Tuesday night. Marlow. It can only mean one thing. Sleet and snow.
I know that Hashers have evolved to have a short memory span. Just like chickens have, and for the same reason. But, just because you get grid-lock one day doesn’t mean that inclement weather will always cause same. In the event, the roads were pretty clear as most peeps stayed snug at home, including hashers. Mind you, it wasn’t helped by the Brittania being renowned for being dog unfriendly. Unfortunately, Tim did not know this, having brought Brodie to a hash for the very first time. Shuffle, shuffle. Even Sooper had made it through the mush. Must be time to be off. Two virgin hares, Fat Boy and Seagull. Could be a baptism of fire? Or should that be snow? Oh no. No CIC.
Marlow must be awash with MBEs and Knights of the Garter. Why is there never an acronym around when you need one? I call for volunteers to do the write up, but everyone just turns to see what I am looking at, then run away.
I remember turning left outside the pub, and that’s about it until the long short split.
I do have a map, but am struggling to separate water stain, from highlighter pen. I think we must have run towards Bovingdon Green, but as my mind was focussed on the ground even more than usual, that ground could have been anywhere.
There were roots. Lots of roots. All acting as dams for the mud. Oh God. It’s coming back to me. I thought I had suppressed it, but the nightmare really was real. But, I did see a sign. Don’t understand its meaning yet, but I will. A mouse ran across the track, right in front of me. And the mouse was coloured creamy beige, and it was good.
At High Rews Farm, we shorts bade adieu to the longs, who carried on for miles, up towards Booker (and back). Seagull then handed over a map, and it was laminated!! Heads’ perks? I looked at map. The map looked back, so I gave it to First Navigator Aud. She was magnificent. Up hill, down dale, Marlow Bottom, kiddie playground. Nothing stopped her. Straight as Cupid’s Arrer, back to the Brittania.
The longs were not far behind, even with extra few miles to negotiate. Well done them. Back in the lounge, a plate of bread and chips could be eaten at leisure, given the smaller turnout.
Thank you hares. I hope you enjoyed setting it as much as we did running it.
Poor Tim. Relegated to the entrance foyer with his pint of beer.
Not just because of pub rules, but because Brodie scored E- on her last “not barking when sitting under the table” exam. Work in progress there.
And where was Scribbler? I’ll tell you.
On standby, for snow plough duties at Heathrow.
They’ve made a film about him, using his stage name, of course.
NB: this joke has been Bowlderized to meet the absurd liberal Guardian reading biases of the editor - because nothing says liberal like some old fashioned censorship.
Norman and his wife husband live up north. One winter morning, while listening to the radio, they hear the announcer say, "We are going to have 4-6 inches of snow today. You must park your car on the even numbered side of the street, so the snowplough can get through." Norman's wife husband goes out and moves the car.
A week later while they are eating breakfast, the radio announcer says, "We are expecting 6-8 inches of snow today. You must park your car on the odd numbered side of the street, so the snowplough can get through."
Norman's wife husband goes out and moves her his car again. The next week they are having breakfast again, when the radio announcer says "We are expecting 8-10 inches of snow today. You must park..........." , just then the electric power goes out.
Norman's wife husband is very upset, and with a worried look on her his face says, "Honey, I don't know what to do. Which side of the street do I need to park on so the plough can get through?"
With the love and understanding in his voice, like all men who are married to blondes exhibit, Norman says, "Why don't you just leave the car in the garage this time?"