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.