The Angry Corrie 7: May-June 1992
Tribulation in the Trossachs
We broke clear of the trees and while it wasn't an especially hot day it remained dead calm. Mona didn't. Before long accusations of substantial treachery thickened the air to nearly the same density as her Flying Circus. Personally I think expensive perfume is probably contra-indicated up hills. I merely sported my usual B.O. and only had a minor swarm of things about me.
It's probably worth mentioning what else she was wearing. A Hair-Do. A gigantic, pink pair of baroque sunglasses. A considerable quantity of make-up. A wee pink fluffy top thing. A very large pair of shorts a la "It Ain't Half Hot Mum", only in pink. A pair of pink trainers. ("I don't like my boots!") Oh, and a rucksack which was blue and red (but she was mortified) containing a Woman's Own and a make-up bag. I had offered some tentative advice about clothing but had been informed that I didn't have a clue.
Like Murdo Munro I advocate green, although I mitigate the monotony of this with the occasional black or gray. Basically I don't want Mountain Rescue to find me.
The noxious and animate cloud persisted despite our continued ascent. (Up the increasingly perilous slopes of Mrs Glum's ire.) Indeed, the wee beasts stayed with us right to the top of the hill, although we had yet to reach the emotional zenith of the day's travails. Mind you, the last time we were out will be very hard to beat... total screaming hysterics... yards of blown snot fankled by high wind into a sheep-deadly death skein... flailing arms to thrash away the horror of the isolation... all within sight of the car! I thought I was lost, she sobbed. It was the first laugh I'd had in months.
Anyway, once we started down a bit of a breeze picked up and carried Mrs Glum's torturers away. As we neared the bottom of the hill I was allowed to trail blaze as the fairly steep final descent of the northern side of Venue is convex and consequently it's hard to check false paths. Also quite undesired in Mona's case, her stumpy wee legs having trekked the equivalent of about thirty miles by normal standards. Given how tired she was I experienced considerable surprise that she commenced highland dancing with much frenzied hooching, then with great originality modified this into some sort of hideous lederhausen-type self-chastisement. I couldn't really make out what she was saying but it sounded a bit like "King Star, King Star!" Nor did I find out, for when she caught up with me her face, arms and legs had suffered mighty midgey attack and she had ceased communication with the author of all her misfortunes.