text: [Themes: Humor, silly, absurd]
  
  > Go downwards
  Here, at the foot of the mountain you are at last fully able to appreciate its immense size. A rough, twisting path becomes a narrow traverse that zig-zags its way up the mountainside, its summit obscured by mist.
  
  To the west is a pleasant looking meadow, whilst to the east are a scattering of caravans. Far away to the north the Valley is blocked by a sheer wall of ice; an enormous glacier!
  
  You hear the yeti sounding his barbaric YAWP across the roof of the world...
  
  > Go west
  Here, in the foothills of the mountains is a meadow of lush grass, strewn with boulders and dotted with tall wild flowers that frug and shimmy in the breeze. A pastoral idyll in other words, marred only by the fact that someone has erected a barn smack in the middle of it. A windowless wooden box, this barn, of no great architectural merit. Daubed above the entrance are the words "Yak Shed".
  
  To the east, a rugged path leads down into the valley whilst other, more ordinally inclined paths lead northeast and southeast.
  
  You hear the yeti sounding his barbaric YAWP across the roof of the world...
  
  > wear the peg
  You place the clothes peg on your nose.
  
  You hear the yeti sounding his barbaric YAWP across the roof of the world...
  
  > enter
  Clothes peg firmly in place, you step bravely into the yak shed.
  
  The yak shed is a gloomy wooden structure of rickety construction. Enormous piles of dung take up most of the available floorspace; shafts of light from cracks in the ceiling illuminating thousands of buzzing flies.
  
  A solitary yak stands in the middle of the shed, its shaggy pelt illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.
  
  > catch the fly with the chopsticks
  After many, many hours of patient practice, you finally succeed in catching a fly with a pair of chopsticks. By this time of course, you have also succeeded in acquiring a sore nose (from the clothes peg), a headache (from working in near total darkness) and a severe case of repetitive strain injury of the wrist. They say a man who can catch a fly with a pair of chopsticks can do anything, but oddly enough you don't feel like doing anything at the moment.
  
  The fly buzzes angrily.
  
  > Examine fly
  Here, in the foothills of the mountains is a meadow of lush grass, strewn with boulders and dotted with tall wild flowers that frug and shimmy in the breeze. A pastoral idyll in other words, marred only by the fact that someone has erected a barn smack in the middle of it. A windowless wooden box, this barn, of no great architectural merit. Daubed above the entrance are the words "Yak Shed".
  
  To the east, a rugged path leads down into the valley whilst other, more ordinally inclined paths lead northeast and southeast.
  
  The fly buzzes angrily.
  
  You hear the yeti sounding his barbaric YAWP across the roof of the world...
  
  A large, bad tempered bluebottle.
  
  The fly buzzes angrily.
  
  You hear the yeti sounding his barbaric YAWP across the roof of the world...
  
  > go east
  Here, at the foot of the mountain you are at last fully able to appreciate its immense size. A rough, twisting path becomes a narrow traverse that zig-zags its way up the mountainside, its summit obscured by mist.
  
  To the west is a pleasant looking meadow, whilst to the east are a scattering of caravans. Far away to the north the Valley is blocked by a sheer wall of ice; an enormous glacier!
  
  The fly buzzes angrily.
  
  You hear the yeti sounding his barbaric YAWP across the roof of the world...
  
  > Go east
  That you are standing outside the caravan of one of Shangri-La's permanent residents is evidenced by the fact that a tiny section of garden has been fenced off. This garden consists of a small patch of meticulously raked gravel, with, placed at harmonious intervals, two potted bonsai trees, three garden gnomes (all in the lotus position) and the inevitable plastic flamingo. The door to the caravan is open, revealing a curtain of colourful plastic ribbons that flutter in the breeze.
  
  Paths lead west to the mystic mountain, northwest to the glacier and southwest to the camp entrance.
  
  You hear the yeti sounding his barbaric YAWP across the roof of the world...
  
  > Go inside
  The inside of this tiny caravan is completely bare as befits a monk's cell. Only the fitted furniture remains, and presumably its owner's few possessions are secreted away in the handy under-seat storage areas. The only other feature is the colourful ribbon curtain through which you entered.
  
  Sat cross-legged on the built in sofa is a tiny monk with a disproportionately large shaven head. He appears to be deep in mediation.
  
  The fly buzzes angrily.
  
  > drop the fly
  You release the fly. After a moment or two of aimless buzzing around it alights upon the vast dome of the monk's shaven head. Like a miniature Buzz Aldrin it begins to explore this strange new world on its six tiny, featherlight feet. Around and around it goes, with a lack of purpose you find almost admirable. You can only imagine the agonies the poor monk must be suffering.
  
  Eventually the little man can stand it no more. With a yowl like a wounded animal he charges from the room, swatting fruitlessly at his scalp with both hands, months and months of patient meditation down the pan. If he'd had any hair, he'd be tearing it out right now.
  
  > open the sofa
  You open the sofa, revealing a disposable razor.
  
  > take the razor
  Taken.
  
  > wear the peg
  You're already wearing that!
  
  You hear the yeti sounding his barbaric YAWP across the roof of the world...
  
  > enter
  Clothes peg firmly in place, you step bravely into the yak shed.
  
  The yak shed is a gloomy wooden structure of rickety construction. Enormous piles of dung take up most of the available floorspace; shafts of light from cracks in the ceiling illuminating thousands of buzzing flies.
  
  A solitary yak stands in the middle of the shed, its shaggy pelt illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.
  
  > Shave yak
  It takes you three days of painstaking work to denude the yak of every last hair, during which time you subsist on the fleas, ticks and lice that infest the animal. Finally you stand back and admire your handiwork. It's a pretty scrawny looking beast without its wool.
  
  > knit the sock
  Knit one, pearl one... Granny taught you well. After just three months of patient work, and four hundred and eighty-three dropped stitches, you produce a sock that more or less exactly resembles the other one.
  
  > Inventory
  You are carrying:
  a pair of yak's wool socks
  a disposable razor
  a pair of chopsticks
  a clothes peg (being worn)
  a jar of pickled eggs (closed)
  a hairdryer
  
  > give socks to yeti
  Gingerly you tug the socks over the yeti's enormous tootsies, and having lit the blue touchpaper, stand back. After a few moments, his eyelids flicker. A few moments after that, his eyes flick open, he jumps to his feet, does a little dance and gives you big, hairy, smelly bear-hug before crashing out into the open air.
  
  > look at yeti
  The yeti stands a few feet away, eyeing you amusedly.
  
  The abominable snowman, once thought to be a myth, now a hulking four hundred pound fact with muscles like marshmallows and incredibly large, incredibly cold feet.
  
  > give the jar to yeti
  "Say, you couldn't lend me a paw with this jar, could you, man?" you say, "It's really been bugging me."
  
  The yeti gives you a big, yellow, snaggle-toothed grin. He takes the jar in his huge gnarly hands, pops off the lid like it was nothing, and hands it back to you lidless. Far out.
  
  > examine jar
  A jar of eggs, pickled in vinegar. The jar is currently open.
  
  > eat the eggs
  You decide the pickled eggs are best left alone.
  
  > enter
  After your long and arduous journey it's hard not to be disappointed by the famous Sanctum Sanctorum of his Holiness the Dada Lama. Sure, incense burners and mandalas abound, but there's no getting away from the fact that this is nothing more than a shabby old trailer home with seating that folds up to provide additional storage.
  
  His holiness the Dada Lama, Exalted Master of the Slanting Moon, sits in the middle of a bubbling hot-tub surrounded by topless beauties.
  
  The brunette massages the old man's scalp whilst the blonde lovingly soaps his scanty beard.
  
  > give the jar to Dada
  (the Dada Lama)
  "I have opened your jar of pickled eggs, oh exalted master," you say, holding out the item in question.
  
  "Well, and what have you learned?" replies the ancient one.
  
  "Well," you say, "I had to do a load of stuff, and in order to do that I first had to do a load of other stuff, melt a glacier, knit a sock, shave a yak..."
  
  "That's it!" says the Lama, splashing excitedly, "in order to do stuff, you had to do other stuff, and on and on. That is life. Life is yak shaving!"
  
  "And I guess," you say, stroking your beard thoughtfully, "that as long as you get a few kicks and have a few giggles along the way, it's okay."
  
  "Behold!" cries the Lama, "enlightenment, illumination! I'm afraid I can't offer you a cigar or a coconut, but please, help yourself to a pickled egg."
  
  "Thanks, I'll pass."
  
  "Please yourself." says the Lama.
  
  "I will," you say, grinning. "I will."