When I was at my prep school (stop yawning), I had a wonderful French master called Mr Selwood. He's probably long gone by now, but, sir, just in case you should have stumbled across this tiny corner of cyberspace, either from this world or from the next (Professor Hawking notwithstanding), first of all a belated thank you for your excellent teaching and foundation-laying, and secondly, I wonder whether you recall your thoughts, which you expressed so lucidly about cheese squelch.

Cheese squelch, my dear Bloggites, was Mr Selwood's name for macaroni cheese, and already you may be wondering where on earth I'm going with this one. I am traversing this particular path, my friends, only because that is what my daughter had prepared for herself and my son and heir, Tom, tonight. As I prepared to settle down our Newtonians for silent reading, one of them enquired of me "Sir, what's that smell?"

I put my young charge in the picture, and asked him whether, perhaps, unlike dear old Sammy (oops, that'll get me 100 celestial lines), he might care to descend to our kitchen and, Oliver-like, ask Hannah whether she might be able to spare a morcel of same. She was delighted to welcome him to the table, and the next thing I knew there was a dinner-party atmosphere below, young guest holding court about his day, as he polished off a plateful of cheese squelch. (I managed to avoid being caught, too, and was able to enjoy my daughter's culinary delights (oh what a ghastly cliche, but it's getting late) on the hoof.

Wednesday nights are TV nights, and the Newtonian world was divided into those who favoured football, and those whose taste caused them to opt for that which is prepared not by my daughter, but by two gentlemen who go by the name of 'Hairy Bikers'. Gosh, those fish and chips looked good, did they not? I must remember to print off the recipe, as requested by two of the viewers!

As for today's football, well, if you've had a squint at the website, you'll see that it's been a very good day. 'Football drinks' - an opportunity for all of to congregate in a colleague's house and, erm, 'discuss the matches in detail' - were very agreeable tonight, by kind courtesy of the Director of Sport. I won't make you groan by repeating last year's anecdote of my liaison (that really is a most irritating word to type, what with its extra 'i' 'n stuff) with an optician's daughter - but of course, if you insist ......

I heard from two of last year's Leavers today, now at Eton and Harrow respectively: both have settled very well, and both seem very happy. It's nice when that happens.

Bonne nuit, mes amis, from a very contented Newton.