Weather terrible. Will go to the Swan every Thursday with John H. Those evenings are marginally easier. Have tried to descend ridge but beaten back by ferocious winds. Forced onto my knees to avoid being blown off. Fortunately Ollie had set up a belay. Seemed like an eternity before I was able to retreat. How exhausted I feel. The wind is knocking me about like a bully in the playground. I crave the warmth of my sleeping bag. As I stumbled back to the camp I thought about Christopher and his mental strength on Mt Blanc. I miss him and I could hear his words of encouragement “Come on Budgy!” Mark and Ollie are talking to me but my responses and actions are very laboured. They are great companions.

Back at camp. The lenticular cloud hovering above the summit is ominous. Ollie insists we build higher ice walls. Cutting and carrying blocks of ice saps the last drop of energy. This is a beautiful but hostile world. This is the death zone and we all knew it.

The wind is hitting the tent like a sledgehammer. The tarp (shelter for cooking) is ripped to shreds and is flying around like some ghoul brought to life by the wailing wind. Occasionally the wind drops for a few moments and all is still. Could this be the end of the storm ? We wait knowing by now that this is just a brief lull. We are being toyed with. The wind gathers the troops for another assault. You can hear the commotion far away. And it comes screaming across the small plateau and smashes into our protective ice walls. Despite this protection, the tent rocks furiously and we force our bodies against the sides. The wind attacks from another angle shaking the tent. Shards of ice formed by our breath rain down on us. I should have gone on that SAGA coach trip to Skegness !

No one has been snoring. Ollie made the point that we haven’t slept. The storm and altitude see to that. We are running out of food, fuel and water. But we remain in good spirits. I wonder how the other teams are fairing. We are prisoners in a tent in sub zero temperatures. The walls of the tent and sleeping bags are lined with a film of ice. At any moment the tent could be ripped apart: fortunately we three have plenty of mental stamina.

The wind has finally breached the top layers of the walls. Urgent repairs needed. Getting out of sleeping bags and putting on gear is a slow painful process. I am really beginning to feel the effects of altitude and exhaustion. Ollie is already out. He’s very strong and in good shape. Mark is holding down the tent. Chaos outside. Bits of tent from other groups are flying around. Where are the occupants? The blocks of ice are as light as polystyrene. The wind has blown all the moisture out of them! How long could anyone survive outside in these conditions?

The storm has intensified. Ollie has been helping the ranger. The Spanish and Polish groups are in trouble. We accept a Spanish climber who is in bad shape. Now we are four. He greedily consumes a large amount of our precious water. Our new friend seems to me to be the size of a Spanish Pavarotti. He is coughing badly and is clearly in trouble.

We cannot accommodate our Spanish friend another day. Our own survival is on the line. We explain he must return to his expedition leader. He nods and leaves the tent vomiting. Back in the UK would we ever have contemplated such course of action ? There is a world of difference between armchair ethics and being up here in the teeth of a brutal storm. Nature was out to nail us all.

We are dehydrated, unable to melt snow for drinking water. My pee bottle contains all the evidence. What little there is of the foul smelling dark yellow liquid is clear indication that I can’t spend much longer at this altitude. It feels like I’m on a mixture of mind bending drugs. Lying here at this altitude is taking its effect upon my already exhausted body. Getting down the ridge back to the safety of Advanced Base Camp is on my mind, and, I’m sure, on Ollie’s and Mark’s.