Below them was a 700 foot abyss.

My husband is insisting on watching a programme about mountains.

He climbs mountains, I do not know if I have told you.

He is so manly.

*sigh*

Anyway. The bloody buggering point is that he wants me to pay attention.

To the variety of ways in which he could die while climbing a mountain. Could plummet to his snowy death. Could crash senselessly, bouncing off rocky protuberances down feet and metres and miles of mountainy meaness.

(By the way, we had plaice this evening, it was LOVELY. I do recommend plaice. It is a mighty fish.)

He described how one gentleman climber actually used the frozen dead body of another climber to help him get up a rock face. (I do not know how. I did not ask. Although I suspect it was not by asking for advice.)

"Everything is compressing into small moments of time. Every fibre of your body is concentrating on every tiny move. There is that moment when activity stops. You just know that you can't do this. And you have to accept that it's over."

Joe Simpson is a cock-monkey-head.

I do not mind saying.

PS. I do not tire of saying"my husband". I wonder if I shall.