The stone is weeping. This is not a metaphor, much as I’d like it to be. No, the stone is literally weeping. The humidity’s gone got itself up again; the air reaching near equilibrium with the sluggish waterway across the road, and the moisture is seeping out of the fucking walls.

Greetings from out here on the canal, where winter is but a rosy dream, and the house is crying out its utter lack of comfort. Or maybe that’s just me.

Certainly most of the locals seem unphased. Like other regional misnomers (The Land of The Free?), they’ve perhaps been told they live in The Garden State for so long, they’ve forgotten the difference between a garden and bloody swamp.

Any long-standing sufferers of my company will be painfully familiar with my distaste for weather. The climates/seasons in which I find life comfortable are getting fewer. It’s nigh on impossible to think in this fucking heat, and the interminable gulf between getting out of air-conditioned car and lying down in air-conditioned bedroom is filled with as little movement as possible.

Chasing a small child around the room, trying to get him to the toilet before he does another shit on the floor notwithstanding, there is little happening of an evening. Even the act of conversation gets the blood flowing a little too quickly. I’m dreaming of multiple layers and sleeping in flannel, of warming my feet by a fire, instead of taking fifteen cold showers a day just to stay sane. I’m dreaming of holidaying in the fucking antarctic.

In fact, over the next several decades, despite the complete idiocy of such denialists as Malcolm Roberts, I can only imagine Antarctica1 becoming an increasingly popular destination. The apocalypse will not be environmental. At least not directly. It won’t be millions of us dying just because everywhere is becoming uninhabitable, it’ll be millions of us dying because everywhere is becoming uninhabitable except Antarctica, Plan B2 just made things worse, Plan C2 is a ludicrous fantasy, and realising this, the global elite will end up nuking the fuck out of each other (and by extension everyone else) because they can’t agree of who gets to have the last place on the planet that’s not hotter than the pits of Hell for twelve straight months of the year.

Of course, the ensuing nuclear winter will give everyone a nice little respite from the ravages of the endless summer, and with the reduced population, there’d be little need to fight over the best holiday destinations. Oh, the irony.


1 – Look, America, most reasonable people are probably willing to concede that your little dialect isn’t quite as stupid as Britain likes to think. Zee makes more sense than Zed, really, and yes, even the guy who invented the stuff couldn’t decide whether it was called Aluminum or Aluminium, etcetera, etcetera. But it’s fucking An[T]ar[C]tica, not Anartica. It’s like herb. Not erb, [H]erb. You can’t just go ignoring whole fucking letters because you can’t be bothered. Fucksakes.

2 – Professor Clive Hamilton on surviving our own mess. Or not.


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