The Node Bulletins: Number Two
Tashkent, 21 June. Already we have problems. I trust they will not emulate the proverbial sorrows by coming in battalions. That we are still here is attributable to Pugh, whose conduct has confirmed my earlier suspicions. We were about to depart when he discovered that he was out of tobacco. He smokes a particularly noxious brand of black twist, and insisted on flying back to London for a further supply, returning here today, unapologetic about the inconvenience he has caused. Not wishing to sow seeds of dissent so early, I shall take him to task about this in private.
Pugh is not the only awkward one. Flatpole has introduced complications by what she calls ‘sleeping around’. This has nothing to do with morality, but concerns her ability to rest only in an ultra-foetal position, for which purpose she uses a circular sleeping bag. This is annoying, as it occupies an inordinate amount of tent space. I am nerving myself to remonstrate with her, but must be cautious, as she has fists like sledge-hammers and is not averse to using them. Also, she is extremely hirsute, which makes me wonder about our credentials as a mixed-gender party.
We are having difficulty with transport. I said at the outset that for five people and all equipment, we would need something more substantial than a twenty-year-old Volkswagen beetle. However, Thoroughbrace is something of a know-all and he told me to mind my own business. Well, he must now decide how to get a quart into a pint pot. On a happier note, I have not had any trouble with Gannett, who has been a tower of strength, merely by remaining almost silent. I shall reserve judgement on him, as his taciturnity may have arisen from an attack of laryngitis.
God willing, we shall finally depart tomorrow.
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