I am a mother penguin on the ice. (Or, to be correct, a father penguin because in the penguin world laid eggs are carried by fathers) I have a little penguin egg nestled under my skirt – I mean – feathers. To which I (or my mate) have already given birth approximately 21 times today. My egg crawls out from under my feathers and squawks. I squawk in welcome and alarm because my little egg penguin looks remarkably like a little boy I once knew called Wren.
I squawk because I do not know what sound a mother/father penguin makes while penguin-ing across the Arctic (melting Arctic). I use my magical language to ask my other penguin chicks if they know what a mother/father penguin sounds like. They do not. They are writing about mummification and counting their money and asking for a snack. I only have fish. They are not interested.
The egg is born for a 23rd time. It is very cute, this egg. I am filled with adoration, serotonin pulses through my body and makes me feel alive and well. But I have an undergraduate degree from Cambridge University, a Masters degree from Manchester. I have been a documentary film-maker and I write stuff. The ice is melting and there is nothing I can do but huddle together closer and closer to my fellow penguins and lay (or look after) the same egg over and over again like it is groundhog day, or penguin day, or a day like any other day, or the last day. I look down at my wings. They seem a bit stuck to my body. My feet are very cold. It is almost time to feed the chicks again. They eat a lot. I waddle into the cupboard, the egg giggling under my feathers.
Quack.
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