Oxenholme Enters The Twilight Zone.

Warning! A tear in the fabric of the space-time continuum has been detected in the North Lancashire - South Cumbria area! Send for Sapphire and Steel immediately! (Hashers of a certain age will understand that one....)

It all began while we were en route for R*n 818. "Ooh look - lambs!" declared Upperskirt, pointing excitedly to a field to our left. Lambs? In early February? Weird. Then, shortly after arriving at our destination, Dormouse rolled up in his car. Funny that - he usually shows up  AFTER Upperskirt has collected the cash. A quick look at my watch indicated that it was not yet 11 o'clock - but which day? A few minutes later, who should turn up but Lurch and Morticia. It must have been at least 11.15, but my watch still showed 10.55. Finally, the Beer Stop. People were now getting seriously disoriented. No one had the faintest idea what day it was. We had set off on Sunday - but what day was it now? Some thought Monday, others Tuesday or even Wednesday.

For make no mistake, this was a long one. My suspicions were first aroused when the Hares requested a Beer Stop - on a full moon r*n. Very suspicious. Then, Forever Blowing decided to send along a defibrillator, even though the On Inn already had one. Just how many casualties had the Hares been planning? Thirteen of us made it alive to the Beer Stop. I think we were about 20 at the outset, so a 65% survival rate. Not bad, but obviously more than the Hares had anticipated. We had survived their "undulations" (a euphemism for "ruddy great mountains"), but they still had one more weapon in reserve.

Little did we know that "Beer Stop" was actually also a euphemism, meaning "base camp", and was just a staging post prior to our ascent of K2 (again, euphemistically referred to as "The Helm"). The Hares' willingness to twist the English language to conceal their homicidal agenda knew no bounds. We had been thrust into an Orwellian dystopia of 1984 proportions. Oldthinkers unbellyfeel Hashspeak, you might say.

We later discovered an earlier plot to dispatch us prematurely to meet our maker, by tricking the Wimps into following the Rambo trail. Wimping is Ramboing. Ramboing is Wimping. Doublethink. It didn't succeed, hence the enforced alpinism later.

We did make it to the On Inn (The Station Inn, Oxenholme) eventually, where not only was the menu identical to that of The Stork at Conder Green, but the food was equally good and promptly served. A good day, after all. Thank you Hares - you obviously intended us to die happy, having first taken in some stunning views. I bear you no malice or ill will, even though you tried to kill me.

On on to the 12th and Chapped Lips and Late Cummer!