Do the organisers of the London Marathon never learn? Year after year, they arrange the event on the same day as an LVH3 r*n. A week earlier, or later, and they could have had some of the nations finest athletes (see picture 13 above) pounding the tarmac on the streets of the capital, but they blew it. We knew where we had to be, and that was Garstang to be present at an historic occasion, namely the induction of Big Dibber and Motor Gnome (otherwise known as "the accused", but more of that later) into the haring fraternity.

Not everyone made the right choice, though. White Noise and Off His Trolley failed to turn up, and rumours began circulating that they had gone down to London, intending to do the marathon in record time, so they could dash back up north and join us; apparently, however, they were held up by the Kenyan and Ethiopian runners, who refused to move aside and let them pass, So, sadly, we had to make do without their pace-setting skills.

Undeterred, the rest of us elite athletes (or should that be delete?) trotted off round the trail. Not too much shiggy, and plenty of puddles for Belle to jump in; we were hoping for a "Vicar of Dibley" moment, but unfortunately it was not to be. To compensate for the lack of hilliness in that area, and also to get us over the M6, the Hares had constructed bridges with lots of steps for us to go up and down.

The route was very well marked, with flour of exactly the right quantity, quality and consistency - Allinson's premium, perhaps? - and arrows of just the right amount of chalkiness and arrowiness. Then, without warning - nothing. No flour, no arrows. Purely by coincidence, while we were looking for the trail, Lancashire Constabulary had dispatched a van complete with PC to hunt for a lone female of diminutive stature who had been spotted leaving piles of some unidentified powdery and probably poisonous substance in unspecified locations. We made our excuses and moved on, secure in the knowledge that this brave constable and the local militia of irate, shotgun-wielding farm workers would quickly run the crazed terrorist to ground. 

We soon picked up the trail again, and made it back into Garstang. Except for Fiddler On The Hoof, that is, who managed to get lost, not once, but twice. After we had been back for nearly a quarter of an hour, and still no sign of him, Baldbrick, Upperskirt and I began to get really really really concerned, as we had only paid for three hours parking, and didn't want to shell out another pound.

A well-attended lunch at Th'Owd Tithebarn to round off the morning, and a promising future in haring for Big Dibber and, if she can stay out of prison, Motor Gnome. Thanks, Guys. A run-in with the law on your debut outing - now THAT's cool!