So there I was, ruminating about how I should prioritise my 'things to do' list during our evening off, surrounded by the sound of gentle thumping from above, as usual on a Thursday night. Should I finish off the Junior Choir carol I've been writing; should I give further thought to tomorrow's English lesson with 5L, should I go and play through a Bach prelude or two, etc., etc.

Suddenly, the gentle thumping sounded like a turbo-charged herd of Hannibal's Alp-crossing elephants. I went upstairs, through the connecting door from our quarters to theirs and awaited the charge of what proved to be pillow-wielding infantry. As they arrived at the top of the stairs, their gaze was met by a less than happy lodgemaster. They melted into a genteel passivity as I signalled silently that they should sit. Once they had all frozen, I started my inevitable rant, pianissimo and in that well-rehearsed schoolmagisterial manner. (I'm sure you will remember it.)

pp: "Unblievable." (Dramatic silence.) "Utterly un-be-lievable."
(p:) "I cannot believe that boys in the third year - (mp:) the third year - could behave in such a ridiculous manner. (mf:) In all of my time as lodgemaster of Newton (which is less than a year, but they don't know that) I have never heard such an unacceptable racket! (f:) I find it absolutely extraordinary (I don't, in fact, because they're just boys having an inter-dorm pillow fight, but we'll pass that one by) that whenever Mrs Cheater and I have a free evening, (ff:) you lot - you lot - seem to think that this is an excuse to make (fff:) as much noise as you possibly (ffff, sf:) CAN!"

Like dogs that had just been rebuked for nicking the Sunday joint, they went silently back to their dorms.

I hear nothing more until almost lights out time. There is a knock on the connecting door upstairs.

"Sir, we're really sorry. Here are our apology letters." My turn to melt. And here, just for fun, is a sample of what I read.

"Dear Mr Cheater. We are extremely sorry for ruining your night off. Any punishment acceptable."

"Dear Sir, It was stupid of me to join in. I should of (sic) just stayed with xxxx and yyyy doing black magic."

Meltdown of lodgemaster complete.

As promised, Tom played to his adoring public last night. I took the role of his manager, and after I had informed him at five minute intervals before 8pm how long there was before his solo was to start, I then went downstairs and invited anyone who wanted to hear him play to come upstairs. Of course, as you can imagine, I informed the queueing audience how sensitive musicians are (and I should know!) and how they should be respectful in the presence of a celebrity, I then led them them through to the concert hall. (i.e. Tom's bedroom.)

I wish you could have seen the performance. Not because Tom's performance was first-rate - although it was - (oh come on, there have to be some privileges about being a contributing member of the blogosphere!), but because the sea of adoring and admiring faces was a true joy to behold. And, when the show was over, try as I might to cajole the masses back to their dorms, they were having none of it. Tom, to his great credit, answered all of their questions, telling them about his portfolio of instruments and how he came to achieve what he has done - and, who knows, seeds of future musical accomplishment may well have been sown last night. I hope they were.

My own celebrity status was less spectacular, although no less of a pleasure, as I had the privilege of speaking to many of my blog-followers during match tea, yesterday afternoon. There I was, chatting, greeting, signing autogr ........

Sorry: got a bit carried away there. Ah well, one day.

Jusqu'a demain.

(Oh, by the way, the 'rose bush incident' was christened 'Operation Floribunda'. I still laugh when I think about, even now!)

Greetings.

The Curlewites and I have 'had words'. And I told them that they would feature, for all the wrong reasons, in today's blog entry. Throwing plastic soldiers around the dorm? Er, I think not. Not on my watch. And then compounding the crime by blaming the dog? I don't think so. However talented Isla may be, she is not into plastic soldiers and she certainly hasn't been trained to hurl them around a room. And if anyone is thinking up witty comments about gun-dogs, forget it. I'm not in the mood. The relevant Curlewites looked appropriately chastened, I'm glad to say and I suspect that the thought of any parental input will act as a very apposite deterrent!

Mr Bryan was on duty last night, and all went well. And I'm sure the residents were delighted by his self-admitted flexi-silent reading time! Getting heavily involved in a game of Stratego is a most honourable excuse.

Of course, one of the joys of having assistants working with me and for me (or, in the case of the Head of Classics, per and pro) is that I can, occasionally, read a book. And that's what I did last night. I opened 'The Old Boy Network', by the late, great Headmaster of Westminster School, Dr John Rae, and realised what a brilliant blogger he would have been if he were still alive today! The book is a diary of his time as a HM, and, delightfully for me, the daily record starts at the same time as I started teaching: September, 1973.

There are all kind of parallels, of course. Except that while he was dining in Downing Street, or consuming grouse and claret in a Fellows' Common Room at Oxford or transforming the world of private education (as well as turning Westminster into a hugely successful school), I was swigging back a bottle of cheap plonk with other young beaks, putting the headmaster's wife's prize rose bush back together early one morning after a colleague had leapt from a first floor window in anguish at his failure to attract the attentions of an under-matron, or racing around the lanes of Berkshire at a ridiculous velocity in my open-topped Fiat Spider.

Then, just like those Curlewites, I had to grow up.

Many years ago, I was the keyboard player for a band that was organised by someone called George Stiles. George has gone on to make many squillions of pounds as a writer of successful musicals, and I'm writing this daily blog. Not that I'm jealous, of course.

The reason I tell you that is that the Newton entertainment last night was supplied by courtesy of Tom, our 18 year old, drummer and bass guitarist. (And Grade 8 bassoonist.) I asked him whether he would care to demonstrate his musical prowess to the residents, and, before he went out to play drums for a jazz band in a hostelry somewhere (more about that in a moment), he put on the song 'Hysteria' by Muse. Now I don't whether you are familiar with the works of Muse, but if you are, you will know that the bass guitar part is pretty demanding. Notwithstanding that, Tom put the track through his speakers, and, as they say, 'took it away'. The Newtonians were spellbound. I don't think they could quite believe what they were seeing! I have to admit, it was pretty good. No, it was amazing. And for those who didn't get tickets for last night's perfomance. he's agreed to a second gig tomorrow night.

I had a great day yesterday, and thank you for your good wishes. It culminated in an evening round the kitchen table with our friends from Sussex who used to be Newton lodgeparents pre-Smiths, tucking in to an extensive Chinese takeaway from the finest Chinese place in Oxford (imho), which happens, fortuitously, to be in Summertown. Nearing the end of our festivities, Tom returned. I asked him how it had been and, in his own inimitable way, causing us all to collapse with laughter, he regaled us with stories of the gay Chinese keyboard player and instruments that looked as if they had all been homemade. The drumkit, apparently, was put together using parts from a scrapyard.

That's my boy. A chip off the old block. (Or, for our French followers, un frite du vieux bloc.)

OK, I admit it. It's my birthday and I'm 58. So now you know. In fact, I tried to keep it quiet this morning, while doing my rounds, and was relieved that all I received in response to my cheery 'Good mornings' were the usual grunts of acknowledgement. However, I began to think that things were afoot when, unusually, all of the residents arrived in the Common Room by 7.25am and sat, silently, pretending to be interested in the news, which, at the time, happened to be an item about relics from the Mary Rose. While I'm sure that an enormous shovel-like object that was used for serving out porridge in the 14th century may provide endless fascination for historians, the extent of such interest is rather more limited for nine and ten year olds, I would think. I waited for the inevitable question about whether I could remember life in the 14th century and whether I had ever had cause to use any of the relics that met our collective gaze, but there was none, and suddenly the only relic in the room that was being stared at was me.

"Happy birthday, sir," volunteered a Heronian. (Yes, a Heronian!)

Well, that was that, of course. Within seconds the whole lodge were singing at the top of their voices as they left, offering a melodious wake-up call to the rest of the SF northern campus!

I can't report anything about last night, as Mrs C and I had the privilege of dining with the Headmaster of Winchester at Beech House and Mr Porter was left in charge. I must say that the evening was very agreeable, although it felt like an episode of Casulaty (see, I've mis-typed it again) surrounded as I was by three doctors, Dr Townsend, Dr Harskin and Dr Dean! We mere Research Fellows can't really compete with that. Still, my attempts at conversation did not, as I feared, prove to be the Titanics of the dinner table, crashing into the icebergs of academe after the first salvo, and we had a very meaningful discussion about what 'the real world' is, down at our end of the table.

Don't worry, I'll soon be talking to woolly Highland cattle again.

H'm, X-Factor. Now, I can't really pretend that I've ever really been much of a fan of the series, despite having teenage offspring who seem to think that it's the only programme worth watching on terrestrial, satellite and probably extra-terrestrial television, but I am now led to believe that there may be hope for me yet.

Sitting as I was on a bed in Curlew dorm, flanked on either side by two Ospreyites, I made so bold as to suggest that I thought that I should apply to the X-Factota (people who work for X Factor, as I'm sure you will have worked out) to see whether I might one day rise to celebrity status. (As if writing this blog wasn't enough already.) Back came the immediate rejoinder, without a hint of irony, and with eyes remaining fixed to the screen,

"Yes, sir. If they ever have a grandfather special.'

Indeed. Well, when and if they do, you can bet I'll be there. So keep watching.

Having been firmly put in my place, and after getting a few more tips as to what I would have to remember when the day comes for me to reveal my vocal prowess to the masses, I found myself sitting on the steps in the downstairs corridor, flanked once again by two more Newtonians, who were absolutely determined to discover the Black Magic secret! A Kingfisherian, not unrelated to my former advisor, walked past.

'Hi, Big Man', said I.

'Hi Biggest Man', came the reply.

So there we are. As lodgemaster of Newton I'm seen as a big, fat, grandfather.

Incidentally, to my amazement, the two Newtonians who were so keen to discover the Black Magic secrets, having spent the better part of two hours engaged in research of the project, managed, eventually, to solve the mystery!

And, no, they're not telling!

Greetings, one and all, and a special welcome to new readers in Yorkshire and West Dorset, who have just joined us.

If I tell you that last night we had an evening of black magic, you will probably imagine that Newtonians have now been initiated into the ways of the occult, or that we spent the night guzzling chocolate, or that you should have sent him to 'another place'. Let me assure you that all is well and you really don't need to send off for a pack of prospecti from our various rival establishments.

It was no more than my younger daughter, Alice, and I, transmitting names of objects that had been whispered into my ear by individuals, telepathically to each other. Well, it looked like telepathy to the various dorm audiences, and all were open-mouthed that we could do this successfully! I'm sure there may be some among the Newtonian parental body (what a surreal image that is! Dali would love it!) who know how it's done, but trust me, none of your offspring knows the secret! Yet.

Talking of strange happenings, it was bed-making night last night, pre-black magic. And you know from a previous post what that's like .... ! (See 26th September!)