I certainly can't ever complain that my life is dull. During the course of this weekend alone my conversations have ranged from a consideration of Calvinism versus Arminanism (with 5L in their English lesson) to a fascinating discussion tonight, with a group of Newtonians, as to whether X-Factor is one word or two. (And to think that I thought I'd heard the last of the wretched programme.) Lest you should find yourselves wondering about the outcome of such intellectual deliberations, I hasten to tell you that neither of the conundra was resolved. (I just stuck that plural in for Mr Bryan, as I know he'll be reading it before his Tuesday night duty slot. And to show off, of course.)

I had an organ-focused morning, by which I mean that I played for two services: one here, and then another at the church at the end of the road, the latter of which, being a non-conformist establishment, was rather different from the former, although both have hymns and readings, even if the SF singing outdoes that of the United Reformed Church, Summertown.

I took a party of Newtonians to Pendon Railway Museum this afternoon: they were delightful company and showed a lively interest in all that was on display. The set-up is excellent, and there seems to be some requirement that all the guides should be of indeterminate age and have beards. Particularly the men. On the way back, I was entertained by diaolgue behind my left ear that went along the following lines (Oh, ha ha. Trains; lines?)

"Don't you love it when you grow your own vegetables? It's fantastic when you pull a carrot out of the ground and think 'Ah! I really grew that on my own!"

I couldn't agree more. And I'd better stop there or I'll lose track of my train of thought.

Choo choo.

I've just been hosting an entertainment in Macmillan, namely the SF lookalike version of 'Just a Minute' - in which, incidentally, two of your older offspring were taking part, and acquitting themselves splendidly. One of my colleagues did suggest that, with one of them participating, the whole thing should have been re-named 'Just an Hour', but he's just an old cynic. (Accurate, though.) A real Newtonian was in charge of sound, and again , he performed his duties very well, although the exit music he had planned had to be aborted at the last minute, due to the duty master's desire to stroll centre stage and declaim to the masses.

It's very quiet here tonight: a film is showing in the clubhouse and 'Parent Trap' is keeping others entertained most efficiently.

But I'm going to abort this post now, collect my dear wife, who's marking the entry test papers, and go and watch Casulaty. See? I still can't type it! (And I'm not just making it up, either!)

H'm. I don't know how many of you are Casulaty aficionados ( a word I always think should contain two fs, btw) but we thought tonight's episode was a bit weird. Good that Jessica has risen from her coma, though. That's something.

I must just share with you a snippet about leagues and cords. There was a certain frisson of uxorial discontent earlier (Miss Chloe has Saturday nights off, I should explain), as it seemed that one resident had overlooked the requirement to submit his garments, so it fell to me to stride around the lodge imperiously, informing all who could hear such declamations (i.e. most of Summertown - allegedly) that the consequences of such behaviour would be dire. Taking a deep breath, I made as if to start my perambulations. I didn't get far. Another resident, whose memory had not failed him, looked up at me and appealed, calmly, "Sir, don't get cross."

Meltdown. (As usual.)

Bonne nuit. (Well, until the gappers get back, anyway. Rowdy lot.)

Al is well in Newton tonight. The residents have been on fine form and the gaggle that were in the Newton clubhouse, chomping on a Braeburn or savouring a squidgy cookie, while engaged in animated discussion, seemed content indeed.

Miss Chloe, I'm glad to report, has made a fine start, and seems to be a popuar addition to the lodge. She seems to be getting the hang of our idosyncrasies with consummate ease - and, as I said to her, her curtain-pulling and light-turning-on skills are almost perfect already. (My days of chat-up lines are long gone - you may be surprised to learn.)

My exhortation to the troops seems to be causing no uncertain mirth at the moment. Apparently, it can be heard throughout Summertown, and such stentorian tones, designed to send a shiver down the most resistant of Newtonian spines, seem to cause exactly the opposite reaction.

"Go on, sir! Do your 'silent reading' call!" Oh well, anything to oblige. This is followed, about five minutes later, by a sad attempt at stony-ground destined irony, viz: "Silent reading, for those struggling with such an advanced concept, means that there shoujld no noise."

Simple pleasures seem to be the order of the day here: another little moment of excitement is caused by my attempts to turn off the lights in the dorm before they turn off their individual ones. Actually, if I trry to explain what happens, I shall just confuse you, so I'll forego that delight.

What I will tell you, though, is that whenever I do call for silent reading, the noise-sensitive fire doors shut of their own volition.

Until tomorrow.

Strange though it may seem to the unititiated, Mr Porter's on duty tonight. I do stress that his presence has nothing to do with our advanced years and the fact that we two geriatrics have had it already, but rather, that as SF tends to go in for hitting the ground running, (e.g. yesterday) it seemed best to do the same in Newton.

It was all rather strange last night, not just because of the limbo dancing, but because everyone was in someone else's bed. I must hasten to reassure all of you, of course, that this was because lots of Newtonians had elected to move dorms, rather than indulge in any undesirable activities, and as a result, I found myself delivering many half-finished exhortations to those whom I imagined my comments were being addressed.

You probably don't need me to mention that your little men are growing up fast. I say that, because I was reminded of that fact by one Newtonian of considerable stature, who hailed me as if I were a passing cab as I strode past a dorm. (I'm often taken for a ride in this lodge.)

"Sir!" he exclaimed, "Look!"

You have to be quite careful in this job when your charges call out like that. I needn't have worried; he was holding up his newly-acquired deodorant stick as if he were holding a much-coveted trophy - and, come to think of it, I suppose that's exactly what it was.

How quickly they grow up. Make the most of these years: they will go all too quickly.

Yo. (I live with teenagers in the hols.) In the general melee (sorry, this blog doesn't do accents) of last night, I completely forgot two things. First, to congratulate all of you for getting through the snow and ice (You see? I told you that it would be worth watching Ice Road Truckers) and secondly to say big thank yous to those who provided super-nourishment last night.

Have a good day - and now, as they say, I'm ghost.

Greetings, Followers. Newton is up, running and back to the surreal. How so? Well, limbo dancing and sea-monkeys, for a start, accompanied by birthday cake a-plenty, cookies and fruit. Yes, that's right, you did read 'limbo dancing'. It all happened by accident, really: I was standing by a door, leaning with my arm across the opening. One Newtonian thought that it would be good to start limbo-ing, so of course loads of others did, too. And no, I didn't. Japanese ballet is quite enough for me, thank you.

All the unpacking was done, and I'm pleased to report that British Airways will need to look no further than your offspring when they need luggage packers, as two Newtonians did the most marvellous job of stacking all the cases in the cupboard.

Now, of course, they're all asleep. Apart from the two in the dorm next to where I'm typing, who are gurgling away, quietly, contentedly - and I'm just about to go and pull the plug out.

It's good to have them back,

Welcome back, everyone - and in case this is the first time you've logged on to the Newton blog, I hope you will enjoy it. As I write, it's snowing, and a - h'm, I wonder what the collective noun for 4 x 4s is: a quadruped, perhaps? - well, anyway, a whatever it is of 4 x 4s is ploughing, skating and weaving - oops, and skidding - down Summerfield Road!

And now I have to get to Form Masters' session. (Note the gender insensitivity!)

More tonight, probably, when we're all back (or some of us, at least) and if you're feeling really bored, there were a couple of posts during the hols.