Hash 1531

The journey from The Palmer Arms to The Squirrel is:
One small step for ISGH.
The giantest leap, ever, in his great and unmatched wisdom.
Nothing, if you are in the Bullingdon Club.
Of no relevance to the author, who drove.
Dry, the weather was, and had been, which made a pleasant change from the week before.
The chance of following a trail, rather than map reading, was looking rather good.
Even better, a parking space appeared, which Mick guided me too, while clutching his car keys tightly in his hand.
The rest of the hash had to make do with overrunning the local streets.
Come the appointed start time, the GM delivered his prologue, about meerkats.
It seems that hashers are like meerkats, only not so hairy, or cute. So, remember that, when you are running (or semblance of) along. And if an Eastern European meerkat should jump on your back, hoping for a free ride, just say the magic B*** word to it, and it will run away home.
IGSH go bored with this, and declared the Hash to be off, but not before warning us of the pitfalls to come.
Fortunately, I have the official map, so I know where we went, up to the long/short split, and where we should have gone, afterwards.
First off, Glenister Road, and a cut through into the recreation ground.
Bit confusing here, as there were people running at speed across the grass. Too many, too fast, for our group, even with meerkats on their back.
Then we saw lots of little lights, and party candles, on the ground.
Isobel started to pick them up, as they made the field look untidy. Bad move. A runner jumped over her, at speed, a Grant and Stone employee by all accounts. That path was just too dangerous. What would the death certificate say? Death by cross Handy Cross runner stampede?
Time to split we think, so we took the most direct route towards John Lewis, straight down Holmer’s Lane. As there is also a Holmer’s Farm Way close by, my mind palace suggests a possible explanation, but it is much too complicated to explain here.
Through, and around, another recreation ground (they are well endowed with them on this estate), succinctly named, Holmer’s Farm. The through bit was a ploy by the hare to take us back into thee state, where we could run around a flat, circular play area called Holmer’s Crop Circle, then retrace our steps. Time to play chicken on, or by, the motorway.
Somewhere between the start, and here, we came across the skateboard park that had been foretold by our oracle, the hare.
I know this, because a skateboarder shot across my bow and nearly hit Aaron. I thought that this was an aggressive neighbourhood, until I noticed the concrete under my feet, and the ramp to my left. Oops. We really were going across the skating area. Aaron’s first reaction, to his credit, was to say sorry. Nearly knocked down twice in an evening. What is the world about?
With the motorway rumbling noisily to our right, we came to the underpass, where the righteous were led back to the light, by Audrey, and the sinners went into the dark, to the shiggy swamp foretold by the oracle, never to return with clean trainers.
Devious as every, the hare had made the speed averse section of the hash retrace their steps, to gaze longingly at the wares available but untouchable, in the store to our right.
I looked for guidance on the ground, but Audrey cut me short, saying she had the map. Which she never looked at. I knows what I’m doing, she said, and I knows where I’m going.
So we followed. Except for Alex and sibling. For all the talk of meerkats, I must confess that they went astray. Hiding behind walls, and all that. Not my fault guv.
All’s well that ends with a copiosity of chunky chips. Enough to sate even the most savage hash b(r)east (To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak).
Thank you Gerry. Very generous of you.