Saturday afternoon in Bentham. The sun shining down was making me lethargic afIer a day's strenuous gardening, wrestling with a deeply rooted shrub. Tired therefore before I started. For this reason I was drifting in and out of sleepfull wake or a wakefull sleep and therefore perhaps only absorbed a small amount of Tom Tom's forensically detailed pre-run talk. Good job we only had about twenty minutes before we needed to leave or we would still be listening to his route description.

I can tell I was losing it as my senses relayed to my brain that Tom Tom believed that his boots were animated, and capable of speech. And we should listen to his boot. His boot continued to describe a lack of shiggy on todays route. Pretty surreal I thought, before noticing Tom Tom's lips were still moving. Ventriloquism it was not.

The good people of Bentham, according to Tom Tom also harbour hunt saboteurs at the ready to smite any heaps of flour (of which there were many sizeable specimens. Therefore co-hare Wears the Soap was to be dispatched as a human check to avoid the hunt saboteurs destroying the hunt.

Then our route finding was to make use of telegraph poles for signalling. Essentially a binary code, not even Morse) where crosses are bad and ticks are good. But the hounds disagreed vehemently and stated that ticks make people ill and should be avoided at all costs. Tom Tom shook his head despairingly that his attempts to simplify the world for LVH3 members simply failed. He then told us we should have brought secateurs to make a hole in the hedge at a point identified uniquely by the aforementioned telegraph pole morse code.

Morticia and I exited early to view Fiddler on the Hoof playing his fiddle at the Haffner orchestra.

The hash was lovely, so thanks hares. Sorry we missed the circles and any punishments delivered for misdemeanours observed by Religious Advisor.

On On Lurch