I don't expect for one moment that anyone will 'blog-log' today, but as the thing has become almost an addiction for me, and the rest of the family are without, I thought I would type a few lines, just to keep things ticking over.

My Long Leave began well, as, while walking into Summertown, I received a very nice text from a former tutee, now happily ensconced at Eton. Things went downhill rather after that, as I bumped into an ex-parent in Summertown, who, after a cordial enough greeting, decided that this was the moment to shower SF - and me in particular - in a torrent of polemic. Looking into the dry cleaners' and thinking malevolent thoughts about which particular machine would lend itself most appropriately to the moment, I decided that discretion had to be the better part of valour and, although I had plenty of time to reciprocate in similar vein, that Summertown High Street was probably not the forum for such demeaning behaviour. I strode purposefully to the Health Centre to collect my inhalers, expressing, with as much heavy irony as I could summon, my delight that all was going so well now.

I then responded to my text-buddy with a brief synopsis of recent events, whose reply was instant, opining all manner of decent, kind and generous thoughts. I was much cheered by this, as you can imagine. Dorset could not come quickly enough.

Our private hideaway is the most wonderful haven. I have now finished reading John Rae's excellent diary: it's called 'The Old Boys' Network' and I do recommend it. (Only one incorrect pronoun ('I' when he should have used 'me') and one typographical inexactitude in 294 pages: not bad!) You may have heard part of it, as it was recently serialised on Radio 4' 'Book at Bedtime'. I agreed with so much of his educational philosophy - and it was reassuring to know that holding radical views about many aspects of the artificial world in which we independent schoolteachers live is nothing new. But you'll have to wait until I retire before I start pontificating about all that!

Now I am reading Alex Stobbs' book, 'A Passion for Living', which is deeply moving and enables me to put my own thoughts into perspective. His mother's 40 page introduction is something not to be missed by any parent.

Two of my passions when I am here is deepest Dorset - other than my family, of course! - are my motorbike and Thomas Hardy. It will not take much to conclude that the common factor in that is T.E. Lawrence, and, by combining all three, I am able to continue my discovery of the world about which Hardy wrote with such consummate assurance and craftsmanship.

Another passion is my piano. I am currently returning to Bach's '48' preludes and fugues and am relieved to discover that I can still get through the ones that I really enjoy (especially the C major and D major, the latter of which is a real gem, in my opinion) and have a pretty good stab at the rest.

I had a very nice e-mail from Monash University in Melbourne, telling me that the powers-that-be have decided to renew my research fellowship for another two years. I am working with the university and with the National College of Music in creating Afghanistan's first dedicated music college. My remit has been to design the music curriculum for the college, whose pupils will enter at 4 and go on until 19, and, as you can imagine, it has been a challenging, but immensely rewarding 'holiday project' for the past two years! There will be a total of 300 students, of which 50% will be orphans from the ongoing unrest in the region. Working closely with the Ministry of Education in Afghanistan is an amazing, though sometime frustrating, experience. Anyway, we're getting there, and the Afghanistan National Institute of Music is scheduled to open on March 23rd, 2010.

Gosh, have I really written that much?! Time to stop, methinks. Isla needs a walk - and so do I. Have a wonderful time, wherever you are.

No doubt you are thinking that I have taken leave of my senses and that the Dorset air is proving too much, as I am writing today's entry about a lodge which is not operative. Well, first, I do assure you that I am fine, and secondly, I'm actually in Oxford until tomorrow night, for logistical reasons, all connected with our own young. I won't trouble you with the details, as they are even more complicated than dealing with laundry baskets.

All I really wanted to do in this brief blogiphication (words with 'ph' in them always look so grown up, I feel) is to thank all of my readers for such terrific support and encouragement. Writing these daily missives is great fun: a good discipline anyway, and it enables me to appreciate just what an amazing job D and I have. Looking after your boys is a real privilege - and they're all lovely.

So, whatever you are doing, and wherever in the world you are, north, south, east or west, thank you for reading - and if you're an SFian, have a great Long Leave.

Now for something chilled and fizzy. And no, I don't mean Diana.

Good morning, all - and especial greetings to our new followers in Moscow and Newbury!

Some of you have may have noticed that the daily blogiphying is happening a little later in the day: this is due to what I am reliably informed is a computer upgrade, and the school computer system is not allowing me to access my own work, for reasons that I am assured are for the best!

Well anyway. Enough of my morning moans. You may recall from yesterday (or if you can't then you can read the entry) that I suggested that 'It's towels and flannels' has what I referred to as 'a whiff of the existential about it'. This morning I found myself advising all residents that 'It's everything today'. And indeed it was. Fortunately, Miss Ruthie was in the common room in an advisory capacity this morning, so everyone coped. Even me. Sorry, even I. Existentialism in Newton; my goodness! I never thought philosophy and laundry would make good bedfellows.

And talking of bedfellows - no, don't get alarmed - there were a few whose reluctance to move from their places of somnolent repose (beds) was in evidence big-time this morning, which caused some consternation to the laundry collectors! Still, the guilty found a bit of consternation coming their way pretty soon, so it fair dos all round, I felt.

I must rush. (Unlike this morning's lie-inners.) And just in case you find yourself wondering what 'it' may be, remember: 'It is everything'.

Which, I suppose, it is.

Picture the scene. (To use that well-worn cliché of a beginning, so beloved of television news reporters, who even have the advantage of images on a screen.) It’s Miss Ruthie’s day off today, and I am sitting, as I do every morning, waiting for the boys to emerge from their nocturnal slumber, in the common room, sipping my coffee and watching the Breakfast news. There are three laundry baskets in front of me, and I have been advised by Mrs C that ‘it’s towels and flannels’. (A statement which always has a whiff of the existential about it, I feel.) A (tall) Newtonian walks past me, gives me a grunt of acknowledgement, accompanied by a lovely smile, and collects the clothing he should have collected last night. On his return from the laundry, he looks at the laundry baskets, quizzically, and then looks at me.
‘Towels and flannels’, I explain.
He points at the individual laundry baskets and says,
‘Towels, flannels, and …. ?
He echoes what I’ve been thinking. Towels, flannels and what else?
Realising that I have to think of a sensible answer, I say that towels go in the baskets on either side of the one in the middle, and flannels go in the centre basket. He seems happy with this response and he returns to his dorm.
Another Newtonian arrives. He, too, looks quizzically at three baskets for two items. By now I have revised my former thinking.
‘Towels in the one on the right, flannels in the left and the other one is for when the ….. erm … ‘
He, too, seems happy with this, though somewhat confused, so I revert to my original thinking, whereby the towels go in the right and left basket and the flannels go in the middle one’.
Enter the Obergrupenfurherine of Newton. (Sorry, Diana.)
‘Why three baskets for two items?’ I enquire, in all innocence and on behalf of my fellow males in the room. My other half gives me the look that suggests that she’s been married to an idiot for the past 29 years.
‘Towels and flannels go together. There are a lot of both, so we need three baskets.’
Ah. Now I get it. I think.

Sir, there’s been a spillage in Osprey!’

Silently invoking the Deity and imagining that I would discover a flood of biblical proportions in the aforementioned dorm, I hastened to the disaster zone. What I found was hardly tsunamian in its proportions, just a damp area that had tumbled from an Ospreyite’s cup of water and covered the top of his locker.

“Rather a minor spillage, I’d say,’ said I.

“Not a major one,” responded another Ospreyite from his top bunk.

I then made the mistake of saying that I was looking forward to the day when we had a Mynor called Maurice, or Morris, at Summer Fields, because that would mean that he would be Maurice Mynor.

“Oh!” said top bunk man, “I love those cars! My mum used to have one of those! It got stolen, unfortunately.”

Now, if there’s one thing I can be nerdy about (apart from notes inégales in Baroque music – when two written quavers become dotted when played), it’s the Morris Minor. I could bore for England, if not the United Kingdom, about the original version, then the 848cc engine version, with its split windscreen, and then how the radiator grille and the dashboard changed but the split windscreen remained, how it became the Minor 1000, with its 998cc engine, single windscreen and enlarged rear window. I could talk about the convertible version, the estate, or ‘shooting brake’ version, with its half-timbered back, etc., etc.

We had a mass shoe-cleaning last night, notwithstanding tsunamis. It was a wonderful sight to behold, with everyone ensuring that their footwear was respectable! We then lined all the shoes up in the downstairs corridor – and to my utter delight one Newtonian decided, of his own volition, that he would take it upon himself to buff up every single pair!

Yes, it was a good evening. There was a group of six playing our newly-acquired (and generously donated) game ‘Romans’ in our drawing room, which gave immense pleasure, others were on the computer, the phone was in almost constant use and everyone, it seemed, was happy.

A very happy Monday to all.

I nearly missed the fact that the blog celebrated its 30th birthday a couple of days ago, so I mustn't let that landmark pass unnoticed! Thank you, one and all, for your terrific following and your appreciative - and appreciated - words.

Other exciting news is that the blog has gone global, with readers having contacted me from around the world: New York and Durban to name but two areas in which our antics are being followed with eager anticipation.

Newton was preceded by a French cabaret act in Macmillan last night. It was all very bizarre, so let me tell you about it.

I can only describe what went on as a selection of people babbling on incomprehensibly, running around manically, singing strange, unusual melodies and making other peculiar noises, with activities ranging from tearing up paper and throwing it around, to dropping things on other people's heads, from adorning themselves with most unusual items, to daubing one another's faces with some kind of unpleasant goo. There seemed to be some kind of cohesion to what was going on, but it was not easy to ascertain exactly what it was, and when the lights went out at the end of the festivities, everyone collapsed into a heap and appeared to have gone to sleep.

The French cabaret was even more bizarre. (!)

Nearly Long Leave - and I don't doubt that the residents' excitement rating will escalate this week ..... ! Watch this space - and thank you for reading.

Psalm 8, verse 2; St Matthew's Gospel, ch. 21, verse 16. For those followers whose religious knowledge may have temporarily escaped them, I refer to the wording found in both references:

'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings'.

And I'm writing the Sunday entry tonight, because otherwise I will forget some of the classic quotes of the evening. viz.:

While watching X Factor: "Everyone wants to kiss Cheryl Cole. Well, my dad certainly wants to kiss her.'

'Sir, did you see an act called 'Grand 2000'? It was these grandparents singing. You could go on and be just like them.'

Oh, don't you wish you were here?! What wonderful sons and heirs you have; and what a privilege it is for Mrs C and me (yes, that is the right pronoun: dative case (to or for)) to look after them.

It was a lovely evening tonight: all the boys were in calm, thoughtful and affectionate humour, and the various cinemas were a pleasure to visit and enjoin. I couldn't do any of it, though, without the help of my first officer, my dear Diana, whose evening consisted of counting in the right number of leagues and cords in the baskets provided, putting the p. and s. in the machine, locating the guilty who had not acted as asked, and giving out the sweet rations. Believe me, she works a lot harder than I do!

Oh well. At least I don't have an overwhelming age to kiss Cheryl Cole. Ha! there's a Freudian slip if ever there was one! I meant to type 'urge'! Oh dear, now I really am getting into hot water!

Goodnight.