Peg

Lawson put his knapsack down on a small tree stump and began to root around for the Kendal Mint Cake, while Bradley checked the Ordnance Survey Map.

'Now Bradley, matters at hand and all that, what was the name of the poor fellow who met misfortune with a cotswold tent pole?'

'I believe it was Lord Ankle-Smiter, sir.'

'That's the bucket. I only have to look at a ridge tent and I get a severe case of the howling fantods. Where was the tragedy based again? Scratchy Bottom or somewhere equally troublesome?'

'I believe it was Wareham, sir.'

'Ah yes. Lord Ankle-Smiter, full of gusto that day, not afraid to get his hands mucky, show the lot of us what a good day's graft looked like. Didn't even wait for the tea and sandwiches to get the old canvas out. Can't exactly place the smell.'

'Like old canvas., sir.'

'Oh, Bradley, you are dry as a Loire Sauvignon today.' Lawson stared wistfully over the treelike. 'Awful shame about that slip though. An inch to the left or right and the old pot would have come out unscathed. As fate would have it that peg went right up the old-'

'Eight hours in surgery, sir.'

'Hmm. Not long for the earth after that, dearest Ankle-Smiter... Golly, even now I only have to think of a campsite and I get a shooting pain right down the old pool-noodle.'