March 2015


gravyDay 57   We arrived at Camp 4 last night after nightfall just as the snow began to intensify.  After a few desultory and necessarily limited rounds of I Spy the chaps fell silent.  There is a howling wind outside which makes it almost impossible to hear the gramophone but at least it drowns out the sounds of Thackering freezing to death outside.  The cad put ice cream in the gravy boat.  We sent him outside with the service revolver to do the honorable thing but so far he refuses to go with dignity.  If he doesn’t freeze soon we shall have to have a bit of a sing song to drown out his whining – it is bad for the other chaps’ morale.  I don’t know how many more letters I shall be able to write to Maisie which greatly pains me.  The native chaps we send on the letter runs seem not to be returning and we will need them to serve at table when we reach the top.

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Soaring Ambitions of Col. Trevelyan Makeshift-Hampton

Soaring Ambitions of Col. Trevelyan Makeshift-Hampton

Day 53     Gauging from the last time I surveyed the stars before I broke my sextant, today is possibly St. Patrick’s day.  Mulligan, the Irishman, seems unusually taciturn and morose today for whatever reason. The most pressing worry I have is that Severance may be losing his mind.  He has been putting lima beans in his service revolver and taking pot shots at the summit.  Clayshaw has also been acting a little strangely and has begun to take milk instead of lemon in his tea – we are reduced to Ceylon.  It is very distressing.  I have seen that before in the Congo – first it is milk instead of lemon, then they start taking their whiskey without soda and next thing you know they are running around stark naked with a missionary’s head on a stick.  I find myself recalling my first summer in Dorset after Father had gone to India and mother was locked in the conservatory drinking raw quinine…[The rest of the page would appear to have been chewed away by a rodent or a member of the servant classes. Ed]

Soaring Ambitions of Col. Trevelyan Makeshift-Hampton

Soaring Ambitions of Col. Trevelyan Makeshift-Hampton

Word has been circulating throughout the interconnectedness that there is a great need for some cold-weather Hampton’s Houseshare Hell. We have trawled the web but find that none of our protagonists seem to be blogging about anything. However we did find a fragment of The Diaries of Trevelyan Makeshift-Hampton. So without further ado here is the first excerpt.

DAY 47   We are still at Camp 3. The snows have not abated since Wednesday fortnight and, though I don’t like to say it in front of the chaps, things are beginning to look a little grim. Last night we used up the last of the Earl Grey and we have only three lemons left. Of course the local guide chaps have ample supplies but are very loath to share them with us since Beverage sent one of them back to Base Camp for his regimental collar studs and the poor chap was swallowed up in an avalanche. I can only hope the snow lets up so we can press on to Camp 4.
There are plenty of supplies there: half a gallon of fine Madeira, some fresh crumpets, clotted cream and a splendid snooker table that we had two of the local chaps carry up there early in the spring – damn plucky little blighters – could show a thing or two to the shiftless so-called working class back in Blighty.