In subsequent years I've flirted with various facial hair permutations, from goatee to soul patch, but never again the solo 'tache. Every Movember I consider joining the terrifically worthwhile charitable fray, but wind up donating my way out of actually participating. Who knows though, perhaps a moustache would suit me more, now that I'm in my dotage? Maybe this year I'll summon up the courage to be among those receiving the donations, as well as giving them come Movember, as I dazzle one and all with a dashing handlebar, chevron or walrus!
Summit of Helvellyn (destroyed feet not pictured) Looking back along Striding Edge
The other daft thing I was going to mention? In 1977, aged 17, I went on holiday to the Lake District with three mates (all equally 'tached up as it happens). While there, we climbed Helvellyn, the third highest mountain in England. Impressive? Well, looking back, I was remarkably fortunate to have made it up and down unscathed. My chums were fully kitted out in walking boots and all-weather gear, while I made the climb in shirt, jeans (flares!) and regular street shoes, not forgetting an Iggy Pop t-shirt for extra warmth! It's not Everest, but people die attempting to scale Helvellyn and I was insanely ill-prepared for such a trek. By the time we made the final scrabble from Striding Edge to the summit, the backs of my heels were cut to ribbons and bleeding profusely. The views from the top were spectacular, temporarily numbing the pain, but it took us a further three hours to get back down and, in fading light, locate the car. I couldn't walk properly for days.