Good evening one and all, wherever you may be.

My Newtonian day began badly, because the heap of junk that masquerades as a television in the boys' common room decided, again, that it would fail to provide any kind of pictorial image. Basil Fawlty became incarnate, and an e-mail drenched in irony was sent whizzing through cyberspace to the powers-that-be. (Not to the HM, though, because he once told us off for being too ironic in our messaging.)

Anyway, I forgot all about that once the day got going, and all my 'Winchesters' as I call them (i.e. the members of my form who are doing Winchester entrance) seem to have done well today.

'Sir', said one of the LMs, 'Is it true that you're 60?'

'Yes', I replied, honestly.

'Wow. That means you're younger than my dad'.

Another LM enjoined the dialogue.

'I always tell my mum that she's 21. It seems to go down quite well. I don't think I'll tell her she looks 22, though, because that might not be quite so good'.

'Yes', said I, 'I don't think that would be wise'. No names, of course, but he does a nice line in mohawks.

TV viewing incorporated ITV's Road Wars, and I was treated to a litany of 'Crashes I've been in' from most of the rezzies. I told them that had it not been for the fact that Mrs C had crashed her car on the Hammersmith Flyover in 1980, she and I wouldn't be looking after Newton - but that's a story for another time. Oh OK, then. D crashed her Renault 5. She phoned me. I, who was then the proud owner of an Alfasud, raced from Ascot to the scene of the crash and sorted it all out. She thought I was cool. (So did I.) I then complimented her on her choice of dress in a parents' evening the following week. She thought I was even more cool, fell in love with me; feeling was mutual; we got engaged. (Short version. Hers may contain slight differences.) (But not many.)

I think that's quite enought for tonight.

Goodnight.