A small but dedicated group of hashers, not suitably traumatised enough by the previous week's underwater live hare run, congregated at the highly picturesque environs of Lubhu, replete with slag heaps and brickwork debris everywhere. Shrivelled arrived late attempting to take a pre-Hash shortcut, rescued by a well-dressed Good Samaritan, after being found babbling incoherently on the ring road. Expectations were running high about the proposed Dead Hare Hash, which merely and disappointingly merely referred to the decrepitness of the hare Rotter , who slunk along with the walkers.

The course set off in pleasant topography in sunshine, and in no time, the runners were engaged in a baffling uncertainty akin to following an edible hash track. Shrivelled , having recently adopted the nefarious black arts of short-cutting taken by several elderly dead hare hashers of HHHH (but with far less success) proved again that brawn was no substitute for brain and promptly repeated last week's incomprehensible feat of running back into Kathmandu. The path eventually found its way across a small khola, but from the looks of undisguised distaste on certain hashers' faces, you would have thought that we had re-entered the madness of a full Bagmati Crossing (see Shrivelled live hare 1). The cunning trail provided more bafflement, Big Jim, played the crucial coordination role of yelling ‘Checking' at each check, then promptly settling down for a ‘Nana's Nap'. Towed ranged far from the pack seemingly following his dog, with the continual and animated conversation between man and beast confirming widely held suspicions that it was the dog who was the brains trust of this team.

More confusion led to the re-establishment of the correct route and sanity, leading to a second ankle high river crossing (or to some, the Bagmati again). In a show of unbridled masculinity JP-WFP removed his shoes and socks and tip-toed through the raging 6 inch high current, to be met with raised eyebrows as he flaunted his rose-red painted toe nails. The walkers converged with the runners at the mid-holding check, with the Rotter puffing gamely as he struggled at the back of the walker's pack. Soon we were back into the ‘raging' khola and then through a village, heckled by helpful children. The pack thinned out up though the village, with lead runners losing the way yet again, and were counselled with more helpful hints from villagers such as ‘you're going the wrong you stupid bastard'. The trail wound its way through open paddy field territory, up a slight incline, then back to the brickworks via the ‘Leaning Tower of Pisa' chimneystack, hovering ominously over the vehicle car park.

(excerpt prematurely ends here, due to the rushed return for a rendezvous by the author, hence missing the down-downs, but he did have a note from his mum, excusing his absence.)

Editorial note on the circle: The only thing I can recall is newcomer Dave getting the awesome hash name of 'The Impregnator'. Rotter got the hashit and had a somewhat eventful journey home.