First, dear Followers, my apologies for the fact that you would have discovered, had you logged on to this site of sites last night, that the blogophical cupboard was, sadly, bare. I had to return our daughter to school, you see, and this necessitated a lengthy journey back to Newton thereafter, and by the time I'd returned I didn't think that many of you would really have been bothered to find out what had been going on between the time you returned your own young and the time you returned home. Still, if you did, and were disappointed, I'm very sorry.

'Sir, you should get a mohawk.' Such was my greeting tonight, as I walked into Curlew. (Ha!) 'Sit on the bed, and I'll show you how it would work.'

The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by potential coiffeurs (yes, quite) who insisted on sticking my hair up on end. 'Sir, that looks great!' was one of the more complimentary comments about my new style; others were on the floor in hysterics, with yours truly feeling (and looking) a complete dork. Anyway, I've now returned my flowing locks to their normal appearance and any suggestion that I may have made about exploring mohawkian possibilities was somewhat wide of the mark. I wouldn't be able to cope in Parents' Evenings. Neither would you, probably.

Second comment of the evening: 'Sir there are no wrappers in Russia.' Imagine my concern, therefore, if you will, as I imagined naked Kit-Kats, Clubs and Gold Bars. All very worrying, although I suppose the said biscuits wouldn't really melt, would they, in such sub-zero temperatures.

Sadly, we didn't have time for a rendering of the Silent Reading song tonight, depite many requests, so silent reading fell upon the lodge and another day was done. All very calm, with orange segments, unwrapped biscuits (not that they were ever wrapped in the first place) and a delicious chocolate bar making things go smoothly.

Oh! 'Rappers'! Oh what a fool.

Enough. Goodnight.

Thank heavens for one's children. I know all of you, dear Followers, think that every minute of every day, as indeed do Mrs C and I, but tonight, for reasons that I will explain, such sentiments seem all the more sincere.

Our dear, wonderful, ancient tabby, Jasmine, about whom you've heard from time to time, had to be put down. About a week ago she started displaying signs that all was not well, and tempting though it was to stick one's head into the sand about it all, it reached the stage where I had to take her to the vet.

Tonight I did so, in the knowledge that the outcome might not be a happy one, and, with the help of a very sensitive and kind vette, we concluded that there was really only one option. So, sadly, Hannah and I said goodbye to her and watched her pass swiftly and peacefully away.

She's been a lovely companion since we collected her from the Oxford Animal Sanctuary, all those years ago: timid and not keen on those she didn't know, but affectionate to a fault to those that she did.

It's always easy to become horribly emotional about such things, but I shall miss her plaintive miaows outside our bedroom door at 6.30 every morning, or coming to sit on the arm of the sofa during Casulaty or Holby, (funny, she never did laps, really, but she liked the close company), or running from the other side of the garden when she saw us sitting on one of the benches and sitting between us.

So yes, she was a lovely cat, and she will be much missed.

As for my reference to our children, both Hannah and Tom, who are on reading weeks, have been amazing, jollying their dad along and helping to stop the tears from falling. I'm sure that not every 20-year-old puts his arms around his dad and talks in tones that would do justice to an experienced schoolmaster counselling a Newtonian.

With Long Leave starting tomorrow, may I offer a word of counsel? Enjoy every moment with your young: they are, truly, our most precious possessions.

JASMINE R.I.P.

So there we are, then. Or rather, there I was, because obviously I'm here now. Or there, if what you are perceiving as here is here. To me, of course, dear readers, whether you're in Poland, Lithuania, Vietnam, or, of course, Wimbledon, you're there.

Enough of such verbal badinage and gay banter. No, I haven't been back to Joe's: I have been, as you know, perched on the organ stool in New College Chapel, accompanying the Red Choir as they gave a spirited and fine performance at Evensong - and I expect God, who may well have been tuning in at the time, rather liked it, too. The old telepathy with Mr Music-Price seemed to be reasonably successful, although we weren't quite together during the ritardando at the end of the Magnificat. (Only about a quarter of a beat out, but to us that's like, massive.) Still, I expect all who came to the 'performance' (how I hate that, and how I hate even more the description of the Carol Service as a 'concert'! They are both religious services: hence my swipe above about God. What a miserable old s** I'm becoming.) (Oh, you think I'M cantankerous?! My director of music at 'the other place' wouldn't even allow 'carol service'! It was, he informed me firmly, 'a celebration of readings and music for the seasons of Advent, Christmas and Epiphany'. Miserable old thing that he was, he had a point!)

I felt that I rather left Valentine's Day dangling in the air, as I've been asked how it was celebrated here. Well, the catering department did, in fact, offer a nod towards the official saint of the day by serving up (as an option) heart-shaped shortbread in the shape of a heart, filled with pink gunge that looked like something out of a tube of toothpaste, but I have to say that if you are keen on filling your mouth with Colgate last thing at night your experience will be only slightly more palatable than mine was at lunchtime on Monday. Why did I opt for that? Well, I can't help being an incurable romantic, can I.

It's been nit-check night tonight. Yes, I thought you'd love to know that. A few infestations, but nothing too serious, and treatment accordingly for those playing host.

Football provided some entertainment for a few: Arsenal versus Barcelona, and when last I watched, Barcelona were winning. As the boys were coming up the stairs for silent reading, I could hear high-jinks going on. In stentorian tones, I proclaimed,

"If I continue to hear that noise, I shall start to get rather annoyed.'

"H'm, sir: you sound as if you are pretty annoyed already."

I wasn't. And I'm not now. It's been a good day, and I shall dream of playing the organ in one of the most treasured venues on the planet. Such opportunities: such fun. How I shall miss it all.

But not yet!

Goodnight.

Greetings, everyone, and especial greetings to our new Follower in Vietnam! I know you're there because my excellent stats page has informed me accordingly, and you are most welcome aboard.

It's Tuesday, and therefore our half day, so we haven't been around tonight, but I have every confidence that all has gone swimmingly. After a very easy day during which we have been able to enjoy having our underrgraduate offspring with us, we were able to have a delightful walk on Port Meadow, in the rain, admittedly, but nonetheless pleasant for that. Holby was good once again, and I do hope overseas Followers of this blog who double as Holby-followers are making full use of the BBC's iPlayer facility in order not to miss any of the drama. Mr Hansen does make me smile, although it was good to see that even he can lose his rag occasionally! I must say, Jac Naylor deserved what she got. As for the new Registrar, I couldn't help but wonder whether she'll turn out to be Mr Hansen's wife. Anyone up for a wager?

Jasmine the cat is chomping on a different catfood behind me, as I type, and I'm entertained to see that in one of the many languages on the pouch, the word 'chicken' is translated as 'kylling'. Goodness, did I really write that down? My entertainment threshhold must be very low tonight! I really was reading catfood pouches .....

I think it's time for bed. I have to play for Evensong in the New College Chapel tomorrow night: always a privilege and sometimes a pleasure. The trouble is, it's so dark in there that it's very difficult to see Mr Music-Price in the mirror of the organ, and organ scholars aren't entitled to cctv, it seems, so there has to be a degree of telepathy about our communication.

I must go. I need to continue reading Peter Mandelsohn's autobiog. Better than catfood pouches.

No, really: it is.

Goodnight.

Lithuania and Poland: those are the countries wherein our newest Followers are reading this blog, so welcome, my friends, and I wish you well. As I wish those in Georgia, Oman and Moscow fond greetings, too. It's amazing, you know, to think that I'm 'broadcasting' around the globe! A bit scary, in fact - although I haven't heard from Mr May, so I don't think my invitation to perform Chopin Valses on Top Gear will be forthcoming in the near future. And anyway, I don't think the likes of Messrs Clarkson, Hammond and May would really want to 'do' Chopin. Well, May might, of course. As for the other two, I suspect that their idea of melodious sound is that which emanates from the exhaust pipe of a Fezza. Or a 'Mazza'. Or an Aston, of course, which is the only car worth bothering about. The noise from that particular rear end, imho, can indeed do battle almost successfully with 'The Silver Swan', or Shostakovich's Piano Concerto.

Tonight, while our two beautiful daughters have returned to Bristol and Dorset respectively, Tom C has been here, and has assisted with tonight's duty by judging the shoe-polishing comp and playing various games with the troops. He seemed immensely flattered that your offspring should wish to address him as 'sir', which is a credit to you, my people. As for the game of 'Twister' that was going on in the Clubhouse, well, that was a sight for sore eyes. Fortunately for me, said parts of my anatomy, to which I referred earlier in the week, have made a splendid recovery. Being the generous dad that I am, of course, I offered to buy my son and heir a drink and supper in the staff room annex (Joe's) prior to taking up my position in the lodge, but the trouble with that these days is that if an old codger walks into a place like that with a 19-year-old student, despite the fact that some of the clients are clearly not with their spice, one does get some rather quizzical looks.

'How are things with YOUR GIRLFRIEND?' I enquired.

'I mustn't be late back to lodge, otherwise YOUR MOTHER will be holding the fort on her own'.

Etc. It didn't help that my dear son opted for a banana dacquiri (or something) with a couple of straws, a slice of lime and a mini parasol sticking out of it. As for the wild mushrooom risotto ....

He's currently skyping his stunningly beautiful girlfriend, incidentally, it being what our students call 'reading week'.

Time to go.

Goodnight, all.

James May. Now don't get me wrong, because I've never met him, but he does tend to bring out the worst in me. But why? I hear you ask. Well, having just been watching, along with most of the Newtonians, 'Top Gear', I'll tell you.

First of all, let me give you the areas in which he and I chime. As it were. He's just over six feet tall. So am I. He has long, curly hair that's greying at the edges. So do, erm, well, I. (OK, so mine's more grey in more places that just the edges.) He's a petrolhead: as am I. He's a former music student. Another similarity. He and I can both play Chopin reasonably competently. He writes for the newspaper of the year: so do I. I could go on. He even goes on wine tours of France and wherever, not just with mates, but with Oz Clark! As it happens, I don't.

But the reason for my angst is that on all counts, he does all of that at a more high-profile level; he owns very fast cars, as opposed to the ikean Volvo estate parked outside this residence, or the kids' Peugeot 306 in the garage; he has a better grand piano than I (and probably plays it with greater proficiency), and he has a weekly column in the DT, unlike your correspondent who gets the odd article accepted from time to time. I would go further and suggest that his similes, his metaphors, his use of language and his ostensibly encyclopaedic general knowledge leave me standing as still as a clapped-out BMW 3 series being pulled by an aged yak. See what I mean? If that were May, he'd have you rolling on the floor in stitches with his choice of simile.

Oh well, there we are. He doesn't have his own lodge to look after, and I bet he never reads the Newton Blog. (Although we shall see .... !)

Tonight's been another Sunday evening, complete with carrots (yes, more carrots), biscuits and an edible prize for Osprey, who were this week's dorm tidiness winners. And last week's.

I'll end on a surreal note and tell you that last week I went into Heron dorm and greeted more than just the boys, it seems, by saying 'Good morning, boys, sheets and pyjamas.' (Actually, incorrect punctuation does tend to spoil that story.)

It reminds me of the gentleman who received a letter from the council, after he had complained about the brightness of a streetlight outside his outside. It read 'Dear Mr X, Thank you for your letter, with regards to the streetlight.'

Apparently, he never fails to doff his hat to the offending light every time he passes it.

See? James May would have told that story far better.

Goodnight.

Shellair. He was another of Dr Oxley's passions. I used to be able to recite chunks of Adonais' demise, but when I tried earlier, most of it had gone. Oh well, I suppose I can look forward to the total collapse of memory in a few years' time: I've already told our three that life will be pretty simple, as they should just plonk me in front of 'Swiss Railway Journeys', or 'World's Great Motorcycle Rides' and I'll be happy. Same episode, if they like. Like a goldfish in a bowl, I suppose: swimming around a bowl with a circumference of five seconds, while having a memory of four.

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh yes. Tonight's film was - or rather, is - 'Jurassic Park', although there are some who were not that keen on that, referring to it perjoratively by other sobriquets - and thus incurring a few barks from the lodgemeister - and who have relocated themselves in the upstairs common room, right next to where I'm typing, and who are now making a racket next door. They've just had to endure the usual teacher talk:

'Look! If you lot can't be quiet, then you will all go back downstairs.' Silence for about two minutes and then normal service resumed. Mustn't be mean; I was their age once.

The Cheater family is as one tonight: all three of our young are with us, back from uni(versity) or school, and we had a wonderful family fivesome in the kitchen earlier. The 'family' then extended, and most of them are either sprawled out in the downstairs common room, watching Jurassic Park under their duvets, with Isla in the middle of the scene, and the others are upstairs, next to me. Quiet as mice.

Well, almost. ("Shhhhh!!!!! Mr Cheater's writing the blog next door!!")

Indeed.

Goodnight.

Gosh, that was a really boring post last night, was it not? Trouble is, I'm not really very good at writing about that at which I was not present and therefore of which I have no understanding. Student lectures seem a very long time ago now. Dr Oxley, forgive me. Oh well, at least he taught me about Anthony Trollope and the pillar box. He had a great line to us impressionable, anxious-looking 19-year-olds: "Cheer up, for goodness' sake: you'll soon be dead." He had a very broad Yorkshire accent, and a Ph D in English lit, and it was he who asked me 'Well, Cheater, d'y lark poytrair?" I replied that indeed I did, and he thereupon asked me to recite chunks of Alexander Porp. I suppose I must have vaguely impressed, but don't ask me about Porp's poytrair now.

It's been a really fun evening tonight. It all started with the carrots, you see: that's the catering department's latest wheeze. Only thing they haven't thought about is just how many boys will be seeing whether they really can see in the dark as a result of consuming said vegetable.

It seems that Miss Alex is into relaxation and meditation and the like, as I was asked if I would lie on my back with my eyes closed, with my arms in the air. Acquiescent being that I am, I acquiesced. I gently lowered my arms to the floor, much to the amuse/amazement of the onlookers, and discovered that yes, indeed, it did seem as if my arms went throught the floor. If you have nothing better to do tonight, try it. Oh go on.

And then to round off the evening, we had a very joyous rendition of the Silent Reading song. It consists of two lines of 'Silent Reading', and then a volunteer does an improvised verse for four or more bars, and then we all join in with the refrain of 'Silent Reading'. If you want to live life Newton style, the chord sequence is G major, G major 1st inversion, G major, G major 1st inversion, C major, D major suspended, D7, back to G major. You could give that a whirl, too.

The model railway continues apace, and on Wednesday we plan to have our official re-launch. More details to follow, but much clearing is going on, and we are hoping to invite a special guest to cut the ribbon.

And now we're going to have a fire alarm. Yippee!

Goodnight.

Another birthday, another night off. Typical. Not to worry, though, because I know the person in question has had a great day, and to round it off with doughnuts has been a further treat - for which I must render many thanks. Mr Porter was acting as chief dispenser, and I know he will have executed his duties with distinction, as always.

I can't believe it's Friday tomorrow: where do the weeks go? It'll be CE trials before we know it -or rather, until the candidates know it, and there's still so much to get through. Still, as with so much at SF, we've been through it all before, so I'm sure everything will be fine.

The great Thursday biscuit upgrade has outdone itself this week, as on offer this morning were the most deliciously scrumptious flapjacks, along with an assortment of 'normal biscuits', and the coffee was superb, too. There's always a lovely atmosphere down in the HM's drawing room (known here as the HMDR) at Thursday Break: everyone goes, not through being compelled to go, but because we want to - and of course, the view from there (notwithstanding a few miles of barricading atm) is wonderful, too.

The astro is coming on apace, and will be a tremendous facility when it's completed. Not long to go now. Well, half a term, but if the next half goes as quickly as this one's gone, it will be no time at all.

That's it for tonight, then; and other than to send fond greetings to our Followers in Oman, it's time for me to bid you goodnight.

Goodnight.

Picture the scene. (That most awful of journalistic openings.) It is the morning exodus, and Newtonians are either leaving lodge, or staying to watch the News.

"Sir, I have great idea."

"Oh, and what might that be?"

"Well. This article is very boring, so I think we should be able to fast forward our lives."

"Splendid. Great idea. Only trouble is, as Stephen Hawking might explain, there might be a small 'time constraint' issue or two."

"H'm. Yes. But it would be nice to be on Short Leave already."

By now it was getting surreal, so I bid my conversationalist a fine good morning and wished him a fond 'Have a nice day" - as I do to all departing Newtonians, in their own language, when I can. And this year I can.

"Yes, you could say that. But trouble is, you just said 'Have a good afternoon'.

Mr Cameron, you are wrong. Where on earth would I be without multiracialism? How would my day start?

Enough of such contentious issues. Tonight I was asked if the inmates could 'watch the football' - another rather surreal enquiry, to which I responded, in true prep school teacher manner, that if someone was (were) prepared to bring a football over to lodge, we could all watch it, although it might not be that interesting. Rather like watching ski-jumping. Or grass grow. Or paint .....

I had a fascinating English lesson with a Fifth year class this morning: I was asked whether I thought Shakespeare was a real person. Lovin' it, of course, and I waxed lyrical about Christopher Marlowe (who, incidentally, shares his name with Mrs C's godmother's husband, and who is closely descended from same), Francis Bacon and others. Personally, I dismiss the Baconian theory, largely because it originates from the Victorian era, and I have little time for that, but I'm more convinced by the Marlowe-ists, because it seems to me that the sequence of events was more than mere coincidence. I explained my thinking, and listened, intently, to my learners' hypotheses. All this with twelve-year-olds! As I said to them, there were probably very similar conversations going on in the college SCRs down the road!

Anyway, we did indeed 'watch the football' and the evening, complete with its chqquettes (I'm assured that that's how they're spelt) went hitchlessly.

Goodnight.

A brief post tonight, as it's getting late, and despite it having been my half day, there seems to have been a great deal to do. But enough of all that.

Mr Bryan's been on duty tonight, and I learn that the first instalment of 'Newton's Got Talent' took place under his direction and production. A perfectly splendid initiative, and one that might locate the stars of the future. Parents, be prepared: you could be living on your private island yet.

Our wonderful cleaners identified a hip-flask behind one of the beds earlier today, and brought it to Mrs C with grave countenances. It fell to me, as you would expect, to investigate this matter, and to sort out this dreadful crime. It had, as custom demands, to be taken seriously, for the potential for significant action was considerable.

I adopted my Chief Inspector mode, enquiring of the owner the provenance of this object. And why, I wondered, should it be behind the bed of its owner. And from the other side of the table in the gloomy soul-less room with no more than a single unshaded lightbulb I questioned into the night. Oh, don't worry: I just thought that sounded rather appropriate. We were actually very comfortably seated on the chairs in our drawing room, and the lighting was very pleasant, provided as it was by a number of decorative table lamps from the Far East and other places.

"Oh that!" was my suspect's rejoinder, as I pulled the item from my pocket and placed it dramatically on the coffee table. "I got it out of a cracker at Christmas. I put apple juice in it."

Oh yes, nice one. He wasn't off the hook yet. I undid the lid and sniffed. H'm. I needed back-up. D.I. Bryan was outside: I proferred the hip-flask in front of his nose.

"Apple juice, Lewis?" I enquired. (Actually, I said 'Matt', but Lewis sounded topical.)

"H'm. Apple juice, sir." he replied. (He didn't say 'sir', btw.)

"Of course it is. Not as stupid as you look, are you?"

"No, sir. Incidentally, you might just want to tap the side of it: plastic, I think you'll find. Like something out of a Christmas cracker."

He'll go a long way, will that lad.

Goodnight.

It was the shoe polish, I'm sure. Yes, that's what it was. Tonight, as you will already have gathered, no doubt, it was shoe-cleaning night, with the weekly competition being judged by your faithful correspondent. The troops seemed particularly lively, so I strolled purposefully towards the laundry room, wherein the aforementioned cleaning was taking place. Of course, it doesn't take much for 11-year-old boys to determine innuendo in something, especially when they're quite bubbly, so as parents you can no doubt imagine the kind of giggly dialogue that accompanied the brushing and polishing. All rather silly, and as always happens in this kind of situation, and as all of our own parents assured us, in the clairvoyant manner, it would all end in tears.

So I conclude that it was the shoe polish. After all, it can't have been the fruit, or the Quality Streets, the latter of which I managed to secrete a couple past the eagle eyes of Mrs C. That last sentence doesn't read very well, does it. Trouble is, I'm suffering from eye strain at the moment, and it's pretty uncomfortable, you see. It's something that has lingered on periodically since my traumatic eye dramas (retinal detachments, twice and seriously) that happened all those years ago in the mid 90s.

Anyway, the LMs are all tucked up and silent, and they've all calmed down now, after I barked a bit, so I will leave it there for tonight, and wish you a calm goodnight.

So much to tell you, dear friends, but I mustn't become boring.

First, I must relate the story of what happened in my French class yesterday. I have a rule whereby my 'learners' (we shouldn't call then pupils, apparently, these days) are meant to leave five lines between each piece of work in their exercise books. Of course, and as you will have already worked out, this is to make the books look the part, but I tell my learners (!) that I'm doing what I can, in my position of Director of PSHE, to save the rainforests. Saving paper equals saving the trees, and, as Tesco's will have it, quite rightly, 'every little helps'.

Be that as it may, I had cause to complain to one of my learners (yawn) that he weas not starting his sentences with capital letters. He took it on the chin, as you would imagine from a Summerfieldian.

"Sir!" exclaimed a new member of the set, "I think I know why he does that."

"Oh yes? And why might that be, I wonder?"

"He's trying to save ink."

Brilliant. Lovin' it.

Enough of classroom stuff. Tonight I was given special dispensation to attend the buffet dinner party (Cn one have one of those? Are they supper parties?) with the HM, the visiting preacher and an assortment of colleagues. Forgive me, but,

God, I love this place. Quite apart from a terrific chat with the visiting preacher, who's about to become Harrow's first American director of studies, I was able to engage with my endoctored head of English, and with the Chaplain, in a terrific debate about the 'agony of choice'. The former, you see, is writing an article about Andrew Marvell, and he was telling me about the procession in which Marvell, Milton and Dryden could have been standing together, and I suggested to the Chaplain that one could raise the bar even further, theologically, and compare that with the Gospel writers actually speaking with Our Lord. I suggested further that choice is not always agonising, but that it was, in fact, alternatives that could be. I also ventured to suggest that anyone's choice caused another party to make yet another choice, and so we went on. Brilliant. Better than discussing detentions.

I hope you enjoyed my rendition of Bach's D major Prelude before Chapel this evening: it was hardly worthy of being transferred to CD, but it was OK. Mostly.

If you were watching Songs of Praise, though, you will have seen Laura Wright of the group 'All Angels': she was a pupil at Old Buckenham Hall prep school, which until very recently was run by our greatest friends, now living the life of Riley in southern France. Lots of text messaging, of course, and good to know that prep schools like our own - and your own - are producing excellence in every field.

That's enough for tonight.

Goodnight.

"And this," said Mr Computer-Price, at the beginning of term, "is what we call an Archos."

And so sat the aforementioned masterpiece of technology for the past few weeks, until your correspondent summoned up the courage to affix it to the telly in the common room.

Well, I don't know about you, but I'd always imagined that an Archos (which is how I believe it's spelt) was one of those most awful temples of materialism, found on the outskirts of all good cities, including the one from which I'm pounding out tonight's effort. It isn't. Like all technological wizardry, it's something that is designed to provide optimum pleasure for all and ends up providing complete misery for one. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we (i.e. one of my assistants) did, in fact, get it to work. Remarkable. Never has a Bond movie been so appreciated.

Talking of amazing facts, my stats tell me that this blog was read by 105 people last night. Now that really is a record!

Mrs C and I journeyed (how Dickensian) to Ludgrove this afternoon, with the Under 9 teams, and this availed us of the opportunity to drive the new minibi, which we both pronounced as excellent. Did you know that all minibi registered after 2007 have to be limited to 62mph? Well now you do. So if you see one whizzing past you at a higher velocity than that you can be pretty sure that a car with a flashing blue lamp won't be far behind.

That's it for tonight,

Goodnight.

I sometimes think, when I look back through the ever-escalating posts, that my typing is akin to that of those responsible for The Grauniad newspaper in the 1970s. Not that I often read that particular journal, but when I do, it seems that things have improved considerably since my lefty student days. As Mr Lapwood would have it, 'Ill return to that theme later on'. (He never does, by the way: have you noticed that?)

I expect you're longing to know whether the LMs watched The Match - or, of course, as the late, great Miles Kington (in whose flat I stayed once, btw) would have put it, L'Allumette. Well, yes. We gave special dispensation, in partnership with our twinned lodge, Upper House, for the rezzies to return at 7.15pm, to make their beds (following mega laundry this morning), and then sit, glued to the screen until 8.30. Bourbons and fruit formed the refreshments, as well as the now-popular orange segments. I must say that it seemed a very well-fought contest, and of course, everyone is eager to know the outcome. I was most impressed by the patriotism of the English rezzies, all of whom stood to attention while the National Anthem was played, and I was sympathetic to those from France and Russia, who observed such fervour with dignity and bemusement. Our one Welsh supporter also stood to attention as the orchestra played for that particular country's National Anthem - and tempting though it is to go for a cheap laugh at this point, I will refrain.

Back to student issues. I was amused to read my son and heir's latest Facebook post from SOAS, opining somewhat forcibly about his loathing for transitive and intransitive verbs. (Bad enough in English, let alone in Japanese.) You can, perhaps, imagine the invective that was employed - but such terminology is not for this blog. I was sympathetic, of course, and sent a text back, telling him that I was interested to note that the verb he had used gerundively could be used both transitively and intransitively. No response as yet.

As for Newton, well, the lights have all gone off (deliberately; there isn't another power-cut), they're all rejoicing that the school's internet is back on again, and silence reigns.

Until tomorrow night, then,

Goodnight. (And by the way, the weird phonetics from last night were meant to represent Russian. As some of you will know.)

What a night to be off duty. Doughnuts (yes, I'm afraid I still spell it the old-fashioned way) all round and, apparently, according to a text from my deputy, Mr Porter, the most wonderful birthday scenes of contented LMs chomping away on their KKDs. He generously invited me to put the photos on the blog, but sadly I declined, as my own self-imposed rules include no names and no photos because - well, you know all that stuff. But nevertheless, generous thanks are due to our benefactors, and I know that the rezzies will have greatly appreciated such kindness.

But wait, dear Followers: I have great tidings of joy to tell! The Thursday morning biscuit upgrade has happened - and, not only that, guess what the upgrade consists of ....! Those delicious shortbread biscuits that we all enjoy at parents' meetings, while trying to make sense of the Orders sheets and what Mr X has written about Johnny and discovering that Johnny is actually taught by Mr Y but Mr X's comment seems so much more apposite. So, further thanks are due, this time to Our Leader, who, as you know, is one of my most ardent followers, for his kind attention.

I must tell you about a greeting I received this morning, while seeing the troops out. Dualogue as follows:

"Good morning, B****, how are you?"

A brief pause occurred before the response, delivered in a - erm, 'other-than-English' accent,

"Well - nothing much happened last night, so not much to tell, really."

As Our Leader would say (or rather, type - internet permitting), 'Another LOL.'

On which note I will cease. Probably wisely.

Goodnight. Or perhaps that should be Spa-koy nee no chi.

Gosh, that was a bit heavy last night, was it not? Moi, pontificating about the Egyptian crisis and pretending to have some idea of what I was prattling on about. Oh well, at least I can console myself in the knowledge that you know that I don't. As proven, probably.

To more Newtonian matters. I found myself embroiled in a fairly robust discussion about the earnings of various footballers earlier, and was , as is my wont, giving my own fairly clear opinions about such things. I was cut down to size, however, by one member of Heron dorm, who opined 'You're just jealous, aren't you, sir?" Well, there is that to consider, I suppose, and I've always fancied an Aston Martin, as you well know.

Wednesday night is TV night, of course, and the highlight of tonight's viewing was 'Rogue Builders', or some such. Dominic Littlewood was endeavouring to wipe the floor with someone who had, allegedly (you can't be too careful on a blog) conned a couple into handing over their life's savings and the rest. I was hardly Mr Popular when I called for silent reading, as the rezzies were determined to discover the denouement of the story.

We were treated to delicious mini-croissants tonight; a kind and thoughtful gift from a generous benefactor - and they went wonderfully well with the weekly hot chocolate ration! Sweet rations added to the nightly fare, although a small 'issue' concerning same, or rather, the lack of them, caused a ructionette. All was resolved, though, and I don't think any harm was done.

Jasmine Cat is in strop with me because I haven't given her her nightly tin of 'Glorious Ocean Delicacies, caught by ancient mariners, served with a hint of shark fin', or whatever it's called, so I am now going to leave Newton in the more than capable hands of Mrs C and Miss A and go and acquire a dozen tins from Tesco's.

Oh, the variety of this job.

Goodnight.

I'm sorry: this post is rather late, I fear, and I know that there are some of you, dear Followers, who can't sleep soundly - or go to bed at all - until they've read the nightly rambling from the lodgemeister. It's just that I've been putting the world to rights with two friends, one of whom is Jewish and the other of whom is French-Canadian, and we do tend to go on a bit, not least when discussing French authors' take on the world, with especial reference to the Egyptian goings-on. Mind you, Egypt is no stranger to controversy; wasn't it they who used to punish poeple by extracting their people's brains through their nostrils, or something like that? I think it was the fiersome Mr Burton who first enlightened me about that, in a history lesson in the 1960s. It was interesting to hear the outstanding journalist (imho) John Ligne, talking this morning about how he thought that the current Middle East situation equated to that region's 'Berlin Wall' moment: personally, I'm not so sure - any more than I'm convinced that the dominant wisdom that there is no middle ground between dictatorship and fundamnetalism is correct. It's certainly a pivotal point, and we shall see. I liked the slogan 'Moslem, Christian; we're all Egyptian', though, as I'm an ardent fan of religions getting together. Ecunemism is the word that sort of covers that, but it tends only to be used for the incorporation of Christian denominations. Oh, I could go on ....

Sorry again: far too heavy for this 'ere blog that deals mainly with jammy dodgers (the biscuits, not the inmates) and fruit.

It's been Mrs C's and my half day today, it having been (Wilding, eat your heart out. Sorry, Wilding, extract your heart), so we went for a very agreeable walk at Yarnton, after having tried unsuccessfully to re-tax my scooter - a long story, and one that I can't really cause to be interesting in any way. Thence to and with (gosh, accusative and ablative all in one!) my friends for the above-mentioned discussion at the staff room annexe,(Joe's wine bar in Summertown, for those new to all this in-house terminology) back for a brilliant episode of Holby (although Mr Malick is perhaps a little bit of a caricature - and a hyperbolic one at that) and now .....

to bed.

Goodnight.