This isn't really the time to be having heating and plumbing problems, and I'm glad to say that any difficulties are restricted to the private side. Our maintenance department are nursing our ageing boiler through this cold snap, and, so far, so good. Most of the time.
Isn't Holby getting complex? All those relationships: all very tricky. And who would have imagined that the spark that was once there between Chrissie and Sasha might be re-ignited? I think she was quite right not to get too mixed up with the young Irishman. Dear me, I'm sounding like a page from a woman's magazine ..... !
It's our half day on Tuesdays, as I think most of you know, but other than a good walk through the snow, down by the Trout Inn, the day's consisted of report-writing and little else. Oh, apart from Holby, of course. And, more importantly, Mr Bailey's excellent play. It's a first for him, and it was a fine production.
It's getting very end-of-termish here, and by that I mean that it's oxymoronically festive and frightening. Festive because of the end of term celebrations, which are drawing ever closer, and frightening because of all those deadlines, which are doing exactly the same. Oh well, we've all been through it before, so I'm sure we'll survive.
Until tomorrow, then,
Goodnight.
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Monday, 29 November 2010
I suppose you just had to be there. Picture the scene, as every second-rate journalist starts a story (either that, or 'They came in their thousands'): your correspondent has just gobbled a very quick supper in the dining room, after a lengthy management meeting and before the next duty. He strides purposefully, with full tray in hand, in order to dispose of plates and cutlery - and, just as he does so, slips on a slippery part of the floor, with tray disappearing into the heavens and himself disappearing down towards the fiery furnaces. You can imagine the ensuing scene, no doubt - although I have to say that the spectators, of whom there were many, including a goodly number of giggle-stifling colleagues, were much more respectful than I deserved, with more than one enquiring after my state of health. Anyway, I'm fine, and no damage was done, not even a broken plate.
Thus it was that the first salutation I received from a Newtonian tonight was,
"Sir, are you all right? Can you try on my hat?"
I was minded of the lion-tamer sketch in Monty Python, in which the ambitious accountant and wannabe lion-tamer says that in order to become one such, he has already equipped himself with 'a hat'. If you haven't seen it, simply put 'Monty Python lion tamer sketch' in the Youtube search engine, and enjoy.
My grand piano was the centre of some expert playing tonight, with all the various music exam candidates - and a few others who were just there for the ride - playing their pieces. I was then asked to play 'a really nerdy piece', and proceeded to show off to an adoring audience. It would have served me right if I had sustained further injury (actually, it couldn't be 'further', as there was none in the first place) if the piano lid had fallen on my ostentatious and flamboyant fingers.
Goodnight, all - especially those reading in Georgia and Malaysia.
Thus it was that the first salutation I received from a Newtonian tonight was,
"Sir, are you all right? Can you try on my hat?"
I was minded of the lion-tamer sketch in Monty Python, in which the ambitious accountant and wannabe lion-tamer says that in order to become one such, he has already equipped himself with 'a hat'. If you haven't seen it, simply put 'Monty Python lion tamer sketch' in the Youtube search engine, and enjoy.
My grand piano was the centre of some expert playing tonight, with all the various music exam candidates - and a few others who were just there for the ride - playing their pieces. I was then asked to play 'a really nerdy piece', and proceeded to show off to an adoring audience. It would have served me right if I had sustained further injury (actually, it couldn't be 'further', as there was none in the first place) if the piano lid had fallen on my ostentatious and flamboyant fingers.
Goodnight, all - especially those reading in Georgia and Malaysia.
Sunday, 28 November 2010
My friends, I am so sorry to have let you down last night, but as I mentioned, Mrs C and I were dining elsewhere until quite late.
Well thank you, Chaplain, for initiating theological discussion and debate in Newton! Having heard about teddies being blessed, etc, I, as 'Chaplain's assistant' or whatever I am, was asked by a Newtonian whether I, too, would be so good as to bless a few teddies. Er, no. The reasons being that (a) only an ordained cleric can bless, and (b) I'm not in the habit of blessing or praying for inanimate objects. As I sad to my enquirer, I might as well bless a light bulb or a bed. Anyway, that, as you can imagine, was a long way from being an adequate response in the minds of my charges, so we then involved ourselves in a lengthy and involved theological discourse about the differences in belief shared by the two main parts (I don't mean denomination, that's something else) of Christianity: Calvinism and Arminianism. I'm sure you don't need me to explain the differences, but at the risk of teaching grandmothers the skill of sucking eggs (not that I'm implying .... ), basically the former believe that everything's pre-planned by the Almighty and the latter taking a more moderate standpoint, that we've been given the gift of life andf it's up to us to determine how it goes. I'm of the latter view, but I didn't confess that to my conversational partners. The discussion was, I must say, quite remarkable - and great fun. As with any theological exchanges, no conclusions were reached!
Down in the Clubhouse, of course, X-Factor was proving to be an alternative to hermeneutical exegeses, with Miss Chloe going into complete rapture about someone called Justin Beaver, or some such. She could hardly contain herself!
It's the report-writing season, of course, at the moment, and every time I go into the staff room I scare myself witless by seeing how advanced so many of my colleagues are with their deliberations: I really must knuckle down tomorrow, and Tuesday, and get back up to date. I will try not to write things akin to what one of my esrtwhile colleagues wrote once, namely
'This boy has all the characteristics of a tree stump, but he lacks the personality.'
How could he?
Oh don't worry, it never reached the parents .... !
Goodnight all.
Well thank you, Chaplain, for initiating theological discussion and debate in Newton! Having heard about teddies being blessed, etc, I, as 'Chaplain's assistant' or whatever I am, was asked by a Newtonian whether I, too, would be so good as to bless a few teddies. Er, no. The reasons being that (a) only an ordained cleric can bless, and (b) I'm not in the habit of blessing or praying for inanimate objects. As I sad to my enquirer, I might as well bless a light bulb or a bed. Anyway, that, as you can imagine, was a long way from being an adequate response in the minds of my charges, so we then involved ourselves in a lengthy and involved theological discourse about the differences in belief shared by the two main parts (I don't mean denomination, that's something else) of Christianity: Calvinism and Arminianism. I'm sure you don't need me to explain the differences, but at the risk of teaching grandmothers the skill of sucking eggs (not that I'm implying .... ), basically the former believe that everything's pre-planned by the Almighty and the latter taking a more moderate standpoint, that we've been given the gift of life andf it's up to us to determine how it goes. I'm of the latter view, but I didn't confess that to my conversational partners. The discussion was, I must say, quite remarkable - and great fun. As with any theological exchanges, no conclusions were reached!
Down in the Clubhouse, of course, X-Factor was proving to be an alternative to hermeneutical exegeses, with Miss Chloe going into complete rapture about someone called Justin Beaver, or some such. She could hardly contain herself!
It's the report-writing season, of course, at the moment, and every time I go into the staff room I scare myself witless by seeing how advanced so many of my colleagues are with their deliberations: I really must knuckle down tomorrow, and Tuesday, and get back up to date. I will try not to write things akin to what one of my esrtwhile colleagues wrote once, namely
'This boy has all the characteristics of a tree stump, but he lacks the personality.'
How could he?
Oh don't worry, it never reached the parents .... !
Goodnight all.
Saturday, 27 November 2010
Useless. I know, I know. We've been dining chez le Tete-Maitre et sa femme - and a great time we had, too. But it's late now, and I doubt whether anyone reads this blog at the weekends anyway, so I'm simply going to wish those of you who do have a squint at it as you clamber into bed a very fond goodnight. And yes, we did record Csuilaty )oh goodness, it must have been a good evening) I mean Causlaty - so I'll be able to give you all the details tomorrow night.
We are very fortunate indeed. Again, just trust me.
Goodnight.
We are very fortunate indeed. Again, just trust me.
Goodnight.
Friday, 26 November 2010
An interesting day today, culminating in a choir trip to the Ashmolean, where we had been invited to sing for the museum's first anniversary of its refurbishment. There were, we were told, about 3000 people there, and all went very well. The birthday cake was, apparently, delicious: I say apparently, as your correspondent decided that discretion was the better part of valour and made his way back to lodge, thus missing out on the hand-out. Oh well, lodge was just as enjoyable, even if you can't eat it. (A surreal moment there.)
During my journey home I noticed, not for the first time, the name 'The Eagle and Child' atop the front of a public house. (Mrs C and I have actually eaten and imbibed therein, and it's not at all bad.) The ostensible randomness of the two juxtaposed beings reminded me of those wretched English exercises, so beloved of Ronald Ridout, in which one had to put things in their pairs. You know the sort of thing: knife is to fork as cup is to ......... (options: plate, mug, saucer.) The last ones in those exercises were often, to my mind, beyond the wit of man, let alone the schoolboy - unless you were into surrealism or the plain weird. It would say something like 'Lion is to pencil as desk is to (options: birthday, curtain, jelly.) And before you all start writing in, yes, I know.
I sometimes think that our charges must wonder about the mental health of their preceptors. We have a strange habit of employing the pronoun 'we' rather than 'I', and say idiotic and pompous things like 'And what do we think we are doing?' or, as I really did say once, 'I don't think we speak to me like that'. When begowned, we seem to be overtaken by pomposity as we place our thumbs behind the pleats at the front and intone stuff like 'I am somewhat mystified by the behaviour of this form', or, as I have been known to start a lesson by becalming an unruly Fifthy Year form, 'I am deeply disturbed ..... '
Still, not as bad as my maths master, who once enquired why it was that every time he opened his mouth, some idiot spoke. We said nothing. (For once.)
There was some mileage in asking some of the choristers, as they returned (post-cake-guzzling) how the event had gone. I had a most engaging conversation with one such, who narrated chapter and verse for about ten minutes, before stopping in mid-sentence and asking, 'Sir, you were there, weren't you?!'
That'll do for tonight. One of the governors is spending the night here, in readiness for the govs' meeting tomorrow morning, so I'll wish you a fond goodnight.
During my journey home I noticed, not for the first time, the name 'The Eagle and Child' atop the front of a public house. (Mrs C and I have actually eaten and imbibed therein, and it's not at all bad.) The ostensible randomness of the two juxtaposed beings reminded me of those wretched English exercises, so beloved of Ronald Ridout, in which one had to put things in their pairs. You know the sort of thing: knife is to fork as cup is to ......... (options: plate, mug, saucer.) The last ones in those exercises were often, to my mind, beyond the wit of man, let alone the schoolboy - unless you were into surrealism or the plain weird. It would say something like 'Lion is to pencil as desk is to (options: birthday, curtain, jelly.) And before you all start writing in, yes, I know.
I sometimes think that our charges must wonder about the mental health of their preceptors. We have a strange habit of employing the pronoun 'we' rather than 'I', and say idiotic and pompous things like 'And what do we think we are doing?' or, as I really did say once, 'I don't think we speak to me like that'. When begowned, we seem to be overtaken by pomposity as we place our thumbs behind the pleats at the front and intone stuff like 'I am somewhat mystified by the behaviour of this form', or, as I have been known to start a lesson by becalming an unruly Fifthy Year form, 'I am deeply disturbed ..... '
Still, not as bad as my maths master, who once enquired why it was that every time he opened his mouth, some idiot spoke. We said nothing. (For once.)
There was some mileage in asking some of the choristers, as they returned (post-cake-guzzling) how the event had gone. I had a most engaging conversation with one such, who narrated chapter and verse for about ten minutes, before stopping in mid-sentence and asking, 'Sir, you were there, weren't you?!'
That'll do for tonight. One of the governors is spending the night here, in readiness for the govs' meeting tomorrow morning, so I'll wish you a fond goodnight.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
My apologies. This post is a little on the late side, I'm afraid, but only because I've been down at the Oxford University Club, fraternising with one of our OSs. Great fun, and all very nostalgic, and a great way to celebrate the departure of our Ofsted friends. I love it down there: there's something very entertaining about the ways of the academic elite that makes me smile inwardly, andf I love seeing the profs and all the rest trying to make sense of the bar menu, etc. I became a member as a result of my 1970s student days, and in addition they seemed to approve of my research fellowship, so I feel rather privileged to be there, really. (It's taken long enough.)
Mr Porter was at the helm tonight, lest any of you should be concerned that I had abnegated my responsibilities and had disappeared among the dreaming spires, leaving your young to look after themselves. Mrs C gave me a cordial greeting upon my return, telling me that all was well.
So not much to tell, really. The Ofsted result was excellent, you'll be pleased to learn, and you may rest assured that your LMs are considered to be in good hands. (To be fair, though, you are the best judges of that.)
Exams are over, and there has been another collective sigh of relief today. Most things seem to have gone well, with just the occasional blip, but don't worry: all will be well. As those of you with younger children will discover, the prep school anxieties (and there are always many) will seem very trivial in a few years' time. You just have to trust me on that one.
Until tomorrow, then,
Goodnight.
Mr Porter was at the helm tonight, lest any of you should be concerned that I had abnegated my responsibilities and had disappeared among the dreaming spires, leaving your young to look after themselves. Mrs C gave me a cordial greeting upon my return, telling me that all was well.
So not much to tell, really. The Ofsted result was excellent, you'll be pleased to learn, and you may rest assured that your LMs are considered to be in good hands. (To be fair, though, you are the best judges of that.)
Exams are over, and there has been another collective sigh of relief today. Most things seem to have gone well, with just the occasional blip, but don't worry: all will be well. As those of you with younger children will discover, the prep school anxieties (and there are always many) will seem very trivial in a few years' time. You just have to trust me on that one.
Until tomorrow, then,
Goodnight.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Oh the blessed relief. Delightful as they were - and ours actually was, double ear-rings notwithstanding - we all breathed a sigh when the final inspectoral vehicle disappeared into the distance late this afternoon. From all accounts we seem to have come out of the experience very well, so a bucket-load of thanks are due to Mr Sparrow, our very own director of boarding (I bet you didn't know that!), for guiding us through the political maze! If I hear any more, I'll let you know. Well, the good bits, anyway.
It was hot choc night tonight, as it's Wednesday, and our hot chocolate policy was operational. Ho ho. No, we don't really have one, although I bet it's only a matter of time before we're required to do so .... !
There was a bit of an issue about whether the majority wanted to watch 'Jimmy's Food Factory' or The Match, so in the end the football fanatics found themselves sitting in our private sitting room (just off the big room that you pass when you return your offspring), watching Rangers do very little and Manchester United do little more. They were very appreciative.
I told them the (true) story of my having applied for the post of manager of Southampton some years ago. Despite the fact that I know as much about football as Elton John, I really have always thought that managing a football club must be rather fun. I received a very pleasant reply, in which the Chairman (Chair?) opined that a rookie manager was perhaps not what the club was looking for at that time. Oh well, at least I tried.
No matter, all of that went out of the window tonight when one of your lovely sons, on hearing that little anecdote, got out of his comfy chair, walked over to me and said,
'Sir, you should be the England manager: you couldn't be worse than ............ ............... ."
All these retirement possibilties ... !
Goodnight, all - and especially to our Follower in Georgia.
It was hot choc night tonight, as it's Wednesday, and our hot chocolate policy was operational. Ho ho. No, we don't really have one, although I bet it's only a matter of time before we're required to do so .... !
There was a bit of an issue about whether the majority wanted to watch 'Jimmy's Food Factory' or The Match, so in the end the football fanatics found themselves sitting in our private sitting room (just off the big room that you pass when you return your offspring), watching Rangers do very little and Manchester United do little more. They were very appreciative.
I told them the (true) story of my having applied for the post of manager of Southampton some years ago. Despite the fact that I know as much about football as Elton John, I really have always thought that managing a football club must be rather fun. I received a very pleasant reply, in which the Chairman (Chair?) opined that a rookie manager was perhaps not what the club was looking for at that time. Oh well, at least I tried.
No matter, all of that went out of the window tonight when one of your lovely sons, on hearing that little anecdote, got out of his comfy chair, walked over to me and said,
'Sir, you should be the England manager: you couldn't be worse than ............ ............... ."
All these retirement possibilties ... !
Goodnight, all - and especially to our Follower in Georgia.
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
As I write tonight, the police helicopter is doing one of its nocturnal hovers, endeavouring to swamp a criminal or two in glorious and brilliant light. Oh yes, very festive. Except that it keeps the boys awake and annoys the rest of us with its persistent whirring. Oh well, c'est la vie.
The inspectors are still here, and there have been more meetings of all kinds, with all and sundry. And indeed with us. We attended a lodgeparents' interrogation - sorry, I mean, meeting - and I hope that by employing a mixture of suitable soundbites, buzz words and contemporary terminology, Mrs C and I might remain in employment for a little while longer. I was quite proud of 'Of course, the HCF of lodgeparenting has to be communication', which caused pen to meet with paper, and also 'the six pillars of lodgeparenting have to be safety, structure, routine, happiness, health and achievement'. It is, of course, a good job he didn't ask me to explain HCF, in view of my self-confessed mathematical ineptitude.
Tonight, Mrs C and I have been off duty, with Mr Bryan on the bridge, but we've been in close contact, with both of our mobiles about our person at all times as we chomped away at our Chinese take-away, lest the Chief Inspector should decide to do his own follow-up to his colleague's visit last night. Mrs C forbade me from partaking of any alcoholic liquor - at least, until 9.00pm, after which, and I quote, 'You can consume six bottles of wine one after the other'. I did not exactly endear myself as I went through the list of my selection for such a terrific opportunity. I do want to assure you, dear readers, that I am not that irresponsible, and that not a drop has passed my lips all night.
So that's the state of play. I think all has gone well, and the inspection concludes tomorrow afternoon. Normal service will be resumed very soon - and I think the exams have all gone satisfactorily.
The helicopter is still buzzing, and I can't see any masked persons with striped shirts and a stick with a bag marked 'swag' anywhere nearby. I think it's going to be a noisy night.
Goodnight, all.
The inspectors are still here, and there have been more meetings of all kinds, with all and sundry. And indeed with us. We attended a lodgeparents' interrogation - sorry, I mean, meeting - and I hope that by employing a mixture of suitable soundbites, buzz words and contemporary terminology, Mrs C and I might remain in employment for a little while longer. I was quite proud of 'Of course, the HCF of lodgeparenting has to be communication', which caused pen to meet with paper, and also 'the six pillars of lodgeparenting have to be safety, structure, routine, happiness, health and achievement'. It is, of course, a good job he didn't ask me to explain HCF, in view of my self-confessed mathematical ineptitude.
Tonight, Mrs C and I have been off duty, with Mr Bryan on the bridge, but we've been in close contact, with both of our mobiles about our person at all times as we chomped away at our Chinese take-away, lest the Chief Inspector should decide to do his own follow-up to his colleague's visit last night. Mrs C forbade me from partaking of any alcoholic liquor - at least, until 9.00pm, after which, and I quote, 'You can consume six bottles of wine one after the other'. I did not exactly endear myself as I went through the list of my selection for such a terrific opportunity. I do want to assure you, dear readers, that I am not that irresponsible, and that not a drop has passed my lips all night.
So that's the state of play. I think all has gone well, and the inspection concludes tomorrow afternoon. Normal service will be resumed very soon - and I think the exams have all gone satisfactorily.
The helicopter is still buzzing, and I can't see any masked persons with striped shirts and a stick with a bag marked 'swag' anywhere nearby. I think it's going to be a noisy night.
Goodnight, all.
Monday, 22 November 2010
Yes, yes, I know, I know. Maths as well as geography. Of course the answer should have been one in the front and one in the back - as Hannah's text to me this morning pointed out .....
Well, day one of the inspection seems to have come and gone without incident. The interestingly-named Mr Kevin Whatley came to have a look at Newton tonight (I forbore from enquiring whether he found it easy to combine his acting life with his inspectoral duties) and seemed to give us the thumbs up. He liked the 'relaxed atmosphere', he told us, and he seemed happy with the structure of the nightly programme. We were able to incorporate shoe-cleaning night, of course, it being a Monday night, and clever Mrs C had a brainwave. So she sacked her husband from his role as shoe-cleaning judge and invited Mr Whatley to, er, 'inspect' the row of shoes and to select four worthy winners.
There was much light-hearted banter between him and me (yes, those are the correct pronouns, in case anyone's wondering) about the training that he and I (!) had gone through to achieve such distinction. He played along tremendously, and managed, I thought, to combine gravitas with levity to just the right extent.
It's really been a day of meetings with the inspectorate, of which I've been required to attend three. I know many of you have many more than that each day, so I'm not going to complain - especially when my journey to work involves a walk of about two minutes, door to door!
All is well here tonight.
Until tomorrow, then,
Bonne nuit.
Well, day one of the inspection seems to have come and gone without incident. The interestingly-named Mr Kevin Whatley came to have a look at Newton tonight (I forbore from enquiring whether he found it easy to combine his acting life with his inspectoral duties) and seemed to give us the thumbs up. He liked the 'relaxed atmosphere', he told us, and he seemed happy with the structure of the nightly programme. We were able to incorporate shoe-cleaning night, of course, it being a Monday night, and clever Mrs C had a brainwave. So she sacked her husband from his role as shoe-cleaning judge and invited Mr Whatley to, er, 'inspect' the row of shoes and to select four worthy winners.
There was much light-hearted banter between him and me (yes, those are the correct pronouns, in case anyone's wondering) about the training that he and I (!) had gone through to achieve such distinction. He played along tremendously, and managed, I thought, to combine gravitas with levity to just the right extent.
It's really been a day of meetings with the inspectorate, of which I've been required to attend three. I know many of you have many more than that each day, so I'm not going to complain - especially when my journey to work involves a walk of about two minutes, door to door!
All is well here tonight.
Until tomorrow, then,
Bonne nuit.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
And here we are again. The rezzies all seem to have had great weekends, with Harry Potter featuring fairly prominently in the entertainment programme, along with visits to places of interest and musea, as well as the joy of just 'being at home'.
We've had a fairly quiet leave out, with visits to Bath and thence to Bristol, where I enjoyed a lovely lunch with our daughter, Hannah, and then, at her suggestion, to go across Clifton Suspension Bridge. Despite the fact that I spent five years at school in Bath, I never went anywhere near the aformentioned bridge, which, along with the fact that geography was never one of my stronger subjects, may have been the rationale behind my expressing some enthusiasm to Hannah that I hadn't been to Wales for some time. She was at pains (literally) to explain that Wales was reached by crossing the Severn Bridge, Daddy. I knew that. Anyway, when we arrived at the checkpoint for crossing we realised that between us we had 50p to go one way, but not a spare 50p piece to return. Fortunately, Hannah found that she had a pounnd coin and so went to a charming gentleman who changed it for her, thus enabling us to go and come back. It was a most enjoyable four minutes. And if the other side was, in fact Wales, I thought it was pretty disappointing.
So, how do you get to Wales in a Mini, then? Yes, that's right: two in the front and two in the back. And how you get to Wales in a Mini? Cross the Severn Bridge. (Actually, I realised half way through typing that that didn't really work when it's written down. Better when you say it. The one about what comes out of the ground at 70mph is much better. Trouble is, of course, that all of you, dear Followers are far too young to remember the similarly-named sports car. The answer, by the way, is an Austin Healey Sprout.)
And before the jokes get any worse, I think I'll cease. Anyone would think we had an inspection tomorrow.
It's good to have them back.
Goodnight.
We've had a fairly quiet leave out, with visits to Bath and thence to Bristol, where I enjoyed a lovely lunch with our daughter, Hannah, and then, at her suggestion, to go across Clifton Suspension Bridge. Despite the fact that I spent five years at school in Bath, I never went anywhere near the aformentioned bridge, which, along with the fact that geography was never one of my stronger subjects, may have been the rationale behind my expressing some enthusiasm to Hannah that I hadn't been to Wales for some time. She was at pains (literally) to explain that Wales was reached by crossing the Severn Bridge, Daddy. I knew that. Anyway, when we arrived at the checkpoint for crossing we realised that between us we had 50p to go one way, but not a spare 50p piece to return. Fortunately, Hannah found that she had a pounnd coin and so went to a charming gentleman who changed it for her, thus enabling us to go and come back. It was a most enjoyable four minutes. And if the other side was, in fact Wales, I thought it was pretty disappointing.
So, how do you get to Wales in a Mini, then? Yes, that's right: two in the front and two in the back. And how you get to Wales in a Mini? Cross the Severn Bridge. (Actually, I realised half way through typing that that didn't really work when it's written down. Better when you say it. The one about what comes out of the ground at 70mph is much better. Trouble is, of course, that all of you, dear Followers are far too young to remember the similarly-named sports car. The answer, by the way, is an Austin Healey Sprout.)
And before the jokes get any worse, I think I'll cease. Anyone would think we had an inspection tomorrow.
It's good to have them back.
Goodnight.
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Good evening, for the final time before short leave. I really can't believe that it's come around so quickly, but there we are - and I'm certainly not complaining.
Now. Bearing in mind that you first heard that Mr Rooney was going to remain with Manchester United, following his decision to leave the club, on the Newton blog, I should tell you that one of our French residents decided to wager with me that his country would be victorious in the international contest of tonight! Once again, one sweet ration rests on the outcome - and I have assured my contestant that it will be he, not I, who will be handing over the Starburst tomorrow morning, or whenever. He thinks I'm talking tosh, and is, of course, utterly convinced that I am a poor misguided Brit who deserves every Gallically withering look that he can cast upon me. (To be fair, when it comes to le foot, he's probably right.) Anyway, we shall see.
You did realise, I hope, that the rambling paragraph about inspections that I wrote last week was about the one that Holby General had to endure, and not us! That said, as you probably know, our own boarding inspection will be taking place on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of next week. I think I've already told you that, come to think of it. Sorry. It's advancing years syndrome, you know. Oh don't worry, you'll be 59 one day in the far off future. Unless, of course, you've already reached that milestone ...... )
So, there we are, then. Or rather, there you are, because you're there and I'm here. (Victor Borge, 1970.) Have a lovely weekend, and I'll be back on air next week.
Thanks for reading - and goodnight.
Now. Bearing in mind that you first heard that Mr Rooney was going to remain with Manchester United, following his decision to leave the club, on the Newton blog, I should tell you that one of our French residents decided to wager with me that his country would be victorious in the international contest of tonight! Once again, one sweet ration rests on the outcome - and I have assured my contestant that it will be he, not I, who will be handing over the Starburst tomorrow morning, or whenever. He thinks I'm talking tosh, and is, of course, utterly convinced that I am a poor misguided Brit who deserves every Gallically withering look that he can cast upon me. (To be fair, when it comes to le foot, he's probably right.) Anyway, we shall see.
You did realise, I hope, that the rambling paragraph about inspections that I wrote last week was about the one that Holby General had to endure, and not us! That said, as you probably know, our own boarding inspection will be taking place on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of next week. I think I've already told you that, come to think of it. Sorry. It's advancing years syndrome, you know. Oh don't worry, you'll be 59 one day in the far off future. Unless, of course, you've already reached that milestone ...... )
So, there we are, then. Or rather, there you are, because you're there and I'm here. (Victor Borge, 1970.) Have a lovely weekend, and I'll be back on air next week.
Thanks for reading - and goodnight.
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Good evening, my friends, and welcome to the 260th bloglog! I can't believe I've churned so many words out (although I haven't actually counted them), but I don't intend to cease from doing so any time soon. (d.v.) I have, in fact, enquired of a trusted literary agent as to whether my jottings might appeal to a wider audience in hard copy, but as I received a (very nice) reply suggesting that if I was preparing to visit my bank manager and inform him that I was going to suggest to Sir Richard that I'd be happy to take the responsibility of owning Necker Island from his shoulders I might like to re-think my options, you'll just have to slum it on the 'net. Sorry.
Mr Bryan's been on duty tonight, and there seemed to be a disco going on, which I'm sure appealed to one and all, and I was delighted to know that whatever was, in fact, happening, was removed from Mrs C and me by a thick wall, and that we were on the Holby side of same.
Holby, of course, was tremendous once again. The razor-sharp hatchet man, Mr Hansen, continues with his incisive and calculating moves around the department, Mr Spence seems to have got his life back together again, the female Dr Valentine has just managed to obtain a first-class rotation report from Mr Spence himself, and the male Dr Valentine has now capped all of his previous misdemeanours by being extremely unwise in his judgement in respect of a ten-year-old boy with heart issues. The ending was very sad indeed. I know it's not real, but the actual series is amazingly executed, in my opinion.
It's been our half day today, but you wouldn't know it, as there seem to have been a myriad of things to do. Not that I'm complaining, of course. We 'do get the holidays', of course ...... !
Goodnight, everyone.
Mr Bryan's been on duty tonight, and there seemed to be a disco going on, which I'm sure appealed to one and all, and I was delighted to know that whatever was, in fact, happening, was removed from Mrs C and me by a thick wall, and that we were on the Holby side of same.
Holby, of course, was tremendous once again. The razor-sharp hatchet man, Mr Hansen, continues with his incisive and calculating moves around the department, Mr Spence seems to have got his life back together again, the female Dr Valentine has just managed to obtain a first-class rotation report from Mr Spence himself, and the male Dr Valentine has now capped all of his previous misdemeanours by being extremely unwise in his judgement in respect of a ten-year-old boy with heart issues. The ending was very sad indeed. I know it's not real, but the actual series is amazingly executed, in my opinion.
It's been our half day today, but you wouldn't know it, as there seem to have been a myriad of things to do. Not that I'm complaining, of course. We 'do get the holidays', of course ...... !
Goodnight, everyone.
Monday, 15 November 2010
My dear Followers, I'm pleased to say that I'm still here (atm) and have not been abducted by, well, whomsoever. Nor am I working for the other side now. Honest. I must confess that looking at the stats page of this blog has become something of an obsession now, as I can see instantly how many people have had a squint at my writings (!) and where in the world they come from. It's fascinating, and the realisation that one is broadcasting to a global audience is quite something! Incidentally, if you are the (which I just typed rather aptly as thj) followers in the Netherlands, I didn't mean it. It's just that I do find your country a little, erm, flat, and I've never been a huge fan of the holes in the cheese. I did love the herons on the banks of the waterways, though: that was very special. And it was your country, my dear friends, that facilitated the opportunity for me to play the organ for a concert in the cathedral with the longest nave in Europe: the Cathedral of St Jan, in Gouda. H'm. I think I might have been a little unjust with my remarks. My apologies.
Here in Newtonianland, all is well, and we've had another in our shoe-cleaning series. Six lucky winners tonight, but I fear that they didn't exactly feel euphoric at their achievement as the prizers were small packets of Haribo, which none of the victors (although none was named such tonight) particularly liked said confectionery! Not our greatest moment, sadly. Still, we did try to find appropriate substitutes.
We're all preparing for our Ofsted boarding inspection next week. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday might be a bit edgy for Mrs C and yours truly, so if you don't hear much, you'll know why. You can have very little idea of just how many policies have to written, implemented and submitted .... ! There has to be a policy for almost everything - and I do mean everything - which has meant copious (as in thesis copious) amounts of writing, updating, re-working, re-wording, re-this and re-that. Still, as long as the policies and procedures are all in order - and I think they are - we should be OK.
So, if after Wednesday you hear nothing more from me, you know that the policy on face flannels (FF58467/876DD/890/agsh/flan) wasn't up to the mark and either we'll have been guilty of a load of flannel ourselves, or I've been 'invited' to work elsewhere.
Bonne nuit.
Here in Newtonianland, all is well, and we've had another in our shoe-cleaning series. Six lucky winners tonight, but I fear that they didn't exactly feel euphoric at their achievement as the prizers were small packets of Haribo, which none of the victors (although none was named such tonight) particularly liked said confectionery! Not our greatest moment, sadly. Still, we did try to find appropriate substitutes.
We're all preparing for our Ofsted boarding inspection next week. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday might be a bit edgy for Mrs C and yours truly, so if you don't hear much, you'll know why. You can have very little idea of just how many policies have to written, implemented and submitted .... ! There has to be a policy for almost everything - and I do mean everything - which has meant copious (as in thesis copious) amounts of writing, updating, re-working, re-wording, re-this and re-that. Still, as long as the policies and procedures are all in order - and I think they are - we should be OK.
So, if after Wednesday you hear nothing more from me, you know that the policy on face flannels (FF58467/876DD/890/agsh/flan) wasn't up to the mark and either we'll have been guilty of a load of flannel ourselves, or I've been 'invited' to work elsewhere.
Bonne nuit.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Now that, my friends, was a good day. It started with a bit of a panioc on my part, though, as, having informed our Director of Music that I'd b playing Walford Davies's 'Solemn Melody' and Elgar's 'Nimrod' before the service today, I couldn't find the music anywhere. I walked, rather anxiously, over to the Chapel, wondering whether I could busk it, and there, sitting rather smugly, I felt, was the book containing the aforementioned pieces! Divine intervention - or simply irresponsibility on my part? The latter, I suspect.
Anyway, they seemed to satisfactorily, and I was not displeased to have timed 'Nimrod' exactly, so that when the choir and the Chaplain were installed, my final chord was completed. It's that sort of thing, you know, that can make or break an organist's day ...... !
Mr and Mrs Sparrow always host the most incredible gathering after the service, and this year was no exception. All of us were there, and everyone was able to lay aside whatever petty niggles might be festering within the staff room, and enjoy the company of colleagues at peace.
Tom C and I then went out for lunch, as Mrs C had drawn the shortest of duteous straws and found herself on afternoon patrol, which of course necessitated the two men in her life having to find alternative feasting. Cibo's seemed to do the trick, and I was able to employ that well known paternal ploy of giving with the one hand, and keeping one's offspring up to the mark with the other. (Although I do find myself experiencing a modicum of hypocrisy as I offer advice about getting one's essays handed in on time, etc ..!)
I was so pleased to be able to speak informally with some of you tonight: it was a great pleasure. I don't think we have enough time to do things like that, usually, so it was good to be able to listen and learn.
Time to sign off now, though, and thank you for reading all my nightly offerings once again this week. Did I mention that we've had a blog hit from China? I think my reference to 'Spooks' might have had something to do with that! Apparently that last episode rather upset the authorities in Beijing. (I told Mrs C it would. She replied that I'd told her that three times.)
Goodnight.
Anyway, they seemed to satisfactorily, and I was not displeased to have timed 'Nimrod' exactly, so that when the choir and the Chaplain were installed, my final chord was completed. It's that sort of thing, you know, that can make or break an organist's day ...... !
Mr and Mrs Sparrow always host the most incredible gathering after the service, and this year was no exception. All of us were there, and everyone was able to lay aside whatever petty niggles might be festering within the staff room, and enjoy the company of colleagues at peace.
Tom C and I then went out for lunch, as Mrs C had drawn the shortest of duteous straws and found herself on afternoon patrol, which of course necessitated the two men in her life having to find alternative feasting. Cibo's seemed to do the trick, and I was able to employ that well known paternal ploy of giving with the one hand, and keeping one's offspring up to the mark with the other. (Although I do find myself experiencing a modicum of hypocrisy as I offer advice about getting one's essays handed in on time, etc ..!)
I was so pleased to be able to speak informally with some of you tonight: it was a great pleasure. I don't think we have enough time to do things like that, usually, so it was good to be able to listen and learn.
Time to sign off now, though, and thank you for reading all my nightly offerings once again this week. Did I mention that we've had a blog hit from China? I think my reference to 'Spooks' might have had something to do with that! Apparently that last episode rather upset the authorities in Beijing. (I told Mrs C it would. She replied that I'd told her that three times.)
Goodnight.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Just a short post tonight, because of time constraints. All has gone well, what with Octopussy as the film, and X factor for those less enamoured with Mr Bond. Sweet rations, of course, and good behaviour on the part of one and all.
The junior debate on whether the boys should be allowed to keep pets at school, and whether belief in the paranormal is irrational, had at least one young man confused completely, as he hadn't realised that there were, in fact, two separate debates, and ended up opining about alien gerbils, or something like that!
Casualty was pretty good, and one can't help but feel sorry for Ruth, even in spite of her manipulation. Whether Charlie will ever forgive her for such subversive behaviour remains to be seen ....
The Festival of Remembrance was tremendous, as always. Huw Edwards, with whom I have dealings in my capacity as a Board member of the National College of Music, London (he's our Patron), always leads it with such gravitas and distinction. As he said to me, 'You simply can't get it wrong'.
Anyway, that's enough for now, and I may see some of you tomorrow.
Goodnight.
The junior debate on whether the boys should be allowed to keep pets at school, and whether belief in the paranormal is irrational, had at least one young man confused completely, as he hadn't realised that there were, in fact, two separate debates, and ended up opining about alien gerbils, or something like that!
Casualty was pretty good, and one can't help but feel sorry for Ruth, even in spite of her manipulation. Whether Charlie will ever forgive her for such subversive behaviour remains to be seen ....
The Festival of Remembrance was tremendous, as always. Huw Edwards, with whom I have dealings in my capacity as a Board member of the National College of Music, London (he's our Patron), always leads it with such gravitas and distinction. As he said to me, 'You simply can't get it wrong'.
Anyway, that's enough for now, and I may see some of you tomorrow.
Goodnight.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Oh dear, oh dear! My stats tell me that I've betrayed 29 people yesterday and 25 today: not very impressive, is it? But, my dear global Followers, I wasn't able to write for you last night for a very good reason. We were dining with our former employers.
Ah yes. I thought that would do the trick. And I can tell you, because I know you're longing to know, that they are very well indeed, and very much enjoying their new life. I won't give away too much detail on this open blog, not because there's anything controversial or contentious that might land me in trouble, but simply because chat over the dinner table is not really for public consumption, as I'm sure you'll all agree. Suffice it to say that we enjoyed a really lovely evening, and that all is well.
As for things in Newtonian land, as one of you referred to our empire today, all's well here. too. Tonight was black shoe-cleaning night, and you'd be amazed just how seriously our rezzies take such things! Actually, you probably wouldn't, because you'll be fully aware of the competitive spirit of your offspring. The effort that went into it all, though, was tremendous, and there were no less than six lucky winners!
Such was the conscientiousness of the troops, that I was inveigled into turning on the hi-fi radio, which, as you know from previous posts, is possessed of two mighty speakers, and once again, being the recidivistic males that we are, we endeavoured to pump up the volume very, very gradually, to see how much we could get away with, while the inmates did their best to emulate the candidates on 'Strictly'. Oh yes, there are plenty of embryonic Widdies here. (Oh yes, very funny. I can do telepathy, you know.)
So there we are. I hope tonight's offering has managed to fill the giant chasm in your lives, that aching void, that gaping crevasse in the existence of humanity - no, I mustn't get carried away.
Oh, and in case you're wondering, we got away with just above 'very', but some way below 'deafening'. (And way below 'normal'.)
Bonne nuit.
Ah yes. I thought that would do the trick. And I can tell you, because I know you're longing to know, that they are very well indeed, and very much enjoying their new life. I won't give away too much detail on this open blog, not because there's anything controversial or contentious that might land me in trouble, but simply because chat over the dinner table is not really for public consumption, as I'm sure you'll all agree. Suffice it to say that we enjoyed a really lovely evening, and that all is well.
As for things in Newtonian land, as one of you referred to our empire today, all's well here. too. Tonight was black shoe-cleaning night, and you'd be amazed just how seriously our rezzies take such things! Actually, you probably wouldn't, because you'll be fully aware of the competitive spirit of your offspring. The effort that went into it all, though, was tremendous, and there were no less than six lucky winners!
Such was the conscientiousness of the troops, that I was inveigled into turning on the hi-fi radio, which, as you know from previous posts, is possessed of two mighty speakers, and once again, being the recidivistic males that we are, we endeavoured to pump up the volume very, very gradually, to see how much we could get away with, while the inmates did their best to emulate the candidates on 'Strictly'. Oh yes, there are plenty of embryonic Widdies here. (Oh yes, very funny. I can do telepathy, you know.)
So there we are. I hope tonight's offering has managed to fill the giant chasm in your lives, that aching void, that gaping crevasse in the existence of humanity - no, I mustn't get carried away.
Oh, and in case you're wondering, we got away with just above 'very', but some way below 'deafening'. (And way below 'normal'.)
Bonne nuit.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Yo, bruvs in da hood, innit. Er, yes, well, just in case you should think that I've lost the plot, I should tell you immediately that such was the salutation of tonight. Quite.
Not really a great deal to report tonight; the telly was showing a programme about food factories, or something like that, and the other one was relaying the Chelsea v Fulham match. That, along with biscuits, squash and fruit seemed to keep everyone happy. oh, and the two computers, of course, which are always popular.
The boys from the Removes who've been in France for the past ten days returned this afternoon: totally fluent in French, of course, as you can imagine, and having had a very enjoyable and productive time. Dr Harskin, who was team leader, as Sir Alan would say, held a spontaneous drinks party at his place to celebrate his return, and much fun was had by all.
Silent reading was as silent as whatever it is that are silent - lambs, innit? Oh no, mice - and now that the lights have gone out across the lodge, all is calm. Which is more than Spooks was, on Monday night.
Random, I know.
Laters. (As one says.) (I'm told.)
Not really a great deal to report tonight; the telly was showing a programme about food factories, or something like that, and the other one was relaying the Chelsea v Fulham match. That, along with biscuits, squash and fruit seemed to keep everyone happy. oh, and the two computers, of course, which are always popular.
The boys from the Removes who've been in France for the past ten days returned this afternoon: totally fluent in French, of course, as you can imagine, and having had a very enjoyable and productive time. Dr Harskin, who was team leader, as Sir Alan would say, held a spontaneous drinks party at his place to celebrate his return, and much fun was had by all.
Silent reading was as silent as whatever it is that are silent - lambs, innit? Oh no, mice - and now that the lights have gone out across the lodge, all is calm. Which is more than Spooks was, on Monday night.
Random, I know.
Laters. (As one says.) (I'm told.)
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
I do enjoy reading weeks. Not that I have much to do with them myself at the moment, but because it affords me/us the chance to catch up with our young, who are at the uni(versity) stage. Tom C returned this afternoon, and it's good to know that all is going well, and in order to ensure that we had a really good catch-up, he and I went to that well-know annex of the SF staff room, 'Joe's', where we were able to relax a bit, and imbibe sensibly - along with the assistance of the excellent Mr Randolph, a great friend of both of us.
The only trouble with one's young growing up, other than the fact that as they do so one feels increasingly aware of one's advancing years, is that they do tend to become rather capable. I don't think I'm a simpleton, but when I hear two people possessed of rather fine intellects engaged in erudite discourse as I did tonight, I do tend to think that my own limitations suggest that I'd be better off chatting with the farming community in West Dorset. Still, that doesn't mean to suggest that I'm not a very proud dad, because I am - and in no small measure Mrs C and I have SF to thank for that.
Goodness! That's a bit wistful for this blog! Oh well, not to worry. We can still have great fun here in Newton - and that's something that many people don't have in their own workplaces, encompassed and beset as we are these days by the rigmarole of ever-burgeoning bureacuracy. The day we lose the element of fun will be the day that Mrs C and I really do fold our tent and drive into the sunset.
Holby was pretty good tonight. And I did enjoy the dramatic irony of the chess match. Jac needs to watch out: Mr Hansen is no fool. Symbolism, anyone?
Goodnight.
The only trouble with one's young growing up, other than the fact that as they do so one feels increasingly aware of one's advancing years, is that they do tend to become rather capable. I don't think I'm a simpleton, but when I hear two people possessed of rather fine intellects engaged in erudite discourse as I did tonight, I do tend to think that my own limitations suggest that I'd be better off chatting with the farming community in West Dorset. Still, that doesn't mean to suggest that I'm not a very proud dad, because I am - and in no small measure Mrs C and I have SF to thank for that.
Goodness! That's a bit wistful for this blog! Oh well, not to worry. We can still have great fun here in Newton - and that's something that many people don't have in their own workplaces, encompassed and beset as we are these days by the rigmarole of ever-burgeoning bureacuracy. The day we lose the element of fun will be the day that Mrs C and I really do fold our tent and drive into the sunset.
Holby was pretty good tonight. And I did enjoy the dramatic irony of the chess match. Jac needs to watch out: Mr Hansen is no fool. Symbolism, anyone?
Goodnight.
Monday, 8 November 2010
My people, I feel soooo much better. After all my whingeing about the way I hashed up one of the finest organ works ever composed, and then suggested that you might like to listen to the great Helmut Walcha playing it properly, I found it on YouTube (where you seem to be able to find anything and everything), and listened carefully. Right at the end of the prelude (before the fugue), Herr Walcha plays a wrong (well. actually, to be fair, it was more of an inexactitude - and he was blind) note! For some reason this blog doesn't let me copy and paste, and the link's too complicated to copy manually, but if you're interested, put Helmut Walcha Great G major Prelude and Fugue BWV 541 into the YouTube search and you'll find it.
Right. That's enough about organ music. To things more Newtonian.
Shoe-cleaning happened very successfully tonight, with four lucky winners who were rewarded edibly. (No, I didn't eat them. Yes, I know, prep school humour. Well they like it.) Such was the amount of conscientious polishing, however, that there wasn't time for the explanation of how the inter-dorm cricket competition is going to work, so we'll do that on Wednesday night.
Tonight's lodge feasting, then consisted of relented sweet rations (Starburst) from Saturday night, cut-up orange segments, apples, bananas and custard creams. I dunno: at my prep school if we had a small bottle of milk with a straw and a ginger nut we were lucky. (We used to try and get away with taking two, but a rebuking voice always seemed to boom out from nowhere when we did.)
Spooks tonight: another of my all-time faves. Did you know that I received a knock on the door from the security services one night in 1987? 11 o'clock, it was, and I was invited to consider the possibility of working for 'them'! Yes, honestly: I'm not making it up, you know: you can ask Mrs C to verify! Still, I didn't accept, so here I am, writing my nightly coded messa ...... I mean, writing this nightly blog.
Of course.
Goodnight ........
Right. That's enough about organ music. To things more Newtonian.
Shoe-cleaning happened very successfully tonight, with four lucky winners who were rewarded edibly. (No, I didn't eat them. Yes, I know, prep school humour. Well they like it.) Such was the amount of conscientious polishing, however, that there wasn't time for the explanation of how the inter-dorm cricket competition is going to work, so we'll do that on Wednesday night.
Tonight's lodge feasting, then consisted of relented sweet rations (Starburst) from Saturday night, cut-up orange segments, apples, bananas and custard creams. I dunno: at my prep school if we had a small bottle of milk with a straw and a ginger nut we were lucky. (We used to try and get away with taking two, but a rebuking voice always seemed to boom out from nowhere when we did.)
Spooks tonight: another of my all-time faves. Did you know that I received a knock on the door from the security services one night in 1987? 11 o'clock, it was, and I was invited to consider the possibility of working for 'them'! Yes, honestly: I'm not making it up, you know: you can ask Mrs C to verify! Still, I didn't accept, so here I am, writing my nightly coded messa ...... I mean, writing this nightly blog.
Of course.
Goodnight ........
Sunday, 7 November 2010
I know there are those of you who are eager to read tonight's blog entry, so here it is. And a happy new week to one and all.
So. I made a complete hash of Bach's 'Great' G major prelude at the beginning of the service, and, as our Director of Music said, ever the diplomat that he is, 'Do you ever find that you put down a piece that you're going to play and then discover that you can't. actually, play it?' He claimed he was referring to the brilliantly played E minor prelude that he offered as the exit voluntary, but, as he's been a friend of mine since long before SF days, I reckon I know what he meant. Anyway, if The Great happens to be one of your desert island discs, then please accept my apologies. And if you want to hear a really good performance of it, then that which is executed by the great, late, blind (!) Helmut Walcha is probably the best around. You can probably Youtube it, I expect. I have an old 45 rpm of it, which is truly excellent. I must get round to learning it properly. I did have a lesson on it from the current organist of York Minster, Philip Moore, once, but that was a long time ago. (The lesson I had from Dr Harry Gabb, who was the organist at the Coronation, was the most memorable, as I played the Bach Fantasia in G major as my 'model' piece, and I thought I played it rather well, but I was dismayed when, following my rather excessive finale, he quietly rose, and pointed to one single note that I'd held when I shouldn't have done! Honestly! One wrongly-timed note out of six billion ....! Still, it was a good lesson in how not to indulge in self-aggrandisement!)
Back at the ranch, I've found the two mini-mini cricket bats that Mrs C and I were given when we were guests at a friend's birthday party held at Lord's. I've charged one of our cricketing stars to come up with a plan for an inter-dorm cricket comp, and I've already been regaled with embryonic ideas. I'll keep you all enloooped about that.
It's amazing what pur boys notice, you know: having enjoyed a glass or two of decent vino in New Room, amidst excellent company, I went down to the drawing room to express my appreciation of such hospitality and my apologies that I couldn't stay for dinner, and wandered back to Newton Lodge.
"Sir, you're late," was the greeting I received.
I grovelled, of course, and I think I got away with it.
Goodnight.
So. I made a complete hash of Bach's 'Great' G major prelude at the beginning of the service, and, as our Director of Music said, ever the diplomat that he is, 'Do you ever find that you put down a piece that you're going to play and then discover that you can't. actually, play it?' He claimed he was referring to the brilliantly played E minor prelude that he offered as the exit voluntary, but, as he's been a friend of mine since long before SF days, I reckon I know what he meant. Anyway, if The Great happens to be one of your desert island discs, then please accept my apologies. And if you want to hear a really good performance of it, then that which is executed by the great, late, blind (!) Helmut Walcha is probably the best around. You can probably Youtube it, I expect. I have an old 45 rpm of it, which is truly excellent. I must get round to learning it properly. I did have a lesson on it from the current organist of York Minster, Philip Moore, once, but that was a long time ago. (The lesson I had from Dr Harry Gabb, who was the organist at the Coronation, was the most memorable, as I played the Bach Fantasia in G major as my 'model' piece, and I thought I played it rather well, but I was dismayed when, following my rather excessive finale, he quietly rose, and pointed to one single note that I'd held when I shouldn't have done! Honestly! One wrongly-timed note out of six billion ....! Still, it was a good lesson in how not to indulge in self-aggrandisement!)
Back at the ranch, I've found the two mini-mini cricket bats that Mrs C and I were given when we were guests at a friend's birthday party held at Lord's. I've charged one of our cricketing stars to come up with a plan for an inter-dorm cricket comp, and I've already been regaled with embryonic ideas. I'll keep you all enloooped about that.
It's amazing what pur boys notice, you know: having enjoyed a glass or two of decent vino in New Room, amidst excellent company, I went down to the drawing room to express my appreciation of such hospitality and my apologies that I couldn't stay for dinner, and wandered back to Newton Lodge.
"Sir, you're late," was the greeting I received.
I grovelled, of course, and I think I got away with it.
Goodnight.
Saturday, 6 November 2010
Oh my goodness, that was a close-run thing, was it not? All a bit touch and go for bit, with the inspection causing such great consternation. I really did think that everything was going to go horribly pear-shaped, and I have to confess that I was very, very worried when the inspector was walking around with her clipboard, looking very, very official. I couldn't help but register my alarm to Mrs C when the inspectoress noticed so many things happening that shouldn't have been, but fortunately my dear spouse was, as ever, as calm as a cucumber in the midst of a crisis, and enabled me to hope that all would be well.
Every time someone moved, it seemed, the inspector would appear from nowhere, writing what I can only assume were less-than-favourable remarks for the report. I think that the alarm was infectious, and it was clear that the troops were as worried as anyone else, so all we could do was cross our fingers and hope.
Fortunately, no-one died, and all was well, with the right outcome. Everyone was happy at the result, which, under the circumstances, was the right one, in spite of what appeared to the unprofessional behaviour of some - but really, when you weigh up all the options, there was no choice.
Still, that's enough about tonight's episode of Casualty: you probably saw it for yourselves.
As for what's been going on here in Newton Lodge, well, it's been a pretty calm sort of evening, although unfortunately sweet rations have been put on hold, as the rezzies rather overdid the post-lights-out euphoria last night, and decided that a quasi-dorm raid would be rather fun. It wasn't. And just in case you're worried about such deprivation, I should add that they all enjoyed the most divine amuse-bouches, which were a wonderful offering from one of you, for which very many thanks indeed!
Well, there we are for another week, then: thanks for reading, and for all your lovely comments.
Goodnight, wherever you are.
Every time someone moved, it seemed, the inspector would appear from nowhere, writing what I can only assume were less-than-favourable remarks for the report. I think that the alarm was infectious, and it was clear that the troops were as worried as anyone else, so all we could do was cross our fingers and hope.
Fortunately, no-one died, and all was well, with the right outcome. Everyone was happy at the result, which, under the circumstances, was the right one, in spite of what appeared to the unprofessional behaviour of some - but really, when you weigh up all the options, there was no choice.
Still, that's enough about tonight's episode of Casualty: you probably saw it for yourselves.
As for what's been going on here in Newton Lodge, well, it's been a pretty calm sort of evening, although unfortunately sweet rations have been put on hold, as the rezzies rather overdid the post-lights-out euphoria last night, and decided that a quasi-dorm raid would be rather fun. It wasn't. And just in case you're worried about such deprivation, I should add that they all enjoyed the most divine amuse-bouches, which were a wonderful offering from one of you, for which very many thanks indeed!
Well, there we are for another week, then: thanks for reading, and for all your lovely comments.
Goodnight, wherever you are.
Friday, 5 November 2010
OK, it's official. I am the self-styled meanest lodgmeistering ogre that SF has ever had the misfortune to employ. Let me tell you, cathartically, about it.
It was like this. This morning, after having suffered great consternation at hearing the 'wrong' voice on Radio 4 at 6.30am, having overlooked the fact that the NUJ are on strike and therefore causing the whole of the working nation to imagine that something had gone horribly and horologically wrong, I did what I always do: make myself a cup of coffee, wake up the boys with a cheery 'Good morning' (!) and then go down to the Clubhouse to await the members of the lodge as they prepare to depart, having watched the news.
I turned on the telly. No witty banter from Sian and Bill, no sporting mischief from my wife's hearthrob, Chris Hollins (whom, incidentally, I persuaded to send her a signed photo for her landmark birthday) and no lovely lilt from the lovely Carol Kirkwood. No money markets report from the bespectacled Simon Jack: just boring old News 24, which was about as dry as a Newtonian's towel.
I flicked over to a programme called 'Daybreak', hosted by poached presenters from the One Show. Tosh. No thanks. I turned back.
A rezzie appraoched me.
"Sir, as it's November 5th, could we have fireworks tonight?"
"No."
"Can't you give us just one rocket?"
"H'm. So you want me to give you a rocket tonight, is that right?"
"Yes, sir."
I agreed that I would. Well, you can imagine the rest. I knew what was going to happen: they didn't.
I sat down at supper, next to my requestee, who looked at me with the excitement of one who's about to open his Christmas presents, with big, wide eyes.
"So are you really going to give us a rocket tonight, sir?!"
"Oh yes."
So I (sort of) did. I gathered the members of the dorm together, and I rebuked them for talking after lights out. I then ensured that this could be considered as part of their education, and explained what 'giving someone a rocket' could mean. They looked dreadfully hurt, not least the aforementioned requestee.
I don't think they'll speak to me for a week. Actually, being the lovely people they are, they already are doing, so all seems to be well.
As for the fireworks, well, they've got their rockets: there's the most amazing display going on as I write, and they're all out of bed, watching, wide-eyed from behind the curtains.
As for Isla, she's petrified: and being comforted by Mrs C.
Goodnight from Mr Mean.
PS As for the illegal sweets bust, well, we'll say no more about that.
It was like this. This morning, after having suffered great consternation at hearing the 'wrong' voice on Radio 4 at 6.30am, having overlooked the fact that the NUJ are on strike and therefore causing the whole of the working nation to imagine that something had gone horribly and horologically wrong, I did what I always do: make myself a cup of coffee, wake up the boys with a cheery 'Good morning' (!) and then go down to the Clubhouse to await the members of the lodge as they prepare to depart, having watched the news.
I turned on the telly. No witty banter from Sian and Bill, no sporting mischief from my wife's hearthrob, Chris Hollins (whom, incidentally, I persuaded to send her a signed photo for her landmark birthday) and no lovely lilt from the lovely Carol Kirkwood. No money markets report from the bespectacled Simon Jack: just boring old News 24, which was about as dry as a Newtonian's towel.
I flicked over to a programme called 'Daybreak', hosted by poached presenters from the One Show. Tosh. No thanks. I turned back.
A rezzie appraoched me.
"Sir, as it's November 5th, could we have fireworks tonight?"
"No."
"Can't you give us just one rocket?"
"H'm. So you want me to give you a rocket tonight, is that right?"
"Yes, sir."
I agreed that I would. Well, you can imagine the rest. I knew what was going to happen: they didn't.
I sat down at supper, next to my requestee, who looked at me with the excitement of one who's about to open his Christmas presents, with big, wide eyes.
"So are you really going to give us a rocket tonight, sir?!"
"Oh yes."
So I (sort of) did. I gathered the members of the dorm together, and I rebuked them for talking after lights out. I then ensured that this could be considered as part of their education, and explained what 'giving someone a rocket' could mean. They looked dreadfully hurt, not least the aforementioned requestee.
I don't think they'll speak to me for a week. Actually, being the lovely people they are, they already are doing, so all seems to be well.
As for the fireworks, well, they've got their rockets: there's the most amazing display going on as I write, and they're all out of bed, watching, wide-eyed from behind the curtains.
As for Isla, she's petrified: and being comforted by Mrs C.
Goodnight from Mr Mean.
PS As for the illegal sweets bust, well, we'll say no more about that.
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Well, there we are, then, another day done and dusted. I wonder what the Franglais version of that is? Tout fait et torchonne (with acute accent on the e, of course), I suppose. There's a version of French that reverses the words, and whose name I cannot recall at this moment, but Nigel Pearce and I have taken that one stage further, whereby we use direct translations of English words, translate them into French, and then re-translate them into English, which enables us to use that word as the base for the re-translation into our own version of Franglais. It's complicated, but it's fun. That's the sort of cerebral pastime that happens here, in this oasis of intellectualism. (Ho ho.) It just makes us sound clever, especially in the coffee queue, when we're guffawing with imbecilic laughter at a word we've used as a Franglais word that starts with the letter s. (Thus enabling us to dispose of the said letter, and replace it with an e acute, you see, due to the acute (and the circumflex, of course) indicating that once upon a time there was an s next to the e.)
I think I'll shut up now, as in re-reading the last paragraph back to myself, it does seem to be possessed of a touch of the Salvador Dali. (In written form, of course.)
As for things Newtonian, well, Mr Porter's been on duty, and as I've just seen him and thanked him for his expert help, it seems that all has gone well once again. I've now taken over the controls once again, and let's hope we don't have any Airbus incidents akin to those of this morning. All engines are fine at the moment.
Good night all - and big hugs to any Newtonians who may be sous le temps a la maison a ce moment.
I think I'll shut up now, as in re-reading the last paragraph back to myself, it does seem to be possessed of a touch of the Salvador Dali. (In written form, of course.)
As for things Newtonian, well, Mr Porter's been on duty, and as I've just seen him and thanked him for his expert help, it seems that all has gone well once again. I've now taken over the controls once again, and let's hope we don't have any Airbus incidents akin to those of this morning. All engines are fine at the moment.
Good night all - and big hugs to any Newtonians who may be sous le temps a la maison a ce moment.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Good evening all, and a special mention to our new fully paid-up Follower, who has managed to by-pass the extraordinary entanglement that this blog seems to require of one in order to become a full member.
Just the 10 goals today, then, as those of you who are following on Twitter will already know. Still, that's pretty good, so hearty congrats all round were offered. We had a very enjoyable get-together chez Bryan, in order to celebrate/drown sorrows, with excellent vino, fine sausage rolls and splendid cheeses. Almost everyone there, and a jolly time had by all. Even Our Leader, whom I noticed tucking heartily into a smoked Emmental - or some such.
Little things, eh? I went into Osprey to turn out the lights.
"Sir, where's the clock gone?"
"It's still there. Look." (I knew it wasn't there, as one of the hands had come adrift, but I didn't look in that direction.)
"No, but SIR! The clock isn't there!"
"I think you're a bit stressed," said I, and invited the two horological experts to accompany me to this computer. I told them that they might need to take a stress test, to which they readily agreed. And just in case any of you, dear Followers, may have had a bad day in the office/house/garden, you might like to test it out for yourselves. Here's the link - and promise me that you won't skip the instructions. They are very, very important and failure to adhere to them will result negate the process.
http://bblmedia.com/sports/stress.html
As for tonight's mystery of the missing league shirt, well, I think I'll pass on that. You just don't want to know. OK, you do, but when I tell you that after much ranting, counting, re-counting, checking, double-checking, a league shirt was found on the stairs, we could all breathe easily once again.
Goodnight all - and do take it easy if you get a positive result from the stress test.
Just the 10 goals today, then, as those of you who are following on Twitter will already know. Still, that's pretty good, so hearty congrats all round were offered. We had a very enjoyable get-together chez Bryan, in order to celebrate/drown sorrows, with excellent vino, fine sausage rolls and splendid cheeses. Almost everyone there, and a jolly time had by all. Even Our Leader, whom I noticed tucking heartily into a smoked Emmental - or some such.
Little things, eh? I went into Osprey to turn out the lights.
"Sir, where's the clock gone?"
"It's still there. Look." (I knew it wasn't there, as one of the hands had come adrift, but I didn't look in that direction.)
"No, but SIR! The clock isn't there!"
"I think you're a bit stressed," said I, and invited the two horological experts to accompany me to this computer. I told them that they might need to take a stress test, to which they readily agreed. And just in case any of you, dear Followers, may have had a bad day in the office/house/garden, you might like to test it out for yourselves. Here's the link - and promise me that you won't skip the instructions. They are very, very important and failure to adhere to them will result negate the process.
http://bblmedia.com/sports/stress.html
As for tonight's mystery of the missing league shirt, well, I think I'll pass on that. You just don't want to know. OK, you do, but when I tell you that after much ranting, counting, re-counting, checking, double-checking, a league shirt was found on the stairs, we could all breathe easily once again.
Goodnight all - and do take it easy if you get a positive result from the stress test.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
So, then, another Newtonian milestone is notched up as NFN becomes Twitterable. Honestly: what a load of semantic tosh I churn out each night. Anyway, I'm delighted to see that I already have a goodly number of followers over on the Twitter channel, so thank you for tuning in. As Mrs B said, 'Enjoy'!
Now. To the small matter of football. May I humbly enquire which particular website it was that opined that Mr W Rooney would be remaining with Manchester United? Think: yes, that's right: this one. Which means, as you will recall, that I am owed half a sweet ration. Actually, just to prove that I'm not the ogre you might imagine, I've waived the debt.
I've been given - yes, given - a harpsichord. As you can imagine, I'm thrilled, but it's in a sorry state at the moment, and will need a good deal of TLC. Fortunately, I've found a gentleman who restores such lovely instruments, and, other than the fact that I'll have to take the deeds of my house along when I settle up with him, he assures me that it will look like a new one when I go to collect it. It will certainly be a wonderful Christmas present. To myself. (Not quite the Aston Martin I was hoping for, but probably similar in cost.)
Holby was 'quite' good tonight, we thought - and Mr Hansen is certainly ruffling a few feathers. New brooms often do, I find.
Night night.
Now. To the small matter of football. May I humbly enquire which particular website it was that opined that Mr W Rooney would be remaining with Manchester United? Think: yes, that's right: this one. Which means, as you will recall, that I am owed half a sweet ration. Actually, just to prove that I'm not the ogre you might imagine, I've waived the debt.
I've been given - yes, given - a harpsichord. As you can imagine, I'm thrilled, but it's in a sorry state at the moment, and will need a good deal of TLC. Fortunately, I've found a gentleman who restores such lovely instruments, and, other than the fact that I'll have to take the deeds of my house along when I settle up with him, he assures me that it will look like a new one when I go to collect it. It will certainly be a wonderful Christmas present. To myself. (Not quite the Aston Martin I was hoping for, but probably similar in cost.)
Holby was 'quite' good tonight, we thought - and Mr Hansen is certainly ruffling a few feathers. New brooms often do, I find.
Night night.
Monday, 1 November 2010
Good evening, one and all - and I hope everyone has enjoyed a thoroughly enjoyable Long Leave. And if you want to see an example of what your sons' lodgemeister got up to, then do have a squint at my half-term jottings, written after a perfectly splendid visit to Bridchester. (Sorry about the Thomas Hardy nomenclature, but I don't want the natives getting upset and driving their Massey-Fergusons through my drawing room window.)
So, I hope you're excited about Newton becoming part of the Twitter network! Watch out for the updates, and I'm sure you'll have already set your devices to RSS feeders, or whatever ornithological allusions you can think of.
I've heard all about all sorts of exciting things tonight: trips to Holland. where I understand the theme parks are wonderful (glad something is) (apart from the Reiksmuseum, that is, of course)' Paris, New York, and many other wonderful locations. I received an invitation to go to West Virginia as a private tutor, but declined such a terrific offer, as I thought that time wasn't really on my side.
We discussed the plural of the word 'oaf' tonight. As one does. I argued that if the plural of loaf is loaves, then the plural of oaf must, logically, be oaves. I'm still not sure whether I'd get away with exclaiming 'You silly oaves!', but then I don't often engage in the perjorative. Well, sometimes.
'Sir, do you ever get called 'Dad', or 'Daddy'? I was asked tonight. I replied that I often did, and that I took it as a compliment and told him that 'Your majesty', of course, is the preferred form of address,
He spluttered, gave me a withering look and took a very noisy chunk out of a Cox's Orange Pippin.
Goodnight.
So, I hope you're excited about Newton becoming part of the Twitter network! Watch out for the updates, and I'm sure you'll have already set your devices to RSS feeders, or whatever ornithological allusions you can think of.
I've heard all about all sorts of exciting things tonight: trips to Holland. where I understand the theme parks are wonderful (glad something is) (apart from the Reiksmuseum, that is, of course)' Paris, New York, and many other wonderful locations. I received an invitation to go to West Virginia as a private tutor, but declined such a terrific offer, as I thought that time wasn't really on my side.
We discussed the plural of the word 'oaf' tonight. As one does. I argued that if the plural of loaf is loaves, then the plural of oaf must, logically, be oaves. I'm still not sure whether I'd get away with exclaiming 'You silly oaves!', but then I don't often engage in the perjorative. Well, sometimes.
'Sir, do you ever get called 'Dad', or 'Daddy'? I was asked tonight. I replied that I often did, and that I took it as a compliment and told him that 'Your majesty', of course, is the preferred form of address,
He spluttered, gave me a withering look and took a very noisy chunk out of a Cox's Orange Pippin.
Goodnight.
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