Have you ever got your rope so tangled that you just want to throw it off the side of a cliff and begin your soloing career early? This weekend I felt that way except the tangle happened in the comfort of my own rooftop late on a Sunday night after a torrential thunderstorm soaked me, my friends and my rope. Not to mention the dirt splatter from gigantic drops pelting the earth and coating my rope in its squalor. Now drenched, in the dim light of my rooftop atrium I battle the green 70 metre rope goblin until the weight of my eyelids defeat me. Could I perhaps hire a professional rope un-tangler? My poor Petzl nomad, now lies confused while drying slowly. Hour after hour, the water will evaporate as it lays helpless on the bamboo-matted concrete floor. When I wake tomorrow, it will be waiting once again.
How lucky am I to wallow in this trivial despair with sarcasm as my right hand lady?
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