So much, then, for my rather feeble attempts at erudition. 'Bring back the cookies and the custard creams', seemed to be the general consensus from followers when I saw them on Friday, so, other than to tell you that I read, with pleasure, J,M. Coetzee's 'Waiting for the Barbarians' and Ian McEwan's 'On Chesil Bank' over the weekend, and then to pass on P.D. James' wonderful comment about Jane Austen, viz: 'Mills and Boon, written by a genius', I will, I promise, return to more simple pleasures, and will let you know as it happens, what is being guzzled when - and how, and where.

Whilst greeting my global followers the other day, I completely forgot, of course, to offer any salautation to those in Tokyo, and I am delighted to welcome new followers who have connections out there. This is the blog that you've heard about, and I hope you'll enjoy it.

Tonight, so far, I've heard all about a lost tooth, a 'really cool' pair of new shoes, trips to the theatre, and many other obviously much-appreciated vacational activities, but tonight's highlight, which occurred during 'silent reading', following the appreciation of 'Top Gear' by fellow petrolheads in our sitting room, involved my hearing an ominous 'clonk' as I entered a certain dorm, which I won't name, other than to say that it's occupied by Heronians.

The offending item, I discovered, was a projectile, launched from one side of the room to the other.

'And what is the cause of this clonking noise?' I enquired.

'Oh drat. On the first day, too.' the launcher's owner replied.

I removed the offending weapon, which is, I have to say, hardly on a scale equivalent to anything used by the Romans, or even Robin Hood, and walked triumphantly with it into our quarters. Thanks, Beano.

To return to Newton on a winter's night, and to 'bed-making' must be the very icing on the proverbial cake.

See? It didn't take me long to return to food ..... !

So there I was, you see, sipping my glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc, gazing absentmindedly at some tosh on the telly, when the phone rang. A chum, much involved in the world of independent schools, keen to ensure that I was aware of all the goss. It's amazing how quickly time passes when one's interest is properly fired up .......

Anyway, Mr Porter's been on duty tonight, and all sounds as if it's gone well. As it did this morning, when last I saw the residents. Meanwhile, Mrs C has been busy dealing with Orders for her charges, talking both telephonically and otherwise on matters of school business, and then, to bring the day to its close, clearing up the contents of the cat's stomach which have manifested themselves in rather close proximity to this computer.

Isla's fine, however.

See you tomorrow.

Get thee behind me! No, not you, dear followers, but the very Devil himself, who is, as I type, doing his level best to get me to partake of the open box of exceedingly good chocs that my daughter has left right next to this machine! I shall not - indeed, I must not - succumb.

First, though, an apology to Miss Chloe. It seems that it was she who organised the Chinese whispers, but I learn from my sources (Heron) that this was a result of her own initiative, whereby she decided that so incensed was she by one or two things that certain Newtonians had, allegedly, been saying, that she would, and indeed did, call a lodge meeting. Following her words of rebuke to the troops, she then instructed those present to start a round or two of Chinese whispers, with the intention of proving how easy it was for malicious rumours to spread so easily. So, full marks to Miss Chloe, I say.

Well, what started out as a rather disappointing evening became a truly special one. Sometimes it just happens. Mrs C has cleverly persuaded Bradders to afix Freeview to the clubhouse telly, and we imagined that this would be 'a good thing'. It, so far, isn't. The reason? You can guess. A billion channels (well, around 20, anyway) and 27 boys is not a good mix. So, following heated negotiations that even my Kissinger-like diplomatic skills were unable to quell, TV was off tonight's menu.

Instead, I was invited to make up a Uno team - and I found myself engulfed by the most competitive couple of rounds I've ever known! They'll be great men, you know, with that kind of drive and determination.

I then moved to the piano and started meandering to little effect, and I soon found that our drawing room was rapidly filling.

"Sir, did you make that up?" Yes, I did, in fact, and, never one to be described as a shrinking violet, I played to my adoring public the only Phil Collins/Elton John balladish hybrid I've written that I thought might stand a chance of publication. It's called 'Moments of Love', and no, I didn't sing the melody, I just played the piano part. It seemed to go down rather well, so if there any music publishers out there, and you'd like a copy, do let me know. I've always wanted an Aston Martin - and I ask for one every year, but, to date, Sarnta seems to consider such extravagance chimney-unfriendly.

Oh well, there's always next year. Unless anyone should have one rotting away in the garage ......

Night night.

Thank you, Dr Harskin, for your comment about placing commas before the word 'and'. I endorse what you say entirely, because I've always thought that the notion that 'and' should be preceded commalessly is nonsensical - especially in the light of Mr Mayall's anecdote that a certain author had dedicated a book 'to my parents, Hilda Smith and God'. (Or something like that. You get my drift, I'm sure.)

It seems to have been a spirited evening in Newton tonight, or so Mr Bryan informs me. Apparently, a game of Chinese whispers, which one might have considered to be fairly innocuous, turned into a game of Summerfieldian rumour-mongering, which sounds rather suspect. After lights-out I couldn't help but hear a miscellany of thumping from above, but either Newtonians are wily enough to cease all nocturnal activity before their Leader manages to get through the drawing room door (you'll be my age one day - you wait), or I'm beginning to hear things that aren't happening. If you see what I mean.

I think that'll do for tonight.

Reading through last night's entry, I couldn't help but notice the rather second-rate punc tuation of the opening salvo. It seemed to contain a misplaced comma - and it is the humble comma that I wish to consider this evening.

I say that on;ly because I've now read two books in which the comma appears, to me, anyway, to be somewhat under-used. Apposing nouns, for example, would, in my opinion, always be surrounded by a couple of the aforementioned marks, and adjectives which form a list, in order to describe an otherwise naked noun, would also be separated by one such, with the exception of the ultimate one in the said (or rather, the written), list. And then there's the business of the prescribed absence of a comma before the word 'and' at all times, howsoever it might be used.

Hence my fascination for the works of Professor John Baily, for one, and, at the other end of the spectrum, an author with whose works I was unfamiliar, due to the fact that I do not spend very much time at airports, by the name of James Steele. Both, in writing in their respective genres, seem to think that they may presume to ignore all such regulations as I have described above. Oh well, or, rather, oh, well, I suppose one can't break rules until one knowswhat they really are, and, in the case of the learned professor, I can give him the benefit of wisdom. As for Mr Steele, well, exciting though his tale of the overthrow of a Russian dictator may be, I'm not so sure. Although perhaps my example of 'oh, well' suggests that he wrote as he intended.

Amazing what simple pleasures can be derived from a punctuation mark, don't you think?

To Newton. Mr BT popped in to see us all tonight and of course, we were all delighted to see him. We entertained him with a quick game of Uno and then showed him Black Magic, to which he offered what can only be a bribe to those who know how it works. I'm not sure that that's permitted, under the regulations of the Magic Circle. (Who have nothing to do with it; nor do the Druids.)

Happy days.

Greetings, global followers, and I hope you have had, or are in the process of having, a good day, depending on your time zone.

Pride, as whoever 'they' are, say, comes before a fall, and I knew that, this being the establishment that it is, that my own vain attempts at media manipulation would soon be surpassed by another. Sure enough, I had to wait only until yesterday morning for that to happen, and it was with great pleasure that I found myself scanning the pages of the Telegraph magazine when the family of Her Majesty's Consul-General in Iraq struck my retinae. I know I have a rule of not mentioning any names on this blog, but exception proves the rule from time to time, and as I know that you are a dedicated follower of my humble ramblings, ma'am, I hope you will not be offended by such an exception. I hope, too, that all is well out there.

The highlights of tonight's festivities here were a very interesting sermon about Fairtrade, followed by samples of what looked like vodka shots, as Mr BT said, but were in fact wine samples, accompanied by a number of rather curious canapes. Quite pleasant, nevertheless, and I was humbled by so many who treated me as if I had achieved celebrity status. I was, in fact, asked for my autograph in Summertown yesterday. - but it was Mrs Sheldon who asked, so that particular moment of self-indulgence falls at the final hoop. And the first one, really.

Hide and Seek seemed to be the order of the evening, with a number of the residents deciding that such a pastime would pass muster. It didn't, and that was that.

And so is this. So until tomorrow ....

I have just walked in on the most politically incorrect television programme in the world. It's called, apparently, 'Take me out', and, from what I can glean, involves single people who've been unable to pinpoint their chosen partner and have therefore resorted to displaying this particular aspect of their lives to a few million members of this sceptred isle - as well as a few other international locations around the planet, thanks to BBC iPlayer. I will not get involved with describing the reasons as to why various possible partners are rejected, for to do so would be very rude indeed. I think it was Bernard Shaw who said that one knows whether one is going to get along with someone from the second they open their mouth. (He it was, incidentally, who enquired of some particularly boring guests at a dinner party, "Oh, must you stay, can't you go?" A line which most of us, if we're honest, from time to time, have wished we could use.)

Anyway, back to this awful programme; one which seems to me to be the very nadir of broadcasting, imho. At the opening of the 'festivities', a plethora of young ladies, ranging from the beautiful to the, er, well, the, um, not so beautiful, walked down the stairs of the studio. I couldn't help but notice that one of our residents' faces was particularly close to the screeen.

"Er, X, this is you." I then moved towards the screen myself (and immediately realsied that this was a big mistake) and exaggerated the extent to which X's face was pressed against the screen, for which I was rewarded by a (tall) wit from within Upper Third with

"Don't worry, sir, we won't tell Mrs Cheater."

Still, as I said to one of the Curlew viewers, at least the bloke selecting his choice managed to get the right answer. (Imo.)

Thank you for watching me on the telly, btw, and also for your generous comments. If you haven't watched it and would like to, simply log on to BBC Oxford TV and you'll be able to watch it on iPlayer - at least until midnight. I can give you the radio link if you'd like it; just e-mail me at the usual generic staff address (prc@, etc.) and I'll let you know.

Until tomorrow.