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.