Smurflike, in his woolly orange hat, our President Peter sat on a rock picking his toes. His poorly feet prevented him from climbing today and he’d also lost his list, so he didn’t know whether he was coming or going. But he didn’t really want to get involved in the competition anyway – his thoughts were all for Schlumberger. He was having a good time, surveying the scene and enjoying the attention of the young novices, who knew no better, as he impressed them with his fine adventures and bulging biceps.
Meanwhile, hot was the affray as the club members threw themselves at the rock face, driven on by the prospect of a kiss from Kate – surely paradise itself – for the one who could rescue her handbag from the tiny ledge onto which she had dropped it whilst powdering her nose. Roger, naturally, was the first to try, and he was so keyed up that as he pounced at the thin and slimy crack which led to his goal you could almost hear what he was saying. But Brian was trying a faster approach, and despite a broken ankle after his recent desmond from nearly three feet, he had set up an abseil and disappeared over the edge of the cliff before he realised he had forgotten his crampons. Alas, disaster struck. After many years of use his trusty gear loop snapped and he tumbled into the foaming sea. Silence fell over the club, the only sound coming from the corner monster as he snortled and went back to sleep.
When news of the handbag calamity arrived back at the campsite all was not well. Our star driver, Brendan, had reversed the minibus over Robert’s brand new Phoenix tent and was being beaten up the Scot, whose rapid accountant’s mind had calculated that the expenditure of energy was justified. Nark was fighting off two representatives of the Rare Bacteria and Fungi Association, who wanted his grundies declared a Site of Special Scientific Interest. Apparently the warm, moist environment was an excellent breeding ground for many endangered species, especially the parasite Whallus Carteris. Jon Bamber was wrestling with a ferocious black rabbit that had been attracted by his carrot soup. And where was Alec? Oh yes, still "putting Rosie to bed" from the night before!? Only Reptile Robin turned his beady eyes towards the sea and took note of the disaster. Another hour of basking on his rock and he would be warmed up, ready for action.
Back on the cliff, there were three main contenders. Roger was still in the lead, but the dastardly Clegg was making a very serious attempt over on the left. To the right, Tim pushed on, his baby face pale and frightened, the smell of fear seeping from his trousers. It was now that Clegg played his ace and stunned the onlookers with his infamy. For as he climbed he used his polished head to reflect the sunlight into Roger’s eyes. A temporary blindness overcame the lad, but luckily he had done the climb some five years before and, since he remembered every hold and wrinkle, carried on regardless. It wasn’t long before his hands were groping for the ledge as he searched for the final jam that would bring him to his prize.
Fate was against him. For Robin, his spirit rekindled by thoughts of High Tor, had set up a top-rope and, before you could say Pendulum Pakeman, had launched himself into space. His body jerked violently as he hit the rock and, as his face dragged across the rough granite ledge, it brushed the handbag into midair. Kate stared aghast as it tumbled into the sea, shampoo and all, almost retching at the thought of dirty hair for two whole days.
The dismayed climbers returned to the top and the full horror of the situation dawned on them. They had spent the whole morning climbing when they could have been festering in the local tea emporium! They ran back to the cafe and were soon in full fester mode.
It had been a very "nearly" sort of day. Dave Grace had nearly said enough words to form a sentence, Jon Rushman had nearly admitted there was something he couldn’t do, and George had nearly done his first route with the club. But nothing essential had changed, and the whole club gathered cosily around the teapot to talk happily of the famous climbs they would some day do. Outside, the black rabbit licked his lips and went off to do some soloing.