Having just become a septuagenarian (or is it a heptagon? I can never remember. They probably both mean the same thing anyway), and struggling to cope with the trauma of transitioning from youth to middle-age*, I decided to soothe my bruised ego by going to the full-moon hash. What better way to celebrate one's sixty-tenth - not my words, that's what the French call it - than by going to r*n eight hundred and sixty-thirteen?

On arriving at the White Cross at the appointed time, the first thing that struck me was the sheer paucity of hounds. I counted four, myself included. You see how cognitively aware I am, despite my advancing years? The low turnout was probably my fault. As the tens column on my life clock advanced another notch, the not-yet-superannuated members of Team LVH3 were almost certainly afraid of being humiliated by a tomtomian display of athletic prowess. Hashing non-competitive? Don't you believe it!  Anyway, all those Generation X/ Millennial/ Gen Z / Generation Alpha riff-raff would only have slowed me down.

So, we formed a circle (more of a square, I suppose, with only four of us) to receive our mission briefing. One of the hares (I shall not reveal his name) got lost while setting the trail, and only just made it back in time, He then attempted to interrupt the other hare (she shall also remain nameless) who finally managed to shut him up, but only after he had completed nearly two sentences. I don't know, the guy just couldn't keep quiet.

We were promised a tour of parts of Lancaster we had never seen before, and we were not disappointed. A succession of pink arrows - WN would not allow OHT to use a more boyish blue, as she was in sexist, discriminatory mode that day - led us through districts even Lancaster City Council doesn't know about. The settlement of inbred cannibals just beyond the confines of Williamson Park was particularly interesting, if a tad scary.

FCS, FOTH and myself did some power-wimping. One of the Rambos, whom I shall not name, got lost, so the Hare who had got lost previously was dispatched to find him. Curious strategy.....

Anyhow, we made it back to base camp in a little under an hour, as promised by the Senior Hare, and an enjoyable late Sunday lunch was had by (nearly) all. We thought we had managed to avoid paying our hash subs, but unfortunately Upperskirt sprang up from nowhere, so we had to cough up, as she was strategically placed to block the only exit.

All in all, a grand afternoon out. Thank you Hares, especially for filling in at such short notice.  Apart from having to pass several fully-functioning pubs without stopping, it was pretty damn perfect. 

A long write-up, but at least it will give you plenty to keep you occupied until Dormouse scribes r*n 872 in 2036.

On on!

(* Terms and conditions apply. Assumes average life expectancy of 140 years. Other scenarios are possible).