Greetings, dear Friends - especially those of you reading this in the beautiful country that is Brazil, where I spent a happy time as a private tutor in Rio. Yes, I know, I had the best times, what with Rio one time and Bel Air the next, not to mention New Jersey and then New York (twice). I'm sure I've told you this anecdote before, but my time in NJ could have proved pretty alarming, because I was invited by the ex-wife of the CEO of an international company to act as tutor to their two sons. At the time, she was, as Facebook will have it, 'in a relationship' with the Master of a celebrated ocean liner, but when I arrived at the house, the aforementioned gentleman wasn't there and wasn't due to arrive for a few days. I was shown to my quarters, and to my dismay, as one who is 6'1" tall, I spied a bed that cannot have been more than 5'4" in length. I was informed that this was only one of the options available to me, and that there was, if I should so wish it, another. (This was all pre-D, I should add, rather rapidly.) Being the son of a clergyman, with an appropriate moral code having been drummed into me, I declined the kind offer, and spent a rather uncomfortable time in a very, very short bed. (Actually, it was more the headlines in the tabloids that featured more prominently on my mind: "Young schoolmaster ....... ex-wife of xxxxxx ........ in relationship with Master of ........ etc., etc.)

Bel Air was different, however, because there Mrs C and I found ourselves sleeping in the bed that was located in the bedroom of the house that was being used for 'Dallas', which some of you may remember. I looked it up on YouTube the other day, and yes, there it was! Not many among us can claim - honestly - to have slept in Pam Ewing's bed .... !

Closer to home, however, it being a Wednesday means that tonight was TV night, and all the LMs were captivated (unexpectedly) by a programme about fishing in Cornwall. The transmission was accompanied by the gentle chomping of Quality Street and ginger nuts, and liquid refreshment whose identity I can't recall. It wasn't hot choc, anyway. Apple juice, probably.

I was asked today at the irregularly-spelt Crosfields School, after a largely victorious time there, what kind of sweet rations the Newtonians receive. I was able to turn my mind to such things during the return journey on the coach, and I came up with Skittles, fruit pastilles, fruit gums, Maltesers and Starburst. (aka Spangles, for those of us who remember them.)

Enough for tonight - and I'm sorry if you've heard those initial anecdotes before,

Goodnight.

Today is the sort of day that reminds me of a choir trip in the 1980s (B.SF.) when Mr Music-Price and I, along with four other members of staff from the school at which we were working, took the singers to Holland for a week. It was a fine and hugely enjoyable time, facilitating your correspondent with the opportunity to play the organ in the Cathedral Church of St Jan in Gouda, which boasts the longest nave in Europe. After the choir had gone through the repertoire, Mr Price and I played a couple of organ voluntaries. Now I don't know if you've ever performed publicly in Holland, but I don't think audiences are slow to express their opinions about whether they like something or not. So, after I'd finished my performance of a Prelude and Fugue by Vincent Lubeck, I removed my hands from the keyboard (manual, in organ parlance) and my feet from the pedalboard (yes, organists really do play with their feet as well as their hands), I waited for the tumultuous applause. Nothing. Not a sausage. Not a single, solitary sound. Yeah, well. Thanks. I think Holland is flat and their breakfasts are not very nice, either. Still, the Reichsmuseum is amazing, I do concede that. Of course, they all applauded Mr Music-Price's stunning performance of Bach. As if I cared. I had the prospect of giving a speech in Dutch that afternoon to look forward to, and I had carefully rehearsed what I was going to say, having taken a few Dutch lessons beforehand. I have to confess that the reaction from the residents of the old people's home in which the choir was singing was not wholly dissimilar to that which I had enjoyed in the cathedral, but then I was informed that most of the inmates were hard of hearing, so I wasn't too dispirited. One day you should ask Mr Music-Price about our experience in a Dutch supermarket.

Anyway, to return to my opening salvo: on the journey back to the hotel, our driver took a wrong turning on the autobahn, or whatever it is in Dutch, and we ended up travelling half way to Germany. After about three hours of a journey which should have taken thirty minutes, our Scottish colleague, who knew a bit of German (and Dutch, as it happens) observed, as we disembarked from the coach, 'Well! Some journey that was!'

Except that he translated the word for 'journey' into German.

Quite. Enough said. Back on Wednesday.

Goodnight.

So there we are, then. Another Sunday has come and gone, with Mr Ives giving an excellent maiden sermon and then plenty of things happening throughout the day, including Mrs C's treasure hunt, which proved to be particularly popular. The piano concert was excellent, as those of you who were there will know, and pianists of all ability levels displaying their virtuosity. I was treated to another performance of the Chopin Nocturne tonight, to which I responded with my own rendition of his waltz in A minor which seemed to go down well. I'm resurrecting a number of Chopin pieces at the moment, so to hear someone of such tender years playing so superbly has been a major motivation for me. Scary, though, and not a little disquieting, to recall that I could play through the whole of Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata when I was in my final year at school. Oh well, that's something to work at next year .... !

Now. I've had a complaint. Not from any one of you, my dear global Followers, but from one of my esteemed colleagues: one who looks after boys of a similar age group to those who reside in Newton. It seems that he is unimpressed by the recent sporadic nature of my recent posts, as he is, it seems, an ardent follower of my literary efforts. So this, I hope, will arrive cyberspatially over in the turret, in the form of an apology for my inexcusable tardiness. Of course, I wouldn't dream of mentioning any names ....... As for the literary qualities of this particular paragraph, well, I think there's an excellent English teaching post available.

Countryfile (which I have just tried to type correctly three times) (so perhaps I'll forget about the English job) formed the bulk of the televisual entertainment tonight, which was appproriately combined with consumption of the produce of the orchard and the grove, and Top Gear would have done so, too, but as 'we' woke up rather earlier than 'we' should have done this morning, so 'we' all went to bed a tad earlier than 'we' might otherwise have done.

H'm. 'Produce of the orchard and the grove.' Let me see now .......

Dear Headmaster,

I have seen that you have a good job advertised and I am one of those what could do it. I can do parts of speach and stuff, so I wood be just what you need.

Er, no. Perhaps not.

Goodnight.

I remembered - well, actually, the narrator remembered the joke. It goes thus:

Why did the scarecrow win a top scholarship?

And now you'll have to wait until you reach the end of this post to find out.

Tonight was the night of the junior debates, and three Newtonians managed to acquit themselves most laudably, speaking on the matter of whether we worry too much about what we eat. It was suggested that it was more appealing to enjoy a short life but a merry one, rather than a long and boring one, which seemed to drum up quite a bit of support. I always tell the boys that the only reason I go to a debate is to see how much worse it can be than the last one I attended, and that I'm rarely disappointed, which they all think is far too harsh a comment (and no doubt so do you, but you need to be there), but I have to confess that tonight I was totally wrong, for the speeches were excellent, and there was little, if any, attention-seeking among the speakers from the floor.

The only negative outcome from the festivities in Macmillan was that Team Newton raced back to lodge, screaming and chanting, as boys are wont to do after such happenings. Their excitement was extinguished by a bellowing lodgemeister, who sent them packing back to the Bolton door. This exercise was executed no less than thrice, and it was your correspondent who had l'oeuf sur le visage, as he suddenly realised that Mrs Bryan's parents, who were visiting their daughter and family, were observing proceedings with more than faint amusement.

Hot choc and digestives, as well as fruit by the mingi, as they say in Swahili, was offered as tonight's refreshment, and once everyone had calmed down from the thrill of the debate, we had a lovely evening, with games of all kinds being played in the DCR. They had all been lovingly set out by Miss Lade, and were all ready for use when the LMs arrived.

So there we are. Another day is done.

OK, you're getting excited now.

I'll tell you the punchline.

Remember the question? (Scroll back up if not.)

Answer:

Because he was outstanding in his field.

I told you it was good.

Goodnight.

I know, I know: it's Thursday and I'm not supposed to be on duty. Long story, but in a nutshell, things got complicated the week before last when the deep snows befell us, so Mr Porter's off tonight, and Mrs C and I are on. Don't ask.

The life of a lodegmeister is nothing if not varied. Tonight, as I walked past Curlew, I happened upon one LM on an upper bunk dangling a woolly snake to the floor below, and another LM grabbing same, telling me that they were 'playing deep sea fishing'. I terminated this game very quickly, especially when the owner of the upper bunk showed me, by attaching another snake to a husky teddy (a teddy that was in the form of a husky, not a teddy whose growl was a tad hoarse), how the survival method worked. Bear Grylls it wasn't.

I then moved upstairs, where I was asked whether I knew the Siamese National Anthem. The fun was rather spoilt when I replied that I did, so my questioners moved on to further humour, asking me various questions, the answer to one I did not know, and I did find rather amusing. i.e.: it raised a smile. I have now forgotten it, which is what happens when you get to my age. I think I told you that the Stannah Stairlift people are planning to make a high-speed version, so that people like me can get to the top of the stairs before we forget what we went upstairs for in the first place.

We had a second television night tonight, which was a little wayward, because strictly speaking it contravenes regulation number 356437/AFGT/SF/6/12/A, which clearly states that television may be watched only on Wednesdays, Saturdays (in the form of a film) and Sundays. However, as the LMs missed their TV night two weeks ago because of a lengthy lodge meeting, we thought we'd make it up to them. If there's no post on this blog tomorrow night, you may assume that my reckless behaviour was deemed entirely unacceptable, and that Mrs C and I have made a premature exit.

Our Leader was away today, which led me to believe that biscuit upgrade day would not happen. I was proved wrong, however, and real Thursday coffee (but everyday bics) were served in the HMDR, Deputy Head presiding. My excitement was enstinguished, however, when Mr Hannah and I realised that we were on Break duty. Still, I did manage to sneak a quick cup of coffee from the pot right at the end.

Goodnight.

Greetings, dear Followers, and special greetings to those of you who are reading this in Vietnam and Slovenia! (And to the Followers on the Isle of Wight, of course, who like to feel part of the place ... )

I was asked tonight whether it's fun being a lodgemeister: I said that it most definitely is and I shall miss it, and the LMs, enormously. It becomes embedded as a way of life when you've done it for all but 18 years; 13 years in Mayfield, then a short break before being brought back from the cold to do these four incredibly happy years in Newton. Mind you, we did enjoy our short sabbatical, when we lived in what's now the Bryans' house at the back of Newton, so I don't think it will be too difficult to adjust to a non-Newtonian existence, especially when we have such a lovely pad to which to retire.

Tonight being a Wednesday meant TV night, and as there wasn't much evidence of alacrity when 'Rip Off Britain' came on to the screen, there certainly was when the representatives of Inter-Milan and Marseille started kicking the ball around. That, accompanied by hot choc and a selection of bics made for an evening of contentment all round.

I had an e-mail from son Tom tonight, who, as you know, is happily ensconced in his studies at SOAS, London Uni, studying Japanese and Korean. He told me that he found that he was making rather many errors, so he went out and bought a gallon of Tippex. Big mistake.

Goodnight.

Once I've done my morning rounds, turned on the lights, bidden the troops a, er, cheery 'Good morning' and given the details of the day to those sufficiently compos mentis to assimilate them, I make for the DCR, and await the arrival of those about to depart, if you see what I mean. Usually there is the customary collection of hair issue, collar issues, slipper issues (they forget to to put their shoes on, lest any of you should be thinking back to your own prep school days and fretting) and the rest, so it's always a pleasure when I hear any Newtonian expressing enthusiasm for his academic subjects. Viz:

Him (sleepily): Oh I DO hope we have (name of academic subject withheld) today.

Me: Oh, that's nice: why?

Him: Because I'll be able to go to sleep.

Me: Ah. I see.

You'll be relieved - as was I - to know that it was not one of my own portfolio that was being referred to in such a way. And no, I'm not going to reveal which one it was.

Now, I don't know what you said to your offspring about post-lights-out loquaciousness, but whatever it was, it seems to have done the trick! Last night there wasn't a sound, nor is there any sound tonight - so, thank you, one and all. That's how it's meant to work: as a partnership. Brilliant.

It was brown shoe-cleaning tonight, and we had a further four winners. One LM decided that as he'd won already and was therefore unable to win a second time that he wouldn't be bothered with such frippery, but he soon saw the error of his ways, and returned to the laundry, announcing to Miss (Harriet) Lade 'Miss Lade, I've been rejected!' She took pity on the poor lamb, as per the contract.

I thought that one LM was looking rather stressed tonight, and so I suggested that he took a stress test. You may well be feeling similarly for whatever reason, so may I offer you this one?

It's to be found at

http://www.sodahead.com/living/the-stress-test---very-accurate/blog-186365/

I hope it works for you as it did for him.

Goodnight.

Good evening, dear Friends and Followers, and welcome back to this cyberspatial hidey-hole. It certainly sounds as if you've all had wonderful times - and I was delighted to learn that having to share a hotel and ski-runs with SF staff didn't spoil the fun for those who found that there really is no escape ..... !

Mrs C and I were not to be found on the slopes this time, although not too much of the dissing, if you don't mind, because as I think I've mentioned before, we can hold our own if we need to! I even have a wonderful photo of your correspondent mono-skiing, I might add - although it pains me to confess that if you turn the picture through a right-angle you can actually see that it is, in fact, an image of yours truly having fallen heavily, and the fact that there is only one ski to be seen in the picture is indicative of the actualite.

So no, no snow, as it were. We made for our Dorset domain and enjoyed the company of all of our young for a few days, after which they dispersed and left the geriatrics to do what old people do. I did actually get the bike started, but such were the conditions that I thought it best to keep it where it was rather than try and skate on two wheels, otherwise I might have suffered a similar fate to that of Lawrence of Arabia after he'd climbed on to his motorbike on the night he said his final goodbye to Thomas Hardy: wrapped rather terminally around a tree.

The Fantastic Mr Fox appealed to all tonight, as did pink wafers (although there was a minor complaint that they were, er, 'pink, sir', an observation whose apposition I found to be most commendable,) Quavers and apple juice.

Anyway, they all seem to be on great form - and, methinks, quite tired, for I cannot hear a peep.

This post, by the way, is number 460: 40 to go before I reach my target!

Goodnight.

Gosh. What a miserable and cantankerous old so and so I must have seemed when I wrote that last post. Well, I'm pleased to report that things have improved meggaly since then, and we've just had a lovely evening. I told the troops that tonight was to be 'soap and shampoo night', and, to a man, they all heeded my exhortation. I did, in fact, tell them that I expected the whole lodge to smell like the rose garden of the Palace of Versailles, although it was, perhaps, just a tad humiliating to be informed by a quasi-resident of the country in which said palace is located that 'the place smells mank in winter, sir'. You'll be pleased to learn that there was nothing 'mank' about the fragrance of this place, however, and my classics teacher, God rest Mr Dakin's soul, would have been impressed. He was a fascinating man, in fact, because he'd been part of the Bletchley Park code-breaking team (as had Mrs C's uncle, Sir Bernard Lovell), although he never spoke of it. Our other beak, Mr Gardner, was the private tutor to the son of Haile Selasse and that particular royal family's personal friend, so that was interesting, too.

It's been a busy old day, with much happening, although the cancellation of the matches was a disappointment to many. Considering that, the LMs have been very good tonight, with a particularly enjoyable curry at supper time, followed by a most agreeable verre de vin with my friends Messrs Edwards (former tutee), Music-Price and Computer-Price, at Mr Edwards' place.

Ha! Two for the Price of one! (Actually, it was quite a price, because it was une bouteille de Meursault. And jolly nice it was, too - accompanied by exquisitely-fried duck's gizzards, which probably sounds much better in its translated form.)

By the way, I received notification from Monash University, who were generous enough to grant me a research fellowship three years ago, that I am officially a 'professorial fellow'! I've hesitated before rushing down to the printer's to change the letterhead .... ! How pompous is that?! Ah well, if you see me sporting a fine professorial gown with gold braid and a whole load of furry trappings, you'll know it's just the Newton Blogger showing off. (Again.)

Goodnight.

You know how you sometimes have 'rubbish' days? Well, today's been one of those - culminating with your correspondent getting seriously annoyed with the members of one particular dorm who simply cannot, it seems, understand that they need to keep quiet after lights out, and before lights on. Unusual for me to get quite so wound up, but I think the message may - just - have got through that I am very - and I mean very - displeased. To their credit, a number of them came up to me during shoe-cleaning and told me that they were very sorry; further testimony to the fact that they realised they'd gone a couple of steps - or two, in some cases three, and in a couple of cases four - too far. Yes, I was cross. Very. I accepted their various apologies, but told them that I hoped that they were sincere.

As for shoe-cleaning, that was fine, and all went well. Mrs C and Miss Lade managed to maintain the equilibrium, and there were four worthy winners.

Not sure I feel like writing too much more tonight, because - well, just because. They'd better not talk.

Goodnight.

Greetings, one and all - especially to those of you reading this in Latvia and China, as my stats tell me that you are! I don't think we've had anyone from China before, so especial greetings to you, sir/madam.

The snow has offered opportunities for many today, and the ubiqitous Mrs Hilder, as duty person this morning, arranged a massive inter-league snow-base building competition, which seemed to work very well and was much enjoyed by all who participated.

Lunch was a full-blown, 'proper' Sunday roast, and was superb, imho. I saw all Newtonians tucking in comprehensively, and enjoying all that was on offer.

Mrs C was one of the duty people this afternoon, with Mr Computer-Price, and it was good to receive reports of sensible behaviour and boys having plenty of fun.

Chapel consisted of an illustrated talk (illustrated with music and commentary, I mean, not by slides) about how the service of Evensong came about, and incorporated (that's a nightmare word to type - try it and see) the Chaplain wearing his Cambridge MA hood as it would have been worn by the monks originally. Before the service I told him that the history of fur on academic hoods was that the more lowly qualified one was in those early days, the further away from the fire in the Great Hall one had to sit, so if you were a mere Bachelor of Wot'eva, you'd have a hood with a whole load of fur because you were miles away from the heat, and the Doctors of Stuff would need none at all, and be all up close and personal. I told one of my 5th Year classes this fascinating information once, and one of the boys rejoined with, 'Oh. So you mean, the thicker you are, the more furry your hood is.' I suggested that that wasn't quite how I'd put it (thinking of my own), but I could see what he was getting at. (I do have another two that don't have any fur at all, so I didn't feel too bad.)

Top Gear was good tonight, with the presenters in China with Stig's Chinese cousin, testing Chinese cars, which, on the whole acquitted themselves pretty well, and apple juice, fruit and Kit-Kats all helped to make for a pleasant evening.

That's it for tonight, so -

Goodnight.

It's snowing here in North Oxford, and has been for the past four hours, so it's pretty deep now. We (well, more 'they', really) watched Mrs Doubtfire, which they all loved, and which has just finished, and as I went into Osprey to turn the lights out, the following dialogue occurred:

LM: Sir! Sir! Come over here and look out of the window! It's SO romantic!

Me: What is?

LM: Sir! Just come and see!

As the Osprey windows look on to the home of the Bryan family, I could only imagine that Mr and Mrs B were enjoying a candle-lit dinner for two, or something like that, but no, 'twas not that which had occasioned my summons. I looked out onto the most wonderful picture of a snow-laden back garden, and part of Summertown, and it was indeed, to borrow the word, 'romantic'. My interlocutor and I sat on the window-sill and we admired the view for a minute or two; a true memory was etched for eternity.

I then went into Kingfisher to turn their lights out, and, after almost all the occupants had turned their lights out, there was one, the other side of the partition, that remained on.

Me: Who IS that boy who hasn't turned his light out?

LM: It's X, sir, but, ha ha, he's not there .... !! Ha ha!!

I went over and turned the light out myself.

Me: It's not that funny. (Sir bashes into the locker at the end of the bed) Ow!

LM: No, but that is !!

Goodnight.

Good evening, all.

I had a wonderful evening with Tom C and the lovely Christine, his girlfriend, last night, in London. I know Pentonville Road doesn't sound that enticing, but last year, when Tom was housed in student digs in that super-salubrious region, we discovered Bistro de la Gare, which is right opposite where he was living, and it's been a v special place to us ever since. It's French, as you might imagine from its name, and while it's basic, the food's great, the wine is very good and the creme brulee (sorry, can't do accents on the blog) is every bit as good as that served in much more prestigious eateries. So fond of the place are we, that we've coined a new verb: to bedelg, which we think is most appropriate.

It was games night tonight, and many LMs partook, as did Miss Harriet and Mrs C, who both have more than a slight competitive streak .... !

Only in Newton would you hear the following dialogue, as you would have done tonight, had you been here:

Me (peremptorily, on hearing excessive noise from Curlew): What are you doing with that shark?

LM1: It's not a shark, it's a whale.

Me: What are doing with that whale, then. It looks as if you're attacking E with it.

LM1: He wanted me to do it.

Me: Is that true? Did you ask to be hit with a whale?

LM2: Yes, sir.

Me: Whatever kind of lodge would this be if we all went around expecting to be hit with whales?

LM1: Sorry sir.

Me: Well, we'll say no more about it then. But it did come as a bit of a shark.

All the matches are cancelled tomorrow, I'm afraid, so there will be some disappointed LMs, I know. Snow's forecast, too. Still, I expect we'll be all white.

Goodnight.

So there we are. Another last notched up as I played the organ for the final time, after what Mr Edwards and I worked out have been at least 15 years, in New College Chapel. As I remarked, wistfully, to my page-turner as I strode out of the college cloisters, it's been an amazing privilege, and one that I have appreciated hugely. 'Well', said he, 'at least you've left on a good note'. 'Indeed', said I, 'it was a D'. (Actually, it was a D major chord, but I didn't want to get too technical'.) I don't know whether you were there, but it was a wonderful service, with the Red Choir soaring to ever-greater heights of distinction.

Back, then, to the relative solace of Newton and the LMs, and the place has had a pleasing fragrance about it tonight, as everyone showered efficiently and many washed their hair. I used to have what I called 'fragrance nights' a couple of years ago, but that seemed to have more than a whiff of what my classics teacher referred to as 'a house of ill repute' about it, and as I thought the inspectors might smell a rat (or worse) if they heard about such goings on, I abandoned the idea.

Top Gear was good tonight, and the petrolheads all enjoyed that, accompanied by pink wafers, fruit and apple juice, and then there was an amazing programme about tigers, which was very popular, in the same way that I was most definitely not, when I called for silent reading at 8.30. Still, they all got over it very quickly and made for bed where a few minutes of reading silently, or quiet contemplation enabled all to settle down and go to sleep.

And I can't hear a sound.

Goodnight.