Tony Walker

I have to sleep in all the beds, and when I come home my wife counts the bruises and decides whether they will do or not.

At any rate, I arrived in a blinding snowstorm, at about the most desolate spot on God's earth.

I'd come to Potterham by train and been driven on.

It was a good five miles from the station.

Fortunately, Mrs. Selston, the old lady who was going to do for me, was there, and she'd lighted a fire and cooked me a steak, for which I was truly thankful.

I somehow think the cow, or whatever they get steaks off, had only died that morning.

It was very, um, obstinate.

While I dined, she talked to me.

She would tell me all about an operation her husband had just had.

All about it.

It was almost a lecture on surgery.

The steak was rather undone, and it sort of made me feel I was illustrating her lecture.

Anyway, she put me clean off my dinner and then departed for the night.

I explored the bungalow and just had a look outside.

It was of course very dark, but not snowing quite so hard.

The garage stood about fifteen yards from the back door.

I walked round it, but didn't go in.

I also went down to the edge of the broad and verified the boathouse.

The whole place looked as though it might be all right in the summer time.

But just then it made one wonder why people ever wanted to go to the North Pole.