It's the night of The Ball, and for anyone who's still at home, I'm in my glad-rags, and have just strolled housemagisterially among my subjects. I give you, therefore, the following:

Dr Dean: Oh I say! Almost a rhombus!

H.E.: Oh sir! You look just like James Bond - only better!

O.B.: Come on then sir: show us your moves!

And that's before Mrs C and I have even stepped out of the lodge!

Well, my dear Follower(s), all are safely gathered in once again, and all the CE boys are into the usual array of fine schools. I am sure there will be much celebration tonight - and tomorrow night, and on Saturday, too, in some cases. We are all thrilled, of course, although the nearest Mrs C and I have come to a knees-up in the successees' honour is a glass of orange juice in the Newton garden after lights out. Still, we can make up for that tomorrow ......

It's fascinating what you hear here, you know. This morning, as I walked along the lower corridor of this lodge, I overheard two residents conversing in the showers.

"I wonder if you can become a shower therapist?" was the enquiry that wafted out of the bathroom. I have to say that I didn't recognise the voice, and I thought it wise not to enquire, but I must confess that I've spent one or two moments during today wondering what, exactly, a 'shower therapist' might actually do!

Tonight was calm and contented: another superb evening, and a fine harvest to boot.

See you tomorrow - and if anyone fancies a fandango they'd better make sure it's well past the bewitching hour. You might want to employ the services of one of the above-named professionals after that.

"So, how was your day then, Daddy?" enquired my eldest, as I returned from extinguishing the lights.

"Wonderful, thank you, darling," replied I. It has indeed been a tremendous day. It started with two post-exam lessons with the 5th Years, in which we endeavoured to identify the figurative language employed by Jeremy Clarkson in a motoring video: he being the master of the metaphor and the singular supremo of the simile, not to mention the hexpert of hyperbole. (Yes, contrived, I know.) This was followed by a time of exam-marking and then a period of exam-invigilation, and thence to luncheon, which was superb. A most delightful game of cricket on the farthest fields ensued, in which the Third Years featured with a predominance of our French cousins, who proved that they can play 'our' game with rather greater distinction que les anglais! Tonight saw me enjoying un verre de vin with some of my greatest friends on the staff, after which Mrs C and I retired to Mr and Mrs Laggers' garden for further refreshment and conversation, before returning to our lovely lodge to look after your wonderful sons and heirs. They were all on top form, and both Mrs C and I appreciated, not for the first time, just how fortunate we are to be here.

'Silent' reading was enhanced by the arrival of Jasmine, our tabby 'rescue' cat, who caused many an 'ah' and 'ooh', and was greatly appreciated, as she lay supine on one or two beds, disciovering just what she had been missing.

As strolled back in the sunset from chez Laggers this evening, I stopped to pass the time of evening with a 5th Year boy and opined that one's prep school days really are the best days of one's life - unless one is fortunate enough to return to them, and enjoy life from the other side.

I think I really am getting very, very old.

My dear friends - as many of you as have stuck with me throughout the year, which probably means that I have but one Follower a night, to whom I offer many thanks for your loyalty! Today is our half day, and despite the fact that Mrs C and I have spent the last seven - or in Mrs C's case, nine - hours marking exam scripts, I was given a permit to spend an hour or so in that well-known staff room annexe called Joe's, where I enjoyed the company of two of my colleagues, sipping cocktails in the sunset. All three of us agreed that we are richly blessed in our work: wonderful colleagues, terrific parents, fantastic boys and a quality of life that most can only dream of. We are very, very fortunate - and we know it.

Tonight in Newton Mr B has been at the helm, and as far I know an even keel has been maintained. I have just stepped back onto the bridge and all seems to be well. So gratias tibi ago to the head of Classics once again.

I was greeted this morning, when I arrived at 7.12am to switch on the BBC News, rather than the more orthodox 7.10am, with 'You're late'. I advised my complainant that he was perfectly capable of switching on the telly himself, and that he didn't need the help of an expert so to do. He agreed.

As for exam marking, well, scripts have ranged from the outstandingly excellent (among which have been those belonging to Newtonians - and sons of readers of this blog) to the, er, not so stunning. In other words, from the Philip Pullmans to the Richard Bransons: and in yet other words, all of them blessed with tremendous potential.

Trust me.

Good evening from a tired, but happy Newton. Despite examination fever, it's been a good day on the whole, with no-one looking completely panic-struck - other than a few members of staff, perhaps, as increasingly large sheaves of script are stuffed into their lockers. Boys have been running up to me all through today telling me about how well they've done in English, French, maths, history, etc. - always a worrying sign. Still, I'm sure they've all done brilliantly.

Tonight we relented and allowed a bit of extra-curricular viewing, which was good for relaxation purposes, even if most of what the various broadcasting channels had to offer was complete tosh. I suppose sometimes it doesn't really matter, though, and I recall with some amusement the occasion when, after a particularly difficult parents' meeting, the HM for whom I was working at the time (not here) retired to his living quarters, poured himself a large glass of Luncheon Dry and a generous handful of peanuts (yes, it was the 80s) and settled down to watch whatever was on the telly - at lunchtime. Remember Camberwick Green? I know that's what it was, because I had to go and ask him something about something - or someone. Poor chap, he didn't know where to put himself. So, to his credit, he carried on as if this was his daily routine. Actually, for all I know, it was.

Talking of Luncheon Dry (Harvey's, remember that, too?) that reminds me of a staff pantomime of Aladdin, in which the rather wicked author (one of my colleagues) cast our alcoholic Head of Mod Lang as the Grand Vizier, Lun Chon Dri. How we got away with it, I shall never know. As far as I know, he never noticed ..... (My colleague had very dri sense of humour, you see.)

Enough Tales from Memory Lane. Sleep well.

Another lovely evening, with a major day of cricket against our good friends and rivals, Cothill. We seem to have had the upper hand almost across the board, but not entirely - and my P45 will probably in my staff room locker on Monday. So if I'm not around next week, you'll know that my cricket coaching career has terminated. (Although for a Colts C team to score 104 runs is a pretty good achievement, imho.) I used to think that the best egg sandwiches were to be found on the Cothill match tea tables: not any more, as ours are terrific. (I had more than was good for me, of course.)

Quite a number of viewing options tonight: a few of us watched the Colour being Trooped in our 'snug' (i you get my drift); others opted to watch 'Mr Gadget' in the clubhouse, while a few die-hards chose to follow you-know-what in Curlew. And those who didn't want to get square eyes (as we children of the 60s were for ever being told) enjoyed playing ping-pong outside - until the ball went sailing through Miss Chloe's window. (She was on the train back from Bath, so her absence rendered any further pings or pongs null and void.)

Sunday tomorrow - and gusess what? I'm the morning duty master until 1.15.

Yippee.

Further apologies, Followers, for there was no entry last night. At least, not on the Newton blog. And that's because Mr Porter was on the bridge last night, allowing my son and heir and me ( ...) to go ashore and stroll down to the point of entry at X'ian for un verre de vin ou deux. (Well, trois, actually.) So there we were, putting the world to rights with Gary, the proprietor of that particular staff room annexe, when we were joined by two colleagues who looked in severe need of watering. Tom was on cracking form, and couldn't resist the opportunity to squeeze his father's plastic further by inviting his former boss to mix him some exotic cocktail that he'd come across in the Orient and preparing his favourite Chinese dish. (She's called ...... no, that's just prep school humour.) (Although I have to say ..... )

The residents, according to Mr Porter, were all on good form, too - although the blessed boiler broke down again, causing all to take cold showers. I enquired as to whether they had been asked to conjugate Latin verbs while under the freezing flow, but it seems that Mr Porter was particularly generous and excused such classical orations. (And in case you're wondering, yes, the private side is on the same system. And no, I didn't recite the periphrastic subjunctive of some deponent verb while I froze this morning - although if you'd heard my various utterances you might have imagined that I did.) Anyway, the local heating engineers have now rectified the problem, and normal service has been resumed.

A lovely evening tonight, as I gaze down Summerfield Road - from the bridge. I can see Mr Aldred wheeling a pedal tractor down the road, accompanied by Mr Corry. It's amazing what you see from here!