Well, my Friends, this is it. This and only this is the 500th bloglog - and I promised you something different, and so, read on - and see!

There I was, you see, standing behind the stumps on the Game 6 pitch, watching fielders on the boundary racing towards the ball. One member of the game retrieved it, and threw it, very, very hard, to the bowler's end. It was a pretty accurate throw, too, but there was just the one problem. Instead of hitting the top of the stumps, it crashed into your correspondent's ankle, making a horrid cracking sound as it did so, and causing pain the like of which I haven't experienced for many a year.

Stupidly, probably, I walked back after the game and tried to teach an English lesson. That lasted ten minutes, after which I excused myself and went up to Hobsons, where, I am told, I looked 'grey'. Sister was wonderful, of course, but I couldn't link up with Mrs C for a while, as she was teaching, and couldn't escape. So Mr Ives was called, who was brilliant. He sped me to the JR for an X-ray and remained there until such time as I was given clearance to return home; then chauffered me home again, where I was able to recuperate with a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio, along with Mrs Ives, who had been equally wonderful, The HM, who had heard of my misfortune and espied me a-boozing as he walked towards Beech House, and Mrs C, who strode purposefully towards Mayfield upon seeing that I had returned safely.

So now I'm supposed to be 'off school' for 48 hours, with my leg up and covered with ice, or some such. Yeah, right. Ok, yes, I'll be careful: I know that there are mummies reading this. No, I will. I promise.

And I'm indebted to Mr Ives for suggesting that I should inform the world of the 500th bloglog by saying that I celebrated by getting plastered. (In fact I didn't and I'm not, but it was a very clever line, I thought.) He also said that if I was going to end the blog, then I should make a clean break.

I still can't believe that this is the 500th entry, but it really, really is. Make no bones about it. Sorry; can't help these puns: it's my Achilles' heel. (OK, yes, that one was Dr Harskin's.) Mrs C said she was going to make one, too, but she couldn't think of it. I encouraged her by saying, 'Oh come on, it's on the tibia tongue'.

That's it, folks. Thanks for reading - and do buy the book. It'll give me a leg up.

Over and out. Goodnight, one and all.