Sme us were fortunate enough to be given an impromptu piano recital tonight. What happened was, you see, that the background music that I was playing on my 'sound system' (old-fashioned hi-fi, in fact) was Debussy's 'Clair de lune', and from behind the door popped half a dozen enquiring heads. Looking disappointed that it was neither I nor Tom (with whom I was discussing car insurance) who was playing, I noticed that one of the heads was joined to the rest of a body that formed a particularly musical whole. I invited the owner of same to play, reminding him of the words of my first headmaster (yes, that's right, the one who told me the limerick about the Jill that I can't tell you for reasons of decency: suffice it to say that atomic pills come into it) who told me that it was always considered impolite to refuse an invitation to play the piano at a social function if one had been blessed with such a gift. I was delighted that my invitation was accepted and we were all treated to a fine performance of a lovely piece from the romantic period.

It's been a very pleasant, fruit-chomping, table-tennis playing, telly-watching, piano-enhancing evening in Newton tonight, and apart from one particular resident advising me that I needed to shed a few kilos, all has gone swimmingly. Particularly in the upstairs bathroom. As for my dietary advisor, he needed to be sat upon and squashed. (Metaphorically, of course.)

Gute nacht.

Tom C is back from Japan! An emotional and exceptionally happy reunion at Heathrow led to a wonderful family gathering in the Newton kitchen - but only in the Cheater household would you discover a scenario in which the prodigal is causing the assembled company to weep with laughter at his day's travel exploits, at the same time as a slightly distressed French ten-year-old has arrived for reassurance, causing the two daughters to go weak at the knees at the sight of such Gallic innocence, the dog is going crazy, Miss Chloe is whipping up the cream for the pudding, and Mr Randolph has appeared to see his former pupil and fellow drummer!

It's been a hilarious evening - and it's good to have him back. Male company around the dining table - not to mention our living quarters - has been at a premium for six months. Even the dog and the cat are female. As Alice said to her sister, 'Imagine living with just Tom and Daddy for six months!'

Indeed. Until tomorrow, then,

Forgive me, dear readers, but a combination of Common Entrance, Tom C returning from Japan after seven months and, as the hymn says, 'the daily round, the trivial task' are all conspiring to prevent me from writing very much in the way of nightly reports on this section of the blogosphere. However, all went well tonight, courtesy of Mr Bryan, and I'm sure all is well.

I will be back properly very soon, when normal service will be resumed. Bear with me. (No, not really: that would be dangerous.) Incidentally, the CE English paper required the candidates to answer questions about a poem about a forest: some of the boys thought it was a very odd poetic work. I told them that I thought it was just the Independent Schools Examination Board branching out into new areas. (And then kept the puns going for about five minutes. They twigged what I was doing in the end.)

What do you mean, you can't stick this any more?

Bonne nuit.

Spelbound: that was what they were called. And yes, they do spel it with one L. So if you should happen upon a troupe of greased up, semi-clad, fake-tanned acrobats, at least you'll know how to spel their name. Ok, yes, they are very good. (If you like that sort of thing.)

It's been a good day today, with Fifth Years preparing for the challenges of the coming week. Staff versus Fathers cricket proved a pleasant enough distraction for those of us who didn't wish to show off too much, and I was able to stride imperiously and managerially around the place in my exalted, executive position. (Senior Master, for those of you who didn't know. And no, I do not hold that position simply because, as my mother kindly suggested, I happen to be the oldest member of staff. Actually, on that theme, I heard it said by someone the other day that the Stannah stairlift company were developing a high-speed stair chair - so that people who used it were able to remember what they went up the stairs for in the first place.) (No, not original. I probably heard it on 'Britain's Got Max Factor', or something similar.) (There do seem to be rather a lot of parentheses tonight.) (In my opinion.)

Tonight's viewing options, for those who did not wish to avail themselves of ping-pong (and I see from the DT that the game is making a come-back, which is nice),were 'Soccer Aid', which was moderately enticing if you happen to have a penchant for watching celebrities strutting their stuff - or in Gordon Ramsay's case ..... - no, better not go there -, or watching James May, Ruchard Hammond and J. Clarkson travelling around Vietnam on diminutive motorbikes. Club biscuits and a load of fruit helped to take the pain away. (No names.) (Ho ho.)

Here;s hoping for a successful week.

Yes, yes, I know it's Cerberus. I was thinking cyber-ly.

People, I must tell you about tonight. The film was 'The Italian Job', which had to do battle with 'Britain's Got Talent'. The latter, for reasons that are largely beyond me, proved the more popular. Anyway, as I'm sure at least some of you will know, or at least, those of you who weren't living the high life in the name of camping with Bradders down in the far fields, a spectacularly capable and semi-clad group of people who threw one another around in the air, were the winners. That, in itself, you might think, is the end of the saga. Not in Newton.

When the residents went upstairs, they all dutifully cleaned their teeth, and for some reason someone decided to throw what I am relaibly informed is called, simply, 'a pig' onto the bathroom ceiling. I discovered a group of boys, awaiting its fall from grace. Remembering the act, I quickly lifted one of the smaller members of the throng to ceiling height and 'the pig', to rapturous applause, was collected. Result.

It all happens here, you know. And no, I won't tell you which Newtonian enquired of me whether I, too, liked the 'fake sun-tan' of those in the act.

Abject apologies, once again, to the hundreds of you (in my dreams), scattered around the globe as you are, who logged on to this domain last night or this morning to find that the cyberspatial cupboard, if you will, was bare. I could claim that I took a night off to celebrate getting to 170 posts, but the truth is that Mrs C and I were dining chez sa soeur, and by the time we returned, I was in no fit state - sorry, I mean it was far too late - to start composing witty banter. (If such it be.) (I always think that using the subjunctive makes me sound like a Dorset native, and indeed, I hear it around me all the time in Bridport. I've never had the nerve to pass comment on any of the natives' use of same, as I suspect that something very similar to Cyberus (the dog, I mean, not one of the natives ...) might be instructed to practise using its canine molars on me.)

I nearly had a mutiny tonight. All the residents were outside playing ping-pong when Mrs C decided that it was time to come in and eat biscuits. The Cookie fairy has arrived once again, however, and so I decided to let the residents go from the garden by dorms. I was told, firmly, by the residents of Osprey, that they should have been allowed in first, as such were the indirect provenance of the said delights. You have to be very careful here, you know. Anyway, once all were in and chomping in the common room, I enquired where mine was. It was duly delivered. My younger daughter then appeared, informing me that my dear wife had instructed her to bring one to me. Another victory. So thank you, Granny, and please accept another chorus of WLYG. They were delicious.

So there we be. Another evening gone - and the final chunk of the year now in full swing.

Oh arrr.

I don't know about you, but I thought that break was just a tad short. Still, it was pleasant enough and I was delighted to learn that everyone seems to have had an enjoyable time and that batteries have been re-charged. West Dorset provided much solace, as it always does, complete with the village fate. Sorry, fete. (Yes, I know it should have a circumflex.) Mrs C always gets slightly irritated by my cynical references to the 'fete worse than death', but I've never been a great fete enthusiast - although to be fair, this year my tickets for the bottle stall did actually come up trumps. I was supposed to do a stint on the gate this year, but, for the second year running, I was informed that there was sufficient manpower already and that my services were surplus to requirements. I think it's all a ploy, you know, but perhaps I should keep quiet. After all, I'd hate there to be any suggestion of 'Fete-gate-gate'.

It's good to have all the residents back once again. For one, whose roots lie across La Manche, it was his anniversaire yesterday, which caused all of his dorm-mates to burst into song on his return. I would love to report that this event was a tuneful affair, but it wasn't, and the pronunciation was a little suspect, too. Still, if you'd heard the Curlewites 'singing' 'Bonny Annivursur', you'd have realised that their hearts were in the right place. I suppose the rendition must have had a Scottish influence.

So, here we go again then. Let's hope the summer weather continues. Oh goodness, I've started writing about the weather now. Time to sign off, I think.

Jusqu'a demain.