Despite my best efforts, it seems that my exhortations to the troops to return from their excursion to Cadbury's World with 'something nice for their lodgemeister' fell on deaf ears, for there hasn't been a sign of a flake, whole milk bar or a fruit and nut anywhere tonight. At least, that's how it appears, and I'm not sure I can be troubled to investigate fully. There've been some enterprising hiding places in the past, though: behind the clock, behind the fire alarm bell (discovered when there really was a fire practice that night!!), in the pillow, in the mattress, sewn into Teddy - and even in the hollow bit of an old iron bed frame! Oh yes, I've seen them all. And usually discovered them. Still, they all came back happily after their chocolateering adventure, had a shower, and came out smelling like, er, Roses. Talking of which, last year we used to have what I call 'fragrance nights' (which actually really are 'fragrance nights') when the rezzies would compete with one another with their various bath oils and shampoos to ensure that Newton was pong free. It did, I suppose, have a whiff of what my classics teacher used to call 'houses of ill repute', but at least it cloaked the Cloaca. Oh, the wit.

We watched Fawlty Towers tonight, because I didn't really feel that Waterloo Road was a very good option as far as viewing was concerned, and yet again I fell about laughing as Basil beat the old 1100 Traveller up. They used to have hydrolastic suspension, you know, which was based on Citroen's excellent system, and then taken on by Bentley after that. Or possibly Rolls Royces. (Which one should never call 'Rollers', and which never break down. They simply 'fail to proceed'.) That's why they're so smooth. (Oh yeah, James May, get a load of that.)

A good evening all round, then, and now Frozen Planet is calling. Or is it 'cold calling'?!

Goodnight.