It's surprising what gives cause for concern in the middle of the night. There I was, pondering, as one does at midnight, about whether I should have written 'the Creator Him/Herself', using capital Hs for the reflexive pronoun(s), and, indeed, whether I should have used a capital T for the definite article. I consoled myself by thinking that in French, there would be no question of a capital letter for the r.p., but that didn't really help. And then there was the question of the hyphen, of course. So, just to absolve my conscience, let me have another go: The Creator Him-/Herself. Yes, that's better.

You must think I'm very odd. Well, perhaps I am, but you can't be too careful about such things. Anyway, enough of grammatical issues, and let's hope that tonight avails me of a less troubled night's sleep.

It being Tuesday, it's Mrs C's and my half day. I joined a great friend of mine and my nephew for a splendid lunch at Gee's, and we were able to cover all kinds of subjects. It was a very happy and jolly occasion, and as my nephew was very kindly paying, it seemed all the more enjoyable for that. Mrs C, nephew and I met together here first, and managed to polish off the better part of a bottle of something appropriately chilled and bubbly - OK, yes, all of it - accompanied by a packet of Honey Roast Ham-flavoured crisps. I don't know whether you've ever come across them, but if not, they're available from Tesco's - and jolly good they are, too. Unfortunately, we had to sit in a field, due to the fact that, as Mrs C was keen to remind me, I hadn't mown the lawn, but as I pointed out, I wanted the crisps to be enjoyed in what would have been a free-range environment, similar to that in which the main contributors to the crisp packet would have spent their days. You can imagine the alacrity with which that was greeted. Anyway, stuff the crisps: the smoked mackerel pate at Gee's is to die for. Which, of course, come to think of it, is what the ....... no; too far.

Mr Bryan has been on duty tonight, and once again 'Newton's Got Talent' has been the main attraction of the evening, as we heard from time to time during tonight's episode of Holby. Donna's gone now, so it really is all change, is it not?

Not much about Newton, is there, but as I've said before, when one hasn't actually been on the shop floor, other topics have to take over.

I'll let you know how I get on with my reflexives.

Goodnight.

39 hits last night, it would appear, and a new Follower in Denmark, I notice! How I love your country, sir/madam, for it was there that I achieved my mountaineering zenith by climbing the highest mountain therein, aptly called Himmelbjerget, or, for those of you whose Danish is on the wane, 'Sky Mountain'. Yes, I walked up it one morning and back down again in the afternoon. As strolls go, it was a real pleasure. Seriously, though, I really did love the place, and wanted to stay. The trouble was that in order to do the only decent job I knew anything about I had to be fluent in Danish, and, in short, I couldn't. So I stowed my tent back into my MG and came back across the North Sea with DFDS.

To Newton, once again. Imagine, if you will, three Newtonians walking along the bottom corridor towards me. I was standing at the base of those three steps, just outside our drawing room.

"Sir, if I fell forward, would you catch me?"

"Of course I would."

So saying, the first of the trumivirate fell into my receiving arms. Seeing that he had nothing to fear, so did the second, and so, finally, did the third, calling out as he did so, '"Daddy!!" Flattering, of course, and fascinating to know that you do that sort of stuff at home, o fathers, and I can't pretend that there wasn't a little flutter of relief that he didn't cry out "Grandfather!!"

Before coming on duty in Newton tonight (although I really don't see it like that), I nipped down to Dr Dean's pad, ten minutes down the road, for a bit of cerebral input. I wasn't disappointed, of course, as he had so very kindly laid on a 'bread and cheese plus' supper, complete with delicious wild boar pate (sorry about the lack of accents), Cornish yarg, a superb pea and wasabi mix and a really lovely bottle of 2007 claret, which, after 30 minutes, was as good as it gets. Smooth, warming, and just enough of a tannic hint to make it stand out from the crowd.

As always, with my erudite friend, it was not long before we were exchanging quotations from my other poetic mate, Alexander Porp (that's not his real name, btw), after which we moved to choral music. Dr D was very keen to show me his new Bose player, and I have to say that I was amazed by the quality of the sound that was reproduced. We listened to two performances of Durufle's motet, 'Ubi Caritas', which is a stunning piece, and we both agreed that to have lived in Paris in the late 19th/early 20th century would have been wonderful, and to have visited the organ lofts of St Sulpice, inter alia, and met with Vierne, Widor, Boellmann and others would have been truly remarkable. Rather like seeing Milton and Marvell in the same place, as I mentioned last time. And then one could take that one stage further, I suppose, if one is of a Christian persuasion, and imagine what it must have been like for the disciples, to have been, if one accepts the concept of the Trinity, in the presence of the Creator him/herself.

Oh dear: getting heavy. That's the trouble with fraternising with the intelligentsia: it affects the brain. Still, nowhere near as surreal as transporting pants in a Skittles box, is it?

Goodnight.

There's a Facebook abbreviation, in common use, which incorporates the use of the letters O, M and G. I tell you that, dear Followers, because I have just been enjoying animated text-messaging with our elder daughter, Hannah, whom many of you have met, in which she was getting very excited about the fact that, on the train back to Bristol, she sat next to one of the stars of Casulaty!! Can you imagine the excitement in the Cheater household at such tidings? His name is Jack Bence, apparently, and although I have yet to google him to find out more info, he's been in the series several times already. His script, Hannah tells me, was sticking out of his pocket, which enabled her to discern his name, and it seems that he wasn't being overly-discrete about certain aspects of the series .... ! Well, there you are. How shall I top that?!



I can't top it, of course, so I will change to Top Gear. (Ha! that worked before I realised it!) To Mr May, to be more specific, and to tell you that he informed the world, in his Saturday DT column, that it was the 100th of the same. Splendid: that means that there is a way in which I have managed to outdo him. He has some way to go before he'll catch me, especially if he writes only once a week. Still, I suppose he could claim that he receives rather more remuneration than I do for writing this (the top journos get a pound a word, allegedly: rather more than the 40p a word I get for writing for the same journal), but then I bet his audience isn't as kind and appreciative as mine - as this post indicates .... ! And I suppose I don't write 1000 words a time, either. OK, I concede defeat. Again.



Tonight in Newton all has been well, not least because of the individual packets of Orios that were on offer. Dark chocolatey, biscuity outsides and white creamy insides: goodness, the scope for similes there is mind-boggling. I will resist the temptation, you'll be relieved to hear, this being a family blog. Orange segments, kindly cut up by Mrs C and Miss Alex, and the dorm tidiness prize for Kingfisher dorm this week, so well done them.



I was rather thrilled to discover from my school mag that my English master at school, Adrian Greeves, went on to become first the Dean of Clare College, Cambridge and then the Senior Proctor of that fine university. Brilliant, he was - and I bet he never imagined that one of his former pupils would go on to such great things as blog-writing. My other hero, also an English beak, was Mr Wilkinson, who remains in the memory as the one who couldn't stand Mr Elliott, the geology beak, but found himself taking our hockey game together. Mr W blew the final whistle and screamed at us: 'Sticks to me, and BALLS to Mr Elliott'!

It's a good job you're all broad-minded ....

Goodnight.

Another day is done, and it's getting late. 'Stormbreaker' was the film of the night, and, I think, a reasonably successful hit. We now have a library of hundreds on the Arcos (I now know what one of those is, and it's not a temple of capitalism) and a great boon to our viewing it is, too. The only trouble now is that such is its wiring-up that we can't play individual DVDs on the DVD machine, and short of my having apoplexy while trying to re-wire the system for an evening, I think it's going to have to stay as it is.

The GK quiz, our Saturday evening entertainment this week, and presided over by the legend that is Dr Dean, was a huge success, and I was able once again to play at being HM by being the senior duty person - which was fine, although just a tad embarrassing when I noticed that the actual HM was seated as a member of the audience. Unctuously, I enquired, by sign language, at the end as to whether he might wish to officiate, but, in true parliamentary style, he kindly and generously 'gave way', enabling me to express thanks to Dr D and then to dismiss the school. No, it's not a coup, even though, symbolically, I noticed that the HM was sitting in the middle east row of Macmillan.

My reconnection with old school friends (see last night's post) has reminded me of the occasion when my 'new' music master, Dr John Byrt, arrived at the school and amazed us as he played us out of chapel (or rather, he would have done, if we hadn't remained transfixed in our seats) to Vierne's Toccata in B minor. It was without doubt the most incredible organ voluntary we'd ever heard, and so I thought that I would have a go at it. It's a remarkable piece, and all the more so when you recollect that Louis Vierne was completely blind. It's going well at the moment, and I'm intending to give a rendering of it before the end of term, but if you want to hear what it should really sound like, then put 'Vierne Toccata B minor' into the YouTube search engine. There are loads of performances of it, but the best, in my view, is the one by John Scott-Whiteley, who plays it on the organ of York Minster. Oliver Latry's performance, given on the Great Organ at Notre Dame, is very good, and probably more akin to what it sounded like when Vierne played it.

I think that'll do for a Saturday night: it's been a pretty normal evening, really, and all is well.

Goodnight.

Incredible. There I was, thinking that going back nearly 40 years was pretty remarkable, when, as a result of an article I wrote for my school magazine that's apparently been published today, I received an e-mail from an old school friend of mine, thanking me for sharing the memories and inviting Diana and me (yes, that is the right pronoun, before anyone writes in) to join him and his wife for dinner somewhere! Goodness! That really has rolled back the years! He's in advertising, he tells me, and his brother is the consultant medic to the royal family and lives in Cirencester. I wonder if any of you know of this family. Do let me know if you do.

I've been the HM this afternoon, as Our Leader and our Deputy Leader have been away. Rather fun, I have to admit, and I was able to fantasise about how things might have been, had I submitted my application, which I didn't. In fact, I didn't even consider it, which will come as a great relief to many, I'm sure. Five years was quite enough for me, thank you very much, and I wouldn't want to go back to it again, either. Not these days. The thought of it makes me run hot and cold. Still, I couldn't resist an imperious stroll around the grounds, observing the various games that were in action, nor could I resist breezing into Mr Aldred's and Mrs C's form rooms in my new-found capacity as SF Supremo for a few hours. It's over now, though, and I've happily handed over the reins to my Master.

To Newton now, and when I saw a LM walking to his dorm carrying what appeared to be a whole box full of Skittles (sweets), I asked whether I could share them. His response of 'Well, not really, sir; they're my pants' was a little different from that which I was expecting. Quite why he would wish to transport his undergarments in a Skittles carton is beyond me, I'm afraid, and not a little bizarre.

Coffee in the HMDR yesterday morning was a pleasure, as always, and the biscuit upgrade this week consisted of very decent shortbread bics. I was a little taken aback, though, when I took my first sip of what purported to be coffee, as it had a very tea-ish taste to it. I informed the Director of Music of my concern, to which he replied that perhaps what was in my mug (yes, we have mugs, but they are classy SF ones) was, indeed, tea. I took another sip. Indeed it was. I must remember next week to take my coffee from one of the jugs marked 'tea', in that case.

And talking of food, as I do, regularly, the chocolate squares that were on offer in the staff room at teatime today were out of this world. I'm afraid I couldn't resist a second, but please keep that to yourselves, especially as Mr Fradgley opined, after just one square, that he would need to be on the exercise bike for at least two hours.

I'd better start pedalling.

Goodnight, all.

Belarus, Slovenia and Vietnam. That's where I've been broadcasting to today, apparently, so if you are among those who have logged on during the course of the day, welcome. I never fail to be amazed by the ever-increasing number of countries in which my audience is located - which makes writing these nightly jottings all the more, erm, well, what's the word, concerning? Scary? Not sure.

Slightly alarming it is, though, to note that in view of the fact that I've missed a couple of evenings through my social diary being somewhat more full than usual, my audience, notwithstanding those in distant climes, has plummeted from 34 to 18 in the past two days. Not good, and I hope not indicative of the shape of things to come.

Mr Porter is on duty in Newton tonight, and from what I can hear from behind the greem baize door, good order and complete control seem to be the order of the evening. So once again I find myself writing about things at which I haven't been present, so it behoves me to woffle on about extraneous issues, such as telling you that the waffles we had for pudding at lunch yesterday were quite pleasant, but that my consumption of same led to Mrs C reminding me that I'd told her that I 'never had puddings'. Thus, when confronted by my dear spouse as I brought spoon to mouth, the former never quite made it to the latter, which was unfortunate for the waffle, the maple syrup thereupon, and me. My rejoinder of 'Thank you, Sybil', was, perhaps, not the most apposite.

Mr Bryan was telling me about the latest instalment of 'Newton's Got Talent', which he oversaw on Tuesday night, while I was tucking in at Galvin. Apparently all went well, and they're down to the semi-finals, so we look forward to the next round. Or at least, Mr Bryan does, as I think Mrs C and I will try and find a local eatery for an hour or so. One where they do excellent waffles, methinks.

As for the mohican (which is probably what was meant by the 'mohawkian') I have yet to pluck up the courage to walk across to the local poodle parlour and make myself look like a punk rocker. But you never know.

That's it for tonight: I need to finish off Sebastian Faulks' 'A Week in December'. If you're read it, did you notice that Mr Faulks subscribes to the Elmore Leonard policy of never using any other verb than 'said' in direct speech? I didn't notice that until about half way through the book. If you've never come across his 'Ten Tips for Writing', you can find them on You Tube: just put 'Elmore Leonard's Ten Tips for Writing' into the search engine. Contentious in parts, and you have to endure close-ups of his chain-smoking, but they make you think. I;d give you the link, but this site won't let me copy and paste.

Goodnight, wherever you may be.

Oh dear. 45 people logged on to this site yesterday, and once again there was nothing to be seen. I'm sorry, loyal people, but I was out on the raz, you see. I think some of you know that in the last two years I've reconnected with a former pupil of mine from the 1970s: he's now the head of global something-or-other with one of the big banks, which is nice, and he had kindly invited me to join him for supper at a very fine bistro in Baker Street. So that was all very pleasant. Before that, though, I'd agreed to meet up with my son and heir in another bistro in Pentonville Road, which I did, and was able to meet the girlfriend upgrade, too. I must say that he seems to have inherited his father's good taste when it comes to such things as are easy on the ear and easy on the eye, and a combination of Japanese, Lebanese, Greek and American is as tasty as the croque monsieur that Bistro de la Gare in Pentonville Road offers. (Incidentally, they love speaking in French there, but ironically they've named their croque-monsieur 'Mister Croc', which I, ironically, re-translated into 'Monsieur le Croc'. They, failing to appreciate said irony, responded with 'Ah, le croque-monsieur!' All rather daft, really.

Anyway, dinner in the rather more upmarket Galvin proved to be a real treat, and I'm sure you will know it. If not, then it's at 66, Baker Street. Lord Archer was another guest, a few tables away, but didn't seem to notice me.

So that's why there was no blogpost last night, as I returned at just after midnight, having taken a very slow fast train from Paddington, and this time I was convinced that no-one would log on at one in the morning. I may be wrong.

Today, though, is our younger daughter's 18th birthday. Mrs C and Hannah have gone to take her out for a birthday meal in Wareham, the town of my childhood, at a place on the quayside called The Granary, which I can recommend, should you be passing through that fine town. You may be wondering why I am not there, too, and at the risk of sound precious, when I tell you that it was well-nigh impossible to re-arrange management duty, main duty, dentention duty, supper duty, games with Game 3 and lodge duty, you may see why I'm holding the fort here. Still, I did have a pleasant supper of what was described as 'Naverin of lamb' and 'spicy pork', with a number of 5th Years, and I was able, after that , to speak with Alice on the telephone.

Tonight, being TV night, I was asked if a few could watch Top Gear in our snug. Well, yes they could, if it had been on, so no, they couldn't. That did not prevent a snuggian invasion, however, and 'Junior Masterchef - Australia' was the chosen programme. When I asked why, I was told by one of the rezzies that he 'wanted to hear the accent'. The fact that he could have gone into the corridor, where Miss Alex was counting the leagues and cords, seemed to have passed him by.

Thank you for your kind and sympathetic comments about our loss of dear Jasmine. We have greatly appreciated your thoughts, and we - especially I, who was particularly fond of her - are so grateful for your kindness.

Time to go. I'm sorry if you've been disappointed recently about the non-blogs, but normal service can now be resumed, and I hope you will continue to enjoy the nightly posts, of which this, incidentally, is number 321.

Goodnight.