Thawed ice on Poles, polar bears have moved into towns, walk about
looking for ice. One lives in my garden I feed it herrings, it plays with
plastic sheets and sucks on golf balls. Occasionally, it also feeds on
seagulls stupid enough to land there. Sea has risen; seals wander up
high streets, pretend to be cute dogs; people who take them in find
the beast occupying the bathtub, refuses to leave, good people will
have to wash in the kitchen sink. Poles are barren, only ice cubs in
my freezer. I feel guilty when putting ice in my whisky, lest my bear
hears the jangle. One can’t give alcohol to animals, they’ll think they
are French, drink absinthe, eat frogs and snails; behave with urban
sophistication and buy elegant Dior dresses.
