Weather is v. weird. May turning up in mid-February, blue skies, warm breezes, sudden scramble through wardrobe for sleeveless tops. May then disappearing, to be replaced by traditional freezing fog, glittering nights, and mornings when cars all look like iced buns. Five minutes later, May again, and am flinging open windows and looking greedily at garden-center adverts. Am constantly confused and whipping layers of clothing off and back on again like absent-minded stripper.

Am also suffering distinctly schizoid reaction to sudden gorgeous weather.

On the one hand, cannot help grinning and rushing out for long walks in park, etc.; joyous response to sunlight appears to be built into human psyche, or at least psyche of gloomily rain-soaked climes where we don't get much of it. Glorious sunny day in, e.g., Sahara Desert, probably greeted with less enthusiasm.

On the other hand, Global Warming. Cannot think of single other reason why have been able, in February, to go out in light jacket. Do not, after all, live in Sahara Desert, but London. February should be like something out of Dickens or Conan Doyle… should require muffler, gloves, and overcoat.

Am briefly distracted by realization that no one seems to talk about overcoats any more, never mind mufflers. Am not even sure what muffler was. Alas for lost words of yore; overcoat contains concept of warmth and protection from elements entirely missing from, say, hoodie. Although if climate change continues at present rate no doubt even memory of such things as overcoats will disappear. Will all be wearing Nu-prene self-cooling SPF 1000 uni-suits, or some such. (Wonder if uni-suits will have big pointy shoulders, as depicted in 1970's representations of The Future. Never quite worked out why this was considered to be an inevitable route for future fashion, but perhaps will need to use big pointy shoulders to store diminishing supplies of fresh water, or cooling units, or something). Or will be buried under 500 foot of frozen atmosphere, depending which bit of future awfulness has happened by then.

O Woe! Should obviously not be writing trashy escapist fantasy. Should be writing Dire Warnings about climate change, in tones of ringing doom. Should immediately fling away all previous work, wrap self in sackcloth, and pound out world-changing novel about how all is Headed Down Pan, and everyone must immediately Do Something.

Trouble is, can't. Have attempted dystopian fiction already, and get too depressed to hit keys about 10 pages in. Although am personally concerned about Future of World to point of rampant panic, Muse is obviously hopelessly frivolous creature given to lounging about eating chocolate. Mind you, is also fairly active and likes beating people up with swords, so presumably not eating that much chocolate. Perhaps only eating small square of something exquisite and highly expensive, like the French. Wonder if Muse is French; is it possible for one's muse to be different nationality from self? Would certainly explain much that appears to get lost in translation. Rather wish that if Muse is, in fact, French, would pass on a little French stylishness to self, as do not have so much dress sense as dress incomprehension, most days.

Should not be thinking about possible nationalities of Muse or fripperies of dress. Should be thinking about State of World.

Should be writing about it.

Although frankly if trying to write something am neither good at nor happy doing, then would write less and feel even guiltier than do already. Level of guilt for Things Not Done already rising faster than sea level, and can only live with so much.

Should perhaps stick with what I do best, carry on recycling, turn heating down a notch, and buy organic more often. After all do not own car so am already somewhat ahead of game, and if things carry on this way won't need heating for long, though weather now turned again and February once more with us.

Maybe should leave world-changing novels to those more adept at them; can always slip a few subtle hints into own stories instead… 

"I'm not going to fight you."

"Are you refusing my challenge?" the villain sneered, rippling his thews in an attempt to impress.

"No, but we'll have to have the fight over there, or we'll crush these rare orchids. Don't you realize what terrible consequences that could have?" The hero tenderly brushed a bruised leaf back into shape. "By the way, you're going to strain yourself rippling like that."

"Orchids? What care I for such folly?" The villain leapt forward, his great heel crushing one of the plants, releasing a poignantly brief waft of delicate scent...

Hmm, maybe can have rare orchids turn out to be favourite flower of certain particularly short-tempered goddess, thus satisfactorily combining eco-message with brutal violence.

After all, world without escapist fiction would be, at least from own point of view, utterly dystopian anyway.

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com. Visit PlotMedics at http://www.plotmedics.com.

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