At 10.59 Chunderos said the trail was 5 miles long, and that Hornblower would be there in 5 minutes to explain short-cuts.  The front runners finished the trail at 12.10, from which I infer that 5 miles was an over-statement; SH3 did not cover terrain that fast even in Rambo’s day.  It is no longer possible to lay a trail from this car park that our hashers will not recognise, though the Albury Estate has fenced off some of the area traditionally used, and fields which during a sunny summer turn gold today were green.  To be fair to the weather, for the last fortnight we have had sunshine, but remember those chilly wet weeks before that?

  As is customary we found ourselves in the estate which makes up much of Farley Green’s housing.  (And as usual there were no residents to be seen; is it good manners to stay indoors on these estates?)  There we found a check with a solution marked, sending us back east, away from our destination; several of us felt we would rather check forward. In this estate we did find both our dutiful and conscientious hares, Strumpet and Hornblower; the latter started to worry that she did not know the paths we were using. Eventually Doug, Dr Death and I carried on, confident of the direction, and soon enough did indeed come upon flour; the three of us got to the car park some 5 minutes before Bigfoot.  I shall never know what distance we cut out; in the estate we had been with First On, CL, Mother Brown, and Captain Webb, who finished not much later than the front runners, but I am not sure whether they had returned fully to the paths of virtue, followed us, or found a third way.

  Lord Raleigh at the Circle was remembering birthdays, so I reminded people that the limelight-shunning Low Profile turns 90 around this time.  Ratty and Redeye were part of the retired hashers awaiting our return – oh, you know, Teddy Bear, ‘Ardon Provocateur, Clever Trevor, Terminator, Tequil’Over: runners who reach the car park will not find themselves alone, however fast they have been. And yes, speed can still be found on a Surrey Sunday; Atalanta was scarcely late at all, Bigfoot and Missing in Action had brought their athletic son, and I am sure there were others whom I seldom see at my age and speed.

  The sad solitary young men who carry out atrocities: what can be done?  Plainly family and school are of little use, and whom else do they meet?  We can begin with the incels, who feel deprived of sex but are reluctant to use the obvious approaches of friendship or payment; they seem to enjoy nourishing their grievances, preferably online with fellow incels.  They do not seem to have much in common with youngsters who murder children, but there is a common bond of being lonely misfits.  And this makes any action almost impossible; if they could be identified they could be helped, (I suppose; by whom?  Psychotherapists?  The referral process is difficult and long-drawn out).  Anyway, they are never identified until too late.  My ignorance of social media is complete; would it be possible for (paid!) snoopers to monitor dangerous conversations?  There are probably too many for this to be feasible, and doubtless they aim for secrecy. No one goes round listing the lonely and friendless; and naturally only a very few of these will ever be dangerous, with no way I can see of identifying those few in advance.

  On On, FRB