Heat (things are seldom what they seem)- Janus comp

The tabloids had run out of clichés when the world decided to burn. Editors tried to express in print the blazing rays emanating from the big yellow star in the sky: Searing heat scorches Earth, Another fiery day, This is the age of Apollo’s rage. The capricious Sun was blazing and the times were-a-changing.

For three days record-breaking recordings of high temperatures had been reported around the planet causing catastrophe and change. The poles were melting, from space a red ring could be seen circling the Equator, tidal waves churned the doldrums and birds of paradise were sighted in the Thames. Role reversals were everywhere. Ice-cream vans were now more popular than Wal-Mart. Duffle coats and pullovers were consigned to the dustbin.

There was nothing else to speak about and opinions were varied on these unnatural phenomena. Every single place on Earth was getting hotter. The climate change theorists had back-tracked and reincarnated their original doctrine that global warming was taking place. Roswell adherents blamed it on the US government’s immigration policy and their refusal to repatriate the alien back to Skrullos in the Andromeda galaxy. The end of the world was nigh and an alien invasion was imminent.

“One thing’s for sure, the tanning salons are fuc-”

“Mind your language, Wilfred.”

Georgina and Wilfred were in the most pleasant part of the world at the moment. Luxuriating in a swimming pool in the town of Bath they were, what you’d say, chilling out. She sipped daintily on her white wine while Wilfred wolfed down an exotic beer from Northern climes: McEwan’s Export. The unrelenting sunshine meant that the work shy Wilfred was too hot and bothered to find employment.

“Some bloke from Tibet said if he wanted a job, he’d get on his bike to find one. Have you still got your chopper, Wilfred?”

“Oh come on, Georgina, be fair. It’s too warm to work. Even the camels have gone out on strike because of the conditions.”

Georgina shook her head and picked up a newspaper at the side of the pool that had a blazing headline. Hot as a cat on a tin roof. Another cliché. Martin Amis will be fuming like a steam train at this unoriginal use of the English language. She turned the page. Antarctica had caused sabres to be rattled as every man and his dog claimed territorial rights. This previously sub-prime land was now monopoly Mayfair plum stock. Hotels and settlements were being built on thawing contested ground and the UN was powerless; there were faulty air conditioning systems in their offices. Georgina had no love for current affairs and finger-licked the page to the holiday section. And she gasped.

“Oh Wilfred, there’s a new city been formed in Canada and its beautiful. Cascading waters illuminate the landscape. Bubbly fountains spring on the rocks. It’s called Shower. They’re going to twin it with Bath.”

Wilfred burped and using his elbows lifted himself out of the water. He looked at the fluff that had loosed itself from his abdominal seabed and now floated on the surface of a pool of water on his podgy stomach. He poked his gut and a spray of water jetted from his belly button. He submerged to refill his navel and spurted another round of liquid from his blow hole. He was having a whale of a time.

“Did you know, Georgina, that Saddam Hussein had a stammer? He would have called this town Baath. Heh, heh, heh.”

“Tell you what, Wilfred; don’t you think it’s got a little colder?” and she yearned for a pullover.

* * * * *

In an astral plane unseen by any living human, the creator was in a foul mood.

“I’ll show them. I’ll show them. In a thousand years I’ll give them another ice age.”