Diary of Pip Rippon

Got into Hellsborough twice today for a change, in between off-world meetings. First time -- on the banks of the Loxley -- spotted a goldflap swimming through the murk, which was unusual. Second time nothing out of the ordinary, and it was inky black. Visited the Middle Wood road bar, which was full of regulars, including Van (of course) and several others, so socialised for an extended while and sampled several of the wares on offer, only one of which I found unpalatable.

Where did that week go? Been out and about in Hellsborough every day, but work in the off-world -- that is work outside of Hellsborough -- has kept me distracted enough not to post on here. I did bump into Van yesterday. He was semi-incoherent, babbling on about various things, the general gist was this, I recorded it: "I love alcohol, I love drugs, I love getting off my face -- this is the zenith of my existence -- it is why I live the way that I do, it is the way I choose to live, it is the only way to live -- I'm on the edge -- on the razor's edge -- on the cusp of the here and now, on the very precipice of liminality." I had to wonder whether liminality was a real word. It is, I looked it up, it means a state of transition between one stage and the next. Anyway, he continued: "You know Pip, I rarely sleep -- insomnia -- not sure whether it's a feature or a bug in my programme -- I simply can't turn off my brain of a night. The only way to deaden it is through the aforementioned drugs and alcohol -- hence -- my continued and persistent patronage of your establishment, Dave." As he -- Van -- was telling me this, I assumed he was referring to the bar on the Middle Wood road and Dave the part-time, part-time barman, since otherwise it would have made very little sense, but I had already established that Van was pretty much away with the Syncarids.

Stayed localish to Hellsborough, sighted a flufftail and heard a flatface. Hellsborough cold and deserted.

A second attempt at Onesmoor, and cannot have been more than a 1000 paces from the top when the murk, thick, oily and raging like the ripperthroat of this year headed towards me and then spat at me another vicious hailstorm. Headed back towards Wadsley common but the murk closed in and the hailstorm followed me, sucking me into its eye for a while. With visibility down to a few paces, I made it back down the lower ground, feeling lucky that I hadn't been nibbled by Morivarid, which I could sense were there, swarming in the aftermass. Time to have a break from tackling Onesmoor for a while.

Headed out with the intention of conquering Onesmoor, but foiled by high winds whipping through the murk and -- appropriately for the name of the year -- a hailstorm as I came off Wadsley common. Descended into the Loxley valley, where the weather was somewhat less severe.

Very short walk along the banks of the Dun -- the otherside of the tracks, as it were -- not somewhere I venture often, but without happenance. And hey, the New Year of Hail-Ripperthroat in Hellsborough -- has to mean something, eh?