Manchester in the Ice Age

‘But don’t you think this is magical, Geoffrey? Look. Over there.’

‘What?’

‘Snow buntings. Aren’t they beautiful?’

‘I have no problem with little birds Kevin. I’m talking about mammoths and bloody giant tigers with teeth as big as bananas! I’m talking about that street in Chorlton where they all decided to go native and are living by hunting reindeer.’

‘Oh, that’s just a myth Geoffrey. They get their vegetables from Unicorn like everyone else. They just see the reindeer as a more humane source of meat. And good luck to them I say. I only wish more people would embrace the project so readily.’

‘It’s too much for me, Kevin. This morning there were two eagle owls trying to mate on my balcony. He had brought her a present of a mauled lemming and, as they were far more interested in doing whatever owls do, it was me who had to dispose of the bloody thing. It was still alive, Kevin. Still breathing. I had to kill it. I cannot cope with this. I should have stayed in Sheffield.’

‘Sheffield! What did they do for 2100? Build a frigging cutlery museum! We remade the Ice Age. This city is the future, Geoffrey.’

‘No. It’s the past. The distant, distant past. And they didn’t just build a museum, thank you. There is a zoo as well.’

‘A zoo! For Christ’s sake Geoffrey, look around you. There are polar bears stalking Rochdale Canal. There are woolly rhinoceros in Prestwich. And look at us. We sit here, eating edamame, awaiting the best mussaman curry this side of the Southern Hemisphere, while outside an arctic fox is fighting with a raven over the remains of an abandoned pizza. Market Street is an enchanted grotto. People have started living in igloos in Flixton. The M62 is the world’s largest ice rink. This is the most beautiful city on earth.’

*

And it was. He knew that. He would ring Mary that night. He would get her to visit him for a weekend so that even if she chose not to stay, even it was really over, at least for just two days she could see the magic through his eyes. Lose herself in the city’s splendour.

Benjamin Judge has lived in Littleborough for nearly four years. He writes short stories, which people are starting to like, and a blog called Who the fudge is Benjamin Judge? His plans for last year were to write more and eat less. One out of two isn’t bad, eh?

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