Jaffa cakes. That's what your/our LMs have been gorging on tonight, and very nice they were, too. I actually managed to get one from Mrs C, but trying for a second was a lost cause.

It's been an interesting day. Chapel started things rolling, with the Chaplain's sermon about Pringles: sadly, I couldn't stay to hear the crux of the address as I had to disappear from the organ loft (actually, it's not really loft, because it's on the ground floor) and nip round to the Summertown United Reformed Church to play for their morning service. (Btw, the Chaplain was amused (slightly) when he told me that about the topic he was to speak about and received my instant rejoinder of 'Crumbs!'. I went to suggest that as this was still the season of Epiphany, his sermon would be a Golden Wonder. It almost worked.)

This afternoon I took a group of railway enthusiasts (of which I am one such nerd) to the Pendon Model Railway Museum , where we were greeted cordially by fellow trainspotters, and, as I observed last year, it's interesting to note that they're all of advancing years and have beards. Especially the men. No, I shouldn't tease: they're lovely really, and they make nice cups of tea. For each other. We were all given complimentary tea/coffee vouchers, but I'm not sure that such luxuries would really have been wholly appreciated by les troops.

Now this bit is a tad weird. I know that Winston Churchill enquired of his first Latin beak why and when he would ever have cause to address a table, but I can surpass that, as tonight I was invited to speak to a door. Yes, a door.

You see, the thing is, the doors in this place are all on fire thingies, which means that if the noise level goes beyond a certain number of decibels, they shut automatically. No, I don't understand it, either. It was suggested by two members of Heron dorm that their door had a mind of its own. A philosophical discussion ensued, wherein I suggested that a door, being inanimate, had neither a mind, nor, indeed, a soul. Such pusillanimity was greeted with scorn, and I was made to address the door forcibly. Using my best Vocative case (but omitting the O), I did so. The door, of course, shut.

As I said to Miss Alex, as a graduate schoolmaster, and with a collection of other quals to my name, including one in business stuff, I could now be looking forward to returning to my plush and comfortable office tomorrow morning, sitting in that lovely big black chair; Miss - sorry, Ms - Jenkinson bringing me my daily cappucino (and Jaffa cakes) and generally enjoying the satisfaction that I'd made the grade.

But no. What is it that I'm doing on a Sunday night? Talking to a door.

Oh well, it beats working.

Goodnight, all.