Shalom, bon soir, guten abend, good evening, skol (probably), salvete and dobry wotsit to one and all around the globe, whether you're in Romania, Richmond or Rajistan.

It'e been a fun evening here tonight, with shoe-cleaning and the ensuing competition for the shiniest of them all and three runners-up; fruit a-plenty; Digestives and jammy dodgers for the taking (which I did, and, by negotiating with Miss Chloe that she wouldn't sneak on me to You-Know-Who, got away with); helicopter-flying - yes, you did read that aright; and then, for the last ten minutes of downstairs time before silent reading, bopping in the clubhouse. And yes, you read that aright, too. Someone, you see, turned on the state-of-the-ark hi-fi centre, and the handful of rezzies that were there at the time (with your correspondent being one of them), decided that the volume was a tad minimal, so 'someone' (OK, me) pumped it up a bit (lot) and we enjoyed letting our hair down. As you can imagine, such enthusiasm was short-lived, and a diplomatic fade-out was necessary as we saw the Newton matriarch striding purposefully towards our place of reckless living. As those who had been party to the party, as it were, made for their dorms, following my gentle call to silent reading, a request was made to me that such anarchic enjoyment should become a nightly feature of Newtonian life for the last ten minutes of 'down' time, prior to 'up' time. I think not. One - that is I - can only get away with that sort of thing once - or possibly twice.

Did you not think Downton Abbey was good last night? Although there was one expression that Her Ladyship uttered that I thought was a bit anachronistic, and a trifle trendy, although now I try to remember it, I can't. And apparently, in one scene, although I didn't see it, double yellow lines on the road made a fleeting appearance. Still, such errata are but mere nothings in an otherwise exceptional drama.

That's it, then, for another night. Goodnight, one and all.