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Report 1444
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A live run; and a figure of eight at that. Successful in both respects: look to your laurels, oh Surrey hares!
Not that figures of eight are to be recommended; they are in general a recipe for disaster, in Surrey at least, given the prevalent distaste for following a trail faithfully on flour... However, today's went well, even if some unworthy souls just went back to the car park when they reached and recognised the central node. Not very many though; the Circle was very ill-attended, as such a lot of hashers were still somewhere out there on, or off, the trail while we drank down-downs.
Live in the sense that the hares set out 15 or 20 minutes before we did. Well, it makes things more sporting; doubtless it was deliberate that we lost time at the first, difficult, check. Did they even have a map?? Certainly we were soundly berated for running through private property, while Hard Nuts tried to sum up courage to approach the indignant land owner (or his lodge keeper, qu'est-ce que j'en sais?) and offer an explanation or even an apology. Instead he confined himself to timid gestures to beckon us on out of the estate and onto public land.
A right-hander (if such a term makes sense on a figure of eight) on terrain we all know and recognise. Even in today's damp gloom. The range of colourful wet-weather costumes on the run was impressive, though no one was impressed by the GM's allegedly Versace trews. Indeed Shagger's part in the hash was partial at best; he arrived late, short cut most of the trail, and came back early.
We had some excellent moments of farce during the trail. Puffer, or some one near him, mis-called an On On; most of us dutifully ran back and in that direction, but Herr Flick, who was within 3 seconds of finding the flour, short-cut towards the call and was not seen again till the bucket.
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So it was left to Hairy Buns to solve the check - and so precipitate the private property aggro described earlier. Though by then Hairy Buns had dropped out of contention; no speed merchant he.
Now, not only was the area familiar; three hashers had GPS instruments, and were duly scolded by the RA. DTs' was little use, the batteries being flat; Glowworm's worked, as did that of another hasher whose handle I have forgotten. This new trend adds a dimension to checks; those with the device can be quite sure which direction home is in, which means - the hares being no fools - that they are almost certain to get the check wrong...Such an analysis assumes accuracy; one said 7.5 miles when we came in, the other 4.7. Is that reassuring, or is it reassuring?
Well, at the Circle the other GPS man got a down-down for feeling vindicated; Popeye asserted that such language is not used on the hash. To the obvious objection, he was gracious enough to exclude your scribe. And in fact hash language loomed large at the bucket; when told of efforts to purify the speech used by the tribe (Mallarme: "donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu") Herr Flick assured us that the place of obscenity would go unchallenged while he was around....
Atalanta - who arrived late, as usual, by 15 minutes this time, but unlike Shagger was fit and fast enough to catch us all up shortly before the On In, - was given a down-down for being reduced to the status of "a wife" after a few short weeks of marriage. (This in the context of Popeye's finding their car lights left on).
Well, we must find out some time what became of all those SH3 stalwarts still out there as the ceremony ended. FRB
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