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.

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