This territory is entirely familiar to SH3, not just to J. Arthur, who lives here. But Popeye succeeded in laying an attractive and entertaining trail; the sun came out and the canal-bank scenery was memorable. We were told 5 miles, with a G&T stop thrown in; we were back in 85 minutes, suggesting the distance must have been less.  [Probably 4.6 miles.]

  We reached this drink stop from Papercourt Lock, where there was a check.  J. Arthur had handed over his flour to Chastity Belt so that he could do some serious checking to the south, but was stymied by a large herd of bullocks, and came back. It was I think Shiva [?] who burst through the barrier of bullocks to find flour at the next style.  To confuse us all Chastity Belt failed to be-flour the path from the check; but by then most of the pack – well, those of the pack who had not accepted to be chaperoned by Speedy Humper around the short cut – had come within sight of us, and could arrive punctually at the drinks and sausages. First On tasted the gin nervously; “Is it very strong?”  She decided it was, but hashers are familiar with alcohol, and no one was deterred.
Much of the return from Send Village was, naturally, along the canal.  Popeye did add checks as we followed the bank, but obviously the solutions were always straight ahead; there are few acceptable alternative paths there, especially at this wet time of year.  So the checks were a formality.

  It turned out that Dr Death had been a member of the yacht club just north of today’s On In, so he could stride on with his customary vigour even when there appeared to be no flour – it turned out that we were solving checks without having noticed the check circles.  Mind you, by that time such heroines as Legolas and Atalanta were already well ahead of us.

  I am at last in a position to give you the surnames of the families with young boys who now run with us: Forgette, Lane, and Matthews.  They were out in force today: plenty of soft-drink down-downs.

  For those of you who courteously enquired, my wife is now back home from hospital, and trying to re-adapt to her customary diet after 12 days of hospital food.

  Simenon claimed to have slept with 10,000 women.  If all he meant was that he made love 10,000 times, then this is deeply impressive (most people happily settle for 4,000) but certainly thinkable.  But his wording suggests that many different women, which I find quite extraordinary: persuading a new woman into his bed every two days for 60 years, while writing all those books?  What sort of lifestyle is that?  He might include sex for cash, of which most of us I imagine know nothing, but even then…  I suspect he did not keep count, and just invented a figure to impress people.  In American films, boys brag of their sexual conquests; I have never heard such a conversation, and indeed my encounters in the US suggest that people are a good deal more civilised than Hollywood would have us believe.  My wife and I enjoyed fascinating conversations lasting 2 hours at breakfast in a New Orleans boarding house, though we were scolded roundly for walking home at night through an Afro-American district.  It would be interesting to learn how many people can say they have only had one partner after a long active sexual life; I imagine this is unusual, but not unknown.

  On On, FRB