Marching Orders

A pub in Lincolnshire

Empty pint glasses and Ordnance Survey maps cover the table.

Peer of the Realm (PotR):  “So. Another fine TGO Challenge route put to bed. Tell me again, though. Why did you invite that oik to walk with us?”

String Puller-in-Chief (SPiC):  “It’s a social service. The man needs help. And I suppose he just might come in useful at some stage.”

PotR: “But the fella is a cad. Couldn’t be bothered to drive from Wales to Lincolnshire to help. We’ve done all this route planning ourselves. He’s a bounder, sir, make no mistake.”

SPiC: “You have him all wrong. He is actually a veryvery nice man. But let’s be realistic. He doesn’t know his Trossachs from his Pentlands.  It was better we just got on with it.” 

PotR: “Anyway, that’s the easy bit. Now we need to sort the Pre-Walk Daunder.”

SPiC: “Indeed. And didn't I just say he might come in useful.  We need a fall guy. …..”

A telephone conversation the following day

Puppet (aka Fellbound, for it is he): “I’m feeling guilty that I left the TGOC route planning to you guys. What can I do to help?”

SPiC: “Well there is one tiny little thing. You couldn’t plan the Pre-Walk Daunder could you?”

Puppet, aloud: “Yes of course, no problem.”

Puppet, silently: “Shit”.

SpiC: “You sure that’s ok?”

Puppet: “Sure. As I said. No problem.”

SPiC (in cod German accent):  “Gut. Now. You vil submit all ze details to me. I vil vet vem. You vil ven put vem into operation. You vil not fail me, vil you. No vat was not a qvestion. Vat was a statement.  Ve last man who failed me is now buried in concrete below a vind turbine in the North-Vest Highlands. Ve do not tolerate failure.  Relax, David. Only joking. But don't mess up. Seriously. Don't mess up.