Fearful Priestess and Fake Kipling.

I think I’ve finally discovered the priestess’s Achilles’ heel. I had an email from her this morning as she was about to board her flight to Nepal (I thought she was already there, but apparently not) and she admitted to feeling nervous at the prospect of the cold in the mountains. I suppose it’s understandable really, since Himalayan temperatures, even in autumn, must be at a level to which Australians are drastically unaccustomed.

It still surprised me, though, because I’ve been observing the priestess for 7½ years, during which time the conviction has grown in me that she fears nothing at all. Seems she does: being cold. So should I smile? No, because I fear lots of things, among which is the knowledge that my greatly esteemed Lady Qin is trekking in the vicinity of some of the highest and wildest mountains in the world, thereby exposing herself to such dangers as hypothermia, attack by Yeti, and whatever else the remoter parts of the planet might have lurking.

In spite of these misgivings, however, it still occurred to me that Kathmandu must surely offer the opportunity for a new ditty. It didn’t. Try as I might, nothing dropped onto the ditty plate like seeds from an overripe melon. Until I thought of Kipling…

On the road to Kathmandu

Where the yaks all do their poo

And the smells rise up like thunder

From the roofless outside loo

And then I felt thoroughly ashamed at having the sort of lavatorial sense of humour which would seem immature in a 7-year-old.