxorial leash for a moment or two, but being yanked back into my more normal state of acquiesence before too many faux-pas had been committed. But if I may be so forward as to say so, there were many yummy-mummies who looked a million dollars, whose foregone fandangi were a personal loss. Oh the scope for innuendo and euphemism ..... Better not, though. Not on this family blog.

Report writing is in full swing, and I've already typed about a billion words. For the moment, though, I'm still reeling from the weekend, and and intend to thoroughly enjoy - sorry, thoroughly to enjoy - the last few weeks of the year.

It's the night of The Ball, and for anyone who's still at home, I'm in my glad-rags, and have just strolled housemagisterially among my subjects. I give you, therefore, the following:

Dr Dean: Oh I say! Almost a rhombus!

H.E.: Oh sir! You look just like James Bond - only better!

O.B.: Come on then sir: show us your moves!

And that's before Mrs C and I have even stepped out of the lodge!

Well, my dear Follower(s), all are safely gathered in once again, and all the CE boys are into the usual array of fine schools. I am sure there will be much celebration tonight - and tomorrow night, and on Saturday, too, in some cases. We are all thrilled, of course, although the nearest Mrs C and I have come to a knees-up in the successees' honour is a glass of orange juice in the Newton garden after lights out. Still, we can make up for that tomorrow ......

It's fascinating what you hear here, you know. This morning, as I walked along the lower corridor of this lodge, I overheard two residents conversing in the showers.

"I wonder if you can become a shower therapist?" was the enquiry that wafted out of the bathroom. I have to say that I didn't recognise the voice, and I thought it wise not to enquire, but I must confess that I've spent one or two moments during today wondering what, exactly, a 'shower therapist' might actually do!

Tonight was calm and contented: another superb evening, and a fine harvest to boot.

See you tomorrow - and if anyone fancies a fandango they'd better make sure it's well past the bewitching hour. You might want to employ the services of one of the above-named professionals after that.

"So, how was your day then, Daddy?" enquired my eldest, as I returned from extinguishing the lights.

"Wonderful, thank you, darling," replied I. It has indeed been a tremendous day. It started with two post-exam lessons with the 5th Years, in which we endeavoured to identify the figurative language employed by Jeremy Clarkson in a motoring video: he being the master of the metaphor and the singular supremo of the simile, not to mention the hexpert of hyperbole. (Yes, contrived, I know.) This was followed by a time of exam-marking and then a period of exam-invigilation, and thence to luncheon, which was superb. A most delightful game of cricket on the farthest fields ensued, in which the Third Years featured with a predominance of our French cousins, who proved that they can play 'our' game with rather greater distinction que les anglais! Tonight saw me enjoying un verre de vin with some of my greatest friends on the staff, after which Mrs C and I retired to Mr and Mrs Laggers' garden for further refreshment and conversation, before returning to our lovely lodge to look after your wonderful sons and heirs. They were all on top form, and both Mrs C and I appreciated, not for the first time, just how fortunate we are to be here.

'Silent' reading was enhanced by the arrival of Jasmine, our tabby 'rescue' cat, who caused many an 'ah' and 'ooh', and was greatly appreciated, as she lay supine on one or two beds, disciovering just what she had been missing.

As strolled back in the sunset from chez Laggers this evening, I stopped to pass the time of evening with a 5th Year boy and opined that one's prep school days really are the best days of one's life - unless one is fortunate enough to return to them, and enjoy life from the other side.

I think I really am getting very, very old.

My dear friends - as many of you as have stuck with me throughout the year, which probably means that I have but one Follower a night, to whom I offer many thanks for your loyalty! Today is our half day, and despite the fact that Mrs C and I have spent the last seven - or in Mrs C's case, nine - hours marking exam scripts, I was given a permit to spend an hour or so in that well-known staff room annexe called Joe's, where I enjoyed the company of two of my colleagues, sipping cocktails in the sunset. All three of us agreed that we are richly blessed in our work: wonderful colleagues, terrific parents, fantastic boys and a quality of life that most can only dream of. We are very, very fortunate - and we know it.

Tonight in Newton Mr B has been at the helm, and as far I know an even keel has been maintained. I have just stepped back onto the bridge and all seems to be well. So gratias tibi ago to the head of Classics once again.

I was greeted this morning, when I arrived at 7.12am to switch on the BBC News, rather than the more orthodox 7.10am, with 'You're late'. I advised my complainant that he was perfectly capable of switching on the telly himself, and that he didn't need the help of an expert so to do. He agreed.

As for exam marking, well, scripts have ranged from the outstandingly excellent (among which have been those belonging to Newtonians - and sons of readers of this blog) to the, er, not so stunning. In other words, from the Philip Pullmans to the Richard Bransons: and in yet other words, all of them blessed with tremendous potential.

Trust me.

Good evening from a tired, but happy Newton. Despite examination fever, it's been a good day on the whole, with no-one looking completely panic-struck - other than a few members of staff, perhaps, as increasingly large sheaves of script are stuffed into their lockers. Boys have been running up to me all through today telling me about how well they've done in English, French, maths, history, etc. - always a worrying sign. Still, I'm sure they've all done brilliantly.

Tonight we relented and allowed a bit of extra-curricular viewing, which was good for relaxation purposes, even if most of what the various broadcasting channels had to offer was complete tosh. I suppose sometimes it doesn't really matter, though, and I recall with some amusement the occasion when, after a particularly difficult parents' meeting, the HM for whom I was working at the time (not here) retired to his living quarters, poured himself a large glass of Luncheon Dry and a generous handful of peanuts (yes, it was the 80s) and settled down to watch whatever was on the telly - at lunchtime. Remember Camberwick Green? I know that's what it was, because I had to go and ask him something about something - or someone. Poor chap, he didn't know where to put himself. So, to his credit, he carried on as if this was his daily routine. Actually, for all I know, it was.

Talking of Luncheon Dry (Harvey's, remember that, too?) that reminds me of a staff pantomime of Aladdin, in which the rather wicked author (one of my colleagues) cast our alcoholic Head of Mod Lang as the Grand Vizier, Lun Chon Dri. How we got away with it, I shall never know. As far as I know, he never noticed ..... (My colleague had very dri sense of humour, you see.)

Enough Tales from Memory Lane. Sleep well.

Another lovely evening, with a major day of cricket against our good friends and rivals, Cothill. We seem to have had the upper hand almost across the board, but not entirely - and my P45 will probably in my staff room locker on Monday. So if I'm not around next week, you'll know that my cricket coaching career has terminated. (Although for a Colts C team to score 104 runs is a pretty good achievement, imho.) I used to think that the best egg sandwiches were to be found on the Cothill match tea tables: not any more, as ours are terrific. (I had more than was good for me, of course.)

Quite a number of viewing options tonight: a few of us watched the Colour being Trooped in our 'snug' (i you get my drift); others opted to watch 'Mr Gadget' in the clubhouse, while a few die-hards chose to follow you-know-what in Curlew. And those who didn't want to get square eyes (as we children of the 60s were for ever being told) enjoyed playing ping-pong outside - until the ball went sailing through Miss Chloe's window. (She was on the train back from Bath, so her absence rendered any further pings or pongs null and void.)

Sunday tomorrow - and gusess what? I'm the morning duty master until 1.15.

Yippee.

Further apologies, Followers, for there was no entry last night. At least, not on the Newton blog. And that's because Mr Porter was on the bridge last night, allowing my son and heir and me ( ...) to go ashore and stroll down to the point of entry at X'ian for un verre de vin ou deux. (Well, trois, actually.) So there we were, putting the world to rights with Gary, the proprietor of that particular staff room annexe, when we were joined by two colleagues who looked in severe need of watering. Tom was on cracking form, and couldn't resist the opportunity to squeeze his father's plastic further by inviting his former boss to mix him some exotic cocktail that he'd come across in the Orient and preparing his favourite Chinese dish. (She's called ...... no, that's just prep school humour.) (Although I have to say ..... )

The residents, according to Mr Porter, were all on good form, too - although the blessed boiler broke down again, causing all to take cold showers. I enquired as to whether they had been asked to conjugate Latin verbs while under the freezing flow, but it seems that Mr Porter was particularly generous and excused such classical orations. (And in case you're wondering, yes, the private side is on the same system. And no, I didn't recite the periphrastic subjunctive of some deponent verb while I froze this morning - although if you'd heard my various utterances you might have imagined that I did.) Anyway, the local heating engineers have now rectified the problem, and normal service has been resumed.

A lovely evening tonight, as I gaze down Summerfield Road - from the bridge. I can see Mr Aldred wheeling a pedal tractor down the road, accompanied by Mr Corry. It's amazing what you see from here!

Sme us were fortunate enough to be given an impromptu piano recital tonight. What happened was, you see, that the background music that I was playing on my 'sound system' (old-fashioned hi-fi, in fact) was Debussy's 'Clair de lune', and from behind the door popped half a dozen enquiring heads. Looking disappointed that it was neither I nor Tom (with whom I was discussing car insurance) who was playing, I noticed that one of the heads was joined to the rest of a body that formed a particularly musical whole. I invited the owner of same to play, reminding him of the words of my first headmaster (yes, that's right, the one who told me the limerick about the Jill that I can't tell you for reasons of decency: suffice it to say that atomic pills come into it) who told me that it was always considered impolite to refuse an invitation to play the piano at a social function if one had been blessed with such a gift. I was delighted that my invitation was accepted and we were all treated to a fine performance of a lovely piece from the romantic period.

It's been a very pleasant, fruit-chomping, table-tennis playing, telly-watching, piano-enhancing evening in Newton tonight, and apart from one particular resident advising me that I needed to shed a few kilos, all has gone swimmingly. Particularly in the upstairs bathroom. As for my dietary advisor, he needed to be sat upon and squashed. (Metaphorically, of course.)

Gute nacht.

Tom C is back from Japan! An emotional and exceptionally happy reunion at Heathrow led to a wonderful family gathering in the Newton kitchen - but only in the Cheater household would you discover a scenario in which the prodigal is causing the assembled company to weep with laughter at his day's travel exploits, at the same time as a slightly distressed French ten-year-old has arrived for reassurance, causing the two daughters to go weak at the knees at the sight of such Gallic innocence, the dog is going crazy, Miss Chloe is whipping up the cream for the pudding, and Mr Randolph has appeared to see his former pupil and fellow drummer!

It's been a hilarious evening - and it's good to have him back. Male company around the dining table - not to mention our living quarters - has been at a premium for six months. Even the dog and the cat are female. As Alice said to her sister, 'Imagine living with just Tom and Daddy for six months!'

Indeed. Until tomorrow, then,

Forgive me, dear readers, but a combination of Common Entrance, Tom C returning from Japan after seven months and, as the hymn says, 'the daily round, the trivial task' are all conspiring to prevent me from writing very much in the way of nightly reports on this section of the blogosphere. However, all went well tonight, courtesy of Mr Bryan, and I'm sure all is well.

I will be back properly very soon, when normal service will be resumed. Bear with me. (No, not really: that would be dangerous.) Incidentally, the CE English paper required the candidates to answer questions about a poem about a forest: some of the boys thought it was a very odd poetic work. I told them that I thought it was just the Independent Schools Examination Board branching out into new areas. (And then kept the puns going for about five minutes. They twigged what I was doing in the end.)

What do you mean, you can't stick this any more?

Bonne nuit.

Spelbound: that was what they were called. And yes, they do spel it with one L. So if you should happen upon a troupe of greased up, semi-clad, fake-tanned acrobats, at least you'll know how to spel their name. Ok, yes, they are very good. (If you like that sort of thing.)

It's been a good day today, with Fifth Years preparing for the challenges of the coming week. Staff versus Fathers cricket proved a pleasant enough distraction for those of us who didn't wish to show off too much, and I was able to stride imperiously and managerially around the place in my exalted, executive position. (Senior Master, for those of you who didn't know. And no, I do not hold that position simply because, as my mother kindly suggested, I happen to be the oldest member of staff. Actually, on that theme, I heard it said by someone the other day that the Stannah stairlift company were developing a high-speed stair chair - so that people who used it were able to remember what they went up the stairs for in the first place.) (No, not original. I probably heard it on 'Britain's Got Max Factor', or something similar.) (There do seem to be rather a lot of parentheses tonight.) (In my opinion.)

Tonight's viewing options, for those who did not wish to avail themselves of ping-pong (and I see from the DT that the game is making a come-back, which is nice),were 'Soccer Aid', which was moderately enticing if you happen to have a penchant for watching celebrities strutting their stuff - or in Gordon Ramsay's case ..... - no, better not go there -, or watching James May, Ruchard Hammond and J. Clarkson travelling around Vietnam on diminutive motorbikes. Club biscuits and a load of fruit helped to take the pain away. (No names.) (Ho ho.)

Here;s hoping for a successful week.

Yes, yes, I know it's Cerberus. I was thinking cyber-ly.

People, I must tell you about tonight. The film was 'The Italian Job', which had to do battle with 'Britain's Got Talent'. The latter, for reasons that are largely beyond me, proved the more popular. Anyway, as I'm sure at least some of you will know, or at least, those of you who weren't living the high life in the name of camping with Bradders down in the far fields, a spectacularly capable and semi-clad group of people who threw one another around in the air, were the winners. That, in itself, you might think, is the end of the saga. Not in Newton.

When the residents went upstairs, they all dutifully cleaned their teeth, and for some reason someone decided to throw what I am relaibly informed is called, simply, 'a pig' onto the bathroom ceiling. I discovered a group of boys, awaiting its fall from grace. Remembering the act, I quickly lifted one of the smaller members of the throng to ceiling height and 'the pig', to rapturous applause, was collected. Result.

It all happens here, you know. And no, I won't tell you which Newtonian enquired of me whether I, too, liked the 'fake sun-tan' of those in the act.

Abject apologies, once again, to the hundreds of you (in my dreams), scattered around the globe as you are, who logged on to this domain last night or this morning to find that the cyberspatial cupboard, if you will, was bare. I could claim that I took a night off to celebrate getting to 170 posts, but the truth is that Mrs C and I were dining chez sa soeur, and by the time we returned, I was in no fit state - sorry, I mean it was far too late - to start composing witty banter. (If such it be.) (I always think that using the subjunctive makes me sound like a Dorset native, and indeed, I hear it around me all the time in Bridport. I've never had the nerve to pass comment on any of the natives' use of same, as I suspect that something very similar to Cyberus (the dog, I mean, not one of the natives ...) might be instructed to practise using its canine molars on me.)

I nearly had a mutiny tonight. All the residents were outside playing ping-pong when Mrs C decided that it was time to come in and eat biscuits. The Cookie fairy has arrived once again, however, and so I decided to let the residents go from the garden by dorms. I was told, firmly, by the residents of Osprey, that they should have been allowed in first, as such were the indirect provenance of the said delights. You have to be very careful here, you know. Anyway, once all were in and chomping in the common room, I enquired where mine was. It was duly delivered. My younger daughter then appeared, informing me that my dear wife had instructed her to bring one to me. Another victory. So thank you, Granny, and please accept another chorus of WLYG. They were delicious.

So there we be. Another evening gone - and the final chunk of the year now in full swing.

Oh arrr.

I don't know about you, but I thought that break was just a tad short. Still, it was pleasant enough and I was delighted to learn that everyone seems to have had an enjoyable time and that batteries have been re-charged. West Dorset provided much solace, as it always does, complete with the village fate. Sorry, fete. (Yes, I know it should have a circumflex.) Mrs C always gets slightly irritated by my cynical references to the 'fete worse than death', but I've never been a great fete enthusiast - although to be fair, this year my tickets for the bottle stall did actually come up trumps. I was supposed to do a stint on the gate this year, but, for the second year running, I was informed that there was sufficient manpower already and that my services were surplus to requirements. I think it's all a ploy, you know, but perhaps I should keep quiet. After all, I'd hate there to be any suggestion of 'Fete-gate-gate'.

It's good to have all the residents back once again. For one, whose roots lie across La Manche, it was his anniversaire yesterday, which caused all of his dorm-mates to burst into song on his return. I would love to report that this event was a tuneful affair, but it wasn't, and the pronunciation was a little suspect, too. Still, if you'd heard the Curlewites 'singing' 'Bonny Annivursur', you'd have realised that their hearts were in the right place. I suppose the rendition must have had a Scottish influence.

So, here we go again then. Let's hope the summer weather continues. Oh goodness, I've started writing about the weather now. Time to sign off, I think.

Jusqu'a demain.