Good evening from the happy house. If you see what I mean. Tonight I have the luxury of an assistant in the form of Mr Porter, who's sharing the load, so I've been able to get to the keyboard a tad earlier once again.

Were you here, you'd walk into the downstairs common room, which last year I christened The Clubhouse, and see a gaggle of LMs (little men) engaged in a number of board games, you'd then go past Curlew dorm, from which I have just emerged, after enquiring after one of its occupants as to why the television should have 'accidentally' found itself in 'on' mode ("I don't know, sir," which is the best springboard I know for a volley of deep irony, as in 'So have you developed a nervous twitch that occurs every time you go anywhere near a television, then?" This being the school it is, of course, where we tend to encourage repartee rather than sit on it (how surreal that sounds), the reponse, which I received, of 'Yes, there's a magnet in my arm', is inevitable. I have now completely lost the thread of that which is contained within these parentheses, so I shall abandon it.) Up the stairs, and into the originally-named 'upstairs common room', which is right next door to my 'study' and the green baize door is wide open. I can hear - and indeed see, if I crane my neck in an ostrich-like manner - an enthusiastic game of space invaders going on, or whatever is to be found on our basic bank of computer games. In the corridor two Newtonians are happily playing 'Guess who' on the chest of drawers. Tom C is explaining how his newly refurbished Apple Macbook works to one of our newcomers, in our kitchen and over a studentian (word of the night) bowl of self-prepared filled pasta, and yet another is on the 'phone.

One of our residents requested of me that I should not, please, play the piano after lights out. Naturally, with my policy of promoting total happiness (i.e. being an acquiescent soft-touch) I said that I would endeavour to keep my Scarlatti sonatas to myself, but couldn't help but wonder why he should not wish to be treated to joyous nocturnal melodies. He reminded me, of course, that it was he who, when in the junior choir, had listened to the piece that I had composed for the carol service that year, before learning to sing it, and had caused me to cease playing after four bars, as he had, erm, 're-visited his lunch', to put it eupehemistically.

Splendid. Mr Porter has now called for silent reading, and all is calm.

Thanks for reading, and until tomorrow, I bid you a fond goodnight.
PS: Having inherited his father's pedantic qualities, and having just read tonight's entry over my shoulder, my dear son and heir enquired as to why I might have observed a bowl of pasta enjoying a telephone conversation. Perhaps it was kan o' loneli.