Good evening, dear Friends and Followers, and welcome back to this cyberspatial hidey-hole. It certainly sounds as if you've all had wonderful times - and I was delighted to learn that having to share a hotel and ski-runs with SF staff didn't spoil the fun for those who found that there really is no escape ..... !

Mrs C and I were not to be found on the slopes this time, although not too much of the dissing, if you don't mind, because as I think I've mentioned before, we can hold our own if we need to! I even have a wonderful photo of your correspondent mono-skiing, I might add - although it pains me to confess that if you turn the picture through a right-angle you can actually see that it is, in fact, an image of yours truly having fallen heavily, and the fact that there is only one ski to be seen in the picture is indicative of the actualite.

So no, no snow, as it were. We made for our Dorset domain and enjoyed the company of all of our young for a few days, after which they dispersed and left the geriatrics to do what old people do. I did actually get the bike started, but such were the conditions that I thought it best to keep it where it was rather than try and skate on two wheels, otherwise I might have suffered a similar fate to that of Lawrence of Arabia after he'd climbed on to his motorbike on the night he said his final goodbye to Thomas Hardy: wrapped rather terminally around a tree.

The Fantastic Mr Fox appealed to all tonight, as did pink wafers (although there was a minor complaint that they were, er, 'pink, sir', an observation whose apposition I found to be most commendable,) Quavers and apple juice.

Anyway, they all seem to be on great form - and, methinks, quite tired, for I cannot hear a peep.

This post, by the way, is number 460: 40 to go before I reach my target!

Goodnight.

Gosh. What a miserable and cantankerous old so and so I must have seemed when I wrote that last post. Well, I'm pleased to report that things have improved meggaly since then, and we've just had a lovely evening. I told the troops that tonight was to be 'soap and shampoo night', and, to a man, they all heeded my exhortation. I did, in fact, tell them that I expected the whole lodge to smell like the rose garden of the Palace of Versailles, although it was, perhaps, just a tad humiliating to be informed by a quasi-resident of the country in which said palace is located that 'the place smells mank in winter, sir'. You'll be pleased to learn that there was nothing 'mank' about the fragrance of this place, however, and my classics teacher, God rest Mr Dakin's soul, would have been impressed. He was a fascinating man, in fact, because he'd been part of the Bletchley Park code-breaking team (as had Mrs C's uncle, Sir Bernard Lovell), although he never spoke of it. Our other beak, Mr Gardner, was the private tutor to the son of Haile Selasse and that particular royal family's personal friend, so that was interesting, too.

It's been a busy old day, with much happening, although the cancellation of the matches was a disappointment to many. Considering that, the LMs have been very good tonight, with a particularly enjoyable curry at supper time, followed by a most agreeable verre de vin with my friends Messrs Edwards (former tutee), Music-Price and Computer-Price, at Mr Edwards' place.

Ha! Two for the Price of one! (Actually, it was quite a price, because it was une bouteille de Meursault. And jolly nice it was, too - accompanied by exquisitely-fried duck's gizzards, which probably sounds much better in its translated form.)

By the way, I received notification from Monash University, who were generous enough to grant me a research fellowship three years ago, that I am officially a 'professorial fellow'! I've hesitated before rushing down to the printer's to change the letterhead .... ! How pompous is that?! Ah well, if you see me sporting a fine professorial gown with gold braid and a whole load of furry trappings, you'll know it's just the Newton Blogger showing off. (Again.)

Goodnight.

You know how you sometimes have 'rubbish' days? Well, today's been one of those - culminating with your correspondent getting seriously annoyed with the members of one particular dorm who simply cannot, it seems, understand that they need to keep quiet after lights out, and before lights on. Unusual for me to get quite so wound up, but I think the message may - just - have got through that I am very - and I mean very - displeased. To their credit, a number of them came up to me during shoe-cleaning and told me that they were very sorry; further testimony to the fact that they realised they'd gone a couple of steps - or two, in some cases three, and in a couple of cases four - too far. Yes, I was cross. Very. I accepted their various apologies, but told them that I hoped that they were sincere.

As for shoe-cleaning, that was fine, and all went well. Mrs C and Miss Lade managed to maintain the equilibrium, and there were four worthy winners.

Not sure I feel like writing too much more tonight, because - well, just because. They'd better not talk.

Goodnight.

Greetings, one and all - especially to those of you reading this in Latvia and China, as my stats tell me that you are! I don't think we've had anyone from China before, so especial greetings to you, sir/madam.

The snow has offered opportunities for many today, and the ubiqitous Mrs Hilder, as duty person this morning, arranged a massive inter-league snow-base building competition, which seemed to work very well and was much enjoyed by all who participated.

Lunch was a full-blown, 'proper' Sunday roast, and was superb, imho. I saw all Newtonians tucking in comprehensively, and enjoying all that was on offer.

Mrs C was one of the duty people this afternoon, with Mr Computer-Price, and it was good to receive reports of sensible behaviour and boys having plenty of fun.

Chapel consisted of an illustrated talk (illustrated with music and commentary, I mean, not by slides) about how the service of Evensong came about, and incorporated (that's a nightmare word to type - try it and see) the Chaplain wearing his Cambridge MA hood as it would have been worn by the monks originally. Before the service I told him that the history of fur on academic hoods was that the more lowly qualified one was in those early days, the further away from the fire in the Great Hall one had to sit, so if you were a mere Bachelor of Wot'eva, you'd have a hood with a whole load of fur because you were miles away from the heat, and the Doctors of Stuff would need none at all, and be all up close and personal. I told one of my 5th Year classes this fascinating information once, and one of the boys rejoined with, 'Oh. So you mean, the thicker you are, the more furry your hood is.' I suggested that that wasn't quite how I'd put it (thinking of my own), but I could see what he was getting at. (I do have another two that don't have any fur at all, so I didn't feel too bad.)

Top Gear was good tonight, with the presenters in China with Stig's Chinese cousin, testing Chinese cars, which, on the whole acquitted themselves pretty well, and apple juice, fruit and Kit-Kats all helped to make for a pleasant evening.

That's it for tonight, so -

Goodnight.

It's snowing here in North Oxford, and has been for the past four hours, so it's pretty deep now. We (well, more 'they', really) watched Mrs Doubtfire, which they all loved, and which has just finished, and as I went into Osprey to turn the lights out, the following dialogue occurred:

LM: Sir! Sir! Come over here and look out of the window! It's SO romantic!

Me: What is?

LM: Sir! Just come and see!

As the Osprey windows look on to the home of the Bryan family, I could only imagine that Mr and Mrs B were enjoying a candle-lit dinner for two, or something like that, but no, 'twas not that which had occasioned my summons. I looked out onto the most wonderful picture of a snow-laden back garden, and part of Summertown, and it was indeed, to borrow the word, 'romantic'. My interlocutor and I sat on the window-sill and we admired the view for a minute or two; a true memory was etched for eternity.

I then went into Kingfisher to turn their lights out, and, after almost all the occupants had turned their lights out, there was one, the other side of the partition, that remained on.

Me: Who IS that boy who hasn't turned his light out?

LM: It's X, sir, but, ha ha, he's not there .... !! Ha ha!!

I went over and turned the light out myself.

Me: It's not that funny. (Sir bashes into the locker at the end of the bed) Ow!

LM: No, but that is !!

Goodnight.

Good evening, all.

I had a wonderful evening with Tom C and the lovely Christine, his girlfriend, last night, in London. I know Pentonville Road doesn't sound that enticing, but last year, when Tom was housed in student digs in that super-salubrious region, we discovered Bistro de la Gare, which is right opposite where he was living, and it's been a v special place to us ever since. It's French, as you might imagine from its name, and while it's basic, the food's great, the wine is very good and the creme brulee (sorry, can't do accents on the blog) is every bit as good as that served in much more prestigious eateries. So fond of the place are we, that we've coined a new verb: to bedelg, which we think is most appropriate.

It was games night tonight, and many LMs partook, as did Miss Harriet and Mrs C, who both have more than a slight competitive streak .... !

Only in Newton would you hear the following dialogue, as you would have done tonight, had you been here:

Me (peremptorily, on hearing excessive noise from Curlew): What are you doing with that shark?

LM1: It's not a shark, it's a whale.

Me: What are doing with that whale, then. It looks as if you're attacking E with it.

LM1: He wanted me to do it.

Me: Is that true? Did you ask to be hit with a whale?

LM2: Yes, sir.

Me: Whatever kind of lodge would this be if we all went around expecting to be hit with whales?

LM1: Sorry sir.

Me: Well, we'll say no more about it then. But it did come as a bit of a shark.

All the matches are cancelled tomorrow, I'm afraid, so there will be some disappointed LMs, I know. Snow's forecast, too. Still, I expect we'll be all white.

Goodnight.

So there we are. Another last notched up as I played the organ for the final time, after what Mr Edwards and I worked out have been at least 15 years, in New College Chapel. As I remarked, wistfully, to my page-turner as I strode out of the college cloisters, it's been an amazing privilege, and one that I have appreciated hugely. 'Well', said he, 'at least you've left on a good note'. 'Indeed', said I, 'it was a D'. (Actually, it was a D major chord, but I didn't want to get too technical'.) I don't know whether you were there, but it was a wonderful service, with the Red Choir soaring to ever-greater heights of distinction.

Back, then, to the relative solace of Newton and the LMs, and the place has had a pleasing fragrance about it tonight, as everyone showered efficiently and many washed their hair. I used to have what I called 'fragrance nights' a couple of years ago, but that seemed to have more than a whiff of what my classics teacher referred to as 'a house of ill repute' about it, and as I thought the inspectors might smell a rat (or worse) if they heard about such goings on, I abandoned the idea.

Top Gear was good tonight, and the petrolheads all enjoyed that, accompanied by pink wafers, fruit and apple juice, and then there was an amazing programme about tigers, which was very popular, in the same way that I was most definitely not, when I called for silent reading at 8.30. Still, they all got over it very quickly and made for bed where a few minutes of reading silently, or quiet contemplation enabled all to settle down and go to sleep.

And I can't hear a sound.

Goodnight.