It's been a good evening, and now the troops are reading silently. I must apologise for highlighting my mathematical inability earlier as far as reporting the number of blumberjacks (blog followers; log, you see.) that formed the nucleus of my audience, but I hope those of you who tune into the other Newton channel (Twitter) received my update.

Tonight's feasting amid the revelry consisted of orange segments, lovingly cut up by Mrs C and Miss A, jammy dodgers and fruit. How different that all is to my one cup of milk - or was it one of those tiny bottles? - and two ginger nuts. We always tried to get away with taking more than our rations, but we invariably heard the stentorian tones of Mr Burton, the deputy head, who was watching us from the landing above, rebuking us and threatening us with a good thrashing if we were discovered. (His bark was worse than his bite, though - most of the time.)

Games night incorporated a jolly game of Twister, in which the competitors gave very good and convincing performances as contortionists. No-one turned the radio on tonight, which was surprising: perhaps they were just too busy having a good time.

I must apologise, too, for the series of terrible puns. That arises from my having stated (oh goodness, I sound like a Latin textbook) that I could make a pun out of anything, while on a choir tour. (It was during dinner in the hotel, and a jolly good one it was, too.) One of the choristers looked at me, picked up a napkin and said "Go on then, sir, make a pun out of this in the next sixty seconds and I'll give you a sweet ration. That's the deal."

"And if I don't I suppose it will have folded," was my instant riposte.

Oh the wit. And the self-effacing modesty, of course.

Bonne nuit.