Hares claimed that they would not be able to write The Words this week, so your long suffering Scribe has done the biz.

The first Monday run of the year produced a good turn out and the weather was pretty fair too. A number of returnees were very welcomed, including Mabel who has obviously spent the time away in training! The only worry was the imminent sunset and the danger of running most of the hash in the dark. The circle was called a few yards away from the pub as the GM couldn't compete with the adjacent road work machines, and shortly afterwards the OFF was called. A few keenies dashed around like Dik-Diks with a lion in their midst, while the majority of pack lay around like lions having just eaten a herd of Dik-Diks. It couldn't last of course, and with trail found, the FRBs legged it off down Baldock High Street.

The usual procedure ensued. You know: FRBs Pecker, Mabel, Shaggy et al and occasionally Not-My-Bitch did all the running while the bulk of HFive had a good old natter and followed on at a more sedate pace. Leaving the town briefly the trail led out past the station and then into the allotments below the railway track. By now the sun had left Good Ole Blighty and was fast on it's way to wake up the west coast yanks. The narrow, smelly tunnel under the tracks was pitch black and caused a few of the harrietts to squeal and squeak in fear. They made it through safely, but other dangers lay ahead.

The trail was found leading down a long track. This turned out to be the epicentre of Dog Shit City. Navigating safely along this path turned out to be a mixture of hopscotch and the 'Stepping Stones' game in Takeshi's Castle (Challenge TV every night - remind me to get out more). The Hares should have got a down-down for laying a trail along this dangerous byeway.

By now it was darker than the inside of Old Nick's hat and when hare Stallion said that the trail would now go up into the woods, there were a few mumbles (no, not her from Norfolk) of discontent. Those with no regard for their eyesight and general safety carried on while the more sensible hashers (GM, Dead Meat, Donut, Ringkisser, Underlay, GorJoyce, yours truly and others) decided to call it a day, errr night I mean.

The aprés circle was held up as - Shock! Horror! the IPA barrel had gone. Never fear though, Paintball got Abbot Ale for the down-downs! As a consequence there was little spillage. Big Blouse exposed himself (horrible thought) as the double-secret RA and did a fair job, only failing by not being able to remember anyone's hash name. Florence got a down-down for something or other, and managed not to spill any of the precious liquid on the floor. "How?" I hear you ask. Well a carpet of hashers holding their tankards lay all around her feet, that's how.

ON ON - Shagpile