‘Surely not? Is that you, Gladys?’

The voice echoed down the valley, like a tsunami of gravel being tumble-dried.

‘It is, isn’t it?’

The reply, a high pitched whine, much like a chainsaw sculpting granite, bounced off the sides of the canyon. ‘Gregory? I haven’t seen you since that grind-a-thon up in Stavanger.’

Gregory’s response was thunderous, a rumble so deep it registered on the Richter scale and caused a couple of minor rock falls. ‘Those were the days, Gladys. You are looking very sparkly.  How’s it going?’

The sigh, like an underground cave collapsing filled the air. ‘It’s been hard, I can’t deny it. This climate change has been murder on my crevasses. They’re as wide as a bullock’s buttocks these days.’

‘Yes. Look at my Seracs. Stumpy little things. I’ve been,’ the voice dropped twenty seven octaves and, apart from Gladys, could only be heard thirteen thousand miles away by a surprised pod of deep-diving hump-backed whales, ‘melting.’

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