Icebergs calve, plop and bomb. Great sheets of arctic pain— metaphors, forever lost. The polar bears just stand there, in mid-air, then drop. White water dreams after Greenland, or was that Hell. Whatever. It’s a bit of a stretch but if they can tow one to Belfast then why not here? For some reason, Hitler comes to mind. I’m no longer involved. Ha! Sitting here, my new wife and I, on the icebreaker’s deck. There’s a novel in my drink, an icy cliffhanger. Whatever. Rubbing my cheeks with whale fat. Where the hell did that come from? Nick Cave’s in my cabin, with the fever. Here come the northern lights, a stadium in miniature bathed in signal flares. My wife’s a rose and I’m malt whisky. Arranging deckchairs, etc.