The Tom Crean Diary of Polar Exploration Mar22


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The Tom Crean Diary of Polar Exploration

Dear Thelma

On Monday, which we now call ‘1’, Tawny Owl suddenly stood, albeit crouching, and like an Indian chief crossed his forearms over his chest and made a face that only Scott could have matched and said, “I’m going out for a while; don’t eat all the figs.”

“Where’s he going?” Browny asked everyone in turn, starting with Cooper. Cooper said he didn’t know; Scott said, “I can’t possibly imagine; no where good anyway,” while Palmer just shrugged, too busy with his hewing. Cooper’s aunt has developed a strange twitch in her eye and now none of us are sure if she’s winking at us, if it’s the twitch or if she’s winking at us at the same time as having the twitch in a kind of coincidence or something.

We ate the last of Horace this morning, I mean the last, if you get my meaning. Poor old Horace. He was a faithful friend. How noble, how ardent in his endeavours. He pulled Scott’s sled for the first few weeks and never really complained or asked for anything in return except for a share of the scraps and a summer vacationing home in the Lake District after we got back. Fat chance now. “Damn fine fellow,’ Scott asserted, eating the last of Horace with his molars gnashing, “tender and yet very meaty, all at the same time.” Palmer wanted to know who’d have his beard. “It’s going on the dog,” said Cooper, “just the funniest thing, honestly. Go on, have a look.” It was funny. The dog – who we’ve named Scott’s Dog – looks like Theodore Herzl when he was watching the whole Dreyfus thing, kind of shocked and yet resolved too. The combination of the cold, blue eyes and the wispy beard is a bit weird too but everyone keeps laughing at it so we’re leaving it on.