OK, I confess. I actually write these nightly epistles from a beach in the Sunshine State, sipping cocktails and surrounded by girls from Baywatch. The Cadillac is in the parking lot, and the waves are lapping onto the sand as those guys with the red things charge into the ocean to rescue anyone who looks as if they need impressing. So now you know why there's a time difference shown on the blog. As for my daily teaching, well, that's easy: I use Skype.

Nah, not really. it's just that, while I've 'figured out' how most of this blog operates, I haven't actually worked out how to set the time. Nice thought, though - and not entirely beyond the realms of possibility, either! I do, as it happens, love California, and not just because I really, honestly, truly have slept in Pam Ewing's bed. (See somewhere among last year's posts for full story.) Ask Mrs C: she was there at the time! She was quite happy about the triumvirate, I might add. I was really lent a Cadillac Seville, too, which, although great to drive in a straight line, as Mr Clarkson will tell you, the steering has 'absolutely no relation to the direction of travel erwhatsoever.' The air conditioning, though, was terrific. I nearly got frostbite in the mountains.

I thought the Vatican was having a laugh this morning, and that one or two of the Cardinals (though probably not the Holy Father himself) had had a good butcher's at my ramblings last night, as what should drop onto the doormat, but a catalogue from a company called 'Peter Christian'. I looked for the loafers among the pages of footwear, but to no avail. Thank you, though, dear Follower, for looking on Ebay to see whether there were any up for grabs.

Back here on the ranch (no, Newton, I mean, I'm not in Argentina now), we have a Digestive mnountain. No doubt many apocryphal stories about the dispensing of such items will abound when you next see your offspring, but the truth of the matter is that my own son and heir took it upon himself to do the doling, and suffice it to say that things were not as organised as they are when, say, Mrs C does it. Still, the residents seemed happy enough with such a plenitudinous (w.o.t.n.) delivery, and Tom got a right royal b******ing from his mum.

So that's it for tonight - other than to tell you that the base of Connect 4 has gone missing, and I had to develop a somewhat Heath Robinson alternative, involving a large tome and a shoebox, and that someone decided to leave our gate open, which meant that Isla went walkabout. She returned about an hour later, looking rather smug as she was directed towards her bed.

Goodnight.