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.